Wicked Widow Read Online Free PDF Page A

much to use,” Latimer growled.

    “Never mind, it worked.”
    They hurried through the garden and turned down the alley. Several people were milling around in the street, but the overall air of panic was diminishing rapidly. The lack of flames was no doubt hampering the effectiveness of the illusion, Artemas thought. He saw one man, possibly the tavern proprietor, tentatively start back into the building.
    “Let us be quick about this,” Artemas ordered.
    “Aye, sir.”
    The carriage was there, precisely where Artemas had instructed it to wait. At least the woman had followed orders. Short John was on the box, the reins in his hands. The door of the vehicle flew open as Artemas approached.
    “You have her!” Madeline cried. “Thank God.”
    She reached out to help Artemas angle Nellie through the small opening. Latimer jumped up to take charge of the team.
    Artemas got Nellie through the door and made to follow.
    “Hold right where ye are, ye bloody, thievin’ bastard, or I’ll lodge a bullet in yer spine.”
    Artemas recognized the voice. The thin man.
    “Latimer, get us out of here.” Artemas launched himself through the door and pulled it closed behind him.
    He reached out to drag Madeline off the seat and down onto the floor so that she would not be silhouetted in the window. But she resisted for some unfathomable reason. Artemas felt her struggle against him as the coach lurched into motion. She raised her arm. He glimpsed the small pistol in her hand, inches from his ear.
    “No!” he yelled. But he knew that it was too late. He released her and clapped his hands over his ears.
    There was a flash of light. Inside the small cab the pistol’s roar was as loud as a cannon.
    Artemas was vaguely aware of the carriage jolting forward, but the accompanying noise of wheels and hooves was a distant buzz. He opened his eyes and saw Madeline gazing anxiously down at him. Her lips were moving but he could not hear a word she was saying.
    She grasped him by the shoulders and shook him. Her mouth opened and closed again. He realized she was asking him if he was all right.
    “No,” he said. His ears were ringing now. He could not be certain of the volume of his own voice. He hoped he was shouting. He certainly felt like shouting. “No, I am not all right. Bloody hell, madam, I can only pray that you have not permanently deafened me.”

Chapter Three
    The fumes that wafted from the open door of the still-room smelled of vinegar, chamomile, and elder flowers. Madeline paused and glanced around the corner into the small chamber.
    With its collection of flasks, mortars and pestles, and various sized jars, together with the abundant assortment of dried herbs and flowers, the stillroom always put Madeline in mind of a laboratory. Her aunt, enveloped in a large apron and bent industriously over a bubbling flask, could have been mistaken for some mad alchemist.
    “Aunt Bernice?”
    “One moment, dear.” Bernice did not look up from her work. “I am right in the midst of an infusion.”
    Madeline hovered impatiently in the opening. “I am sorry to interrupt you, but I want to ask your opinion on a very important matter.”
    “Of course. Just another few minutes. The potency of this particular tonic is entirely dependent upon the length of time the flowers are allowed to steep in the vinegar.”
    Madeline folded her arms and propped one shoulder against the doorjamb. There was no point in rushing her aunt when she was engaged in concocting one of her potions. Thanks to Bernice, Madeline was quite certain the household possessed the largest assortment of soothing brews, strengthening infusions, medicinal jellies, and other such remedies in all of London.
    Bernice was passionate about her tonics and elixirs. She claimed to suffer from weak nerves, and she was forever experimenting with therapeutic treatments for her condition. In addition, she was dedicated to the diagnosis of similar problems in others and was given to