A Kiss In The Dark (23 page)

The deep green of her irises flooded with moisture, and she whipped her head around to stare out the window, the delicate line of her jaw tightening. “Sometimes I just want to gather them all up and take them away from all of this pain and poverty.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t.”

“I tried to do so more than once, back when I first met them.” Her tone was rueful. “But the older boys fought me tooth and nail, and the younger ones, like Benji, refused to leave Peter.” She shrugged. “And as Mrs. Godfrey is always telling me, I can’t take in every stray lamb that crosses my path. For every one of the Rag-Tags, there are hundreds more out there in the same circumstances.”

Longing to comfort her in some way, Tristan reached out and laid a hand on top of hers, squeezing it gently. “You’re doing the best you can. At least they know you care.”

“All I’ve ever wanted is to help them the way Nigel helped me. To give them some sort of hope that the future can be different for them.” She turned back to face him, her expression wistful. “You know, I used to dream of opening some sort of shelter, a home for all those children who have no place to go and no one to take care of them. Somewhere they could feel safe and be treated with kindness and respect.”

“A noble ambition.”

“But not very feasible, I’m afraid. First, I would have to locate a house large enough to accommodate so many children. And the sad truth is that there are very few people in our world who would appreciate living next door to a haven for former street children.”

She had a point, Tristan conceded, his sympathy stirred by the memory of the dilapidated building the Rag-Tag Bunch called home. The thought of Benji living among the squalor and vice of such a neighborhood was enough to make him ill.

Deirdre’s soft sigh drew his attention back to her. “The least every child deserves is a place where they can go to bed at night and not have to worry about whether they’ll live to see tomorrow morning. But unfortunately, life isn’t like that.”

Her hand trembled under his. “Sometimes I feel like I’m trying to stir up the tiniest wave in a vast sea of indifference. I have to wonder if anything I do even matters.”

She sounded so lost and hopeless, so unlike the stubborn and determined woman he’d come to know, that Tristan was stunned. “How can you say that? Of course it matters. Did you see those boys’ faces when you walked into their hideout? They lit up like candles flaring to life. I’ve never seen such trust—or hope. You gave them that, Deirdre.”

When she glanced away wordlessly, he had to fight the sudden urge to tug her into his arms and offer comfort with the balm of his lips on hers. Ignoring the slight stirring of his manhood at the thought, he tightened his grip on her fingers instead, trying to convey all that he felt in the warmth of his touch.

“You know,” he began, his voice soft, “my mother used to say she liked to believe that every time she did a kindness for someone, that was one more person who might turn around and do a kindness for someone else. Even if you can’t see the results right now, Deirdre, you don’t know how many of those boys will someday reach out to another human being in need, simply because you cared enough to reach out to them.”

She looked up to meet his gaze, and something curious flashed in the depths of her eyes, something he couldn’t quite read. But before he could even begin to wonder at it, the carriage abruptly made a sharp, unexpected turn, coming to a halt with such a lurch that Deirdre was thrown forward, tumbling into his lap.

From outside the window came the neighing of the horses and the sudden shrill babble of anxious voices, but the inside of the coach was utterly silent. For the moment, all Tristan was aware of was Deirdre’s slender form within the circle of his arms, her heart beating like the frantic wings of a bird against the solidness of his chest.

A lump the size of a fist formed in his throat, and he had to swallow several times before he managed to clear it away enough to speak coherently. “Are you all right?”

Placing a palm on his shoulder in an almost tentative manner, she pushed herself upright, not quite meeting his eyes. “I—I think so.” She shifted slightly, unaware of the torment her every movement was causing him as she reached up to brush a wayward curl off her perspiring forehead. “Cullen, what on earth is going on?”

After a minute or two, the servant appeared at the window in response to her call. If he was surprised to find his mistress ensconced on Tristan’s lap, he didn’t show it. His expression was as impassive as ever.

“Cullen, what’s happened?”

He shrugged before turning and disappearing from view.

Deirdre scrambled from Tristan’s arms, not hearing the slight hiss that escaped from between his teeth as her hip nudged the very place that was causing him so much discomfort. Straightening her skirts as she went, she clambered down from the coach without waiting for his assistance or looking back.

He followed more slowly, giving his body’s heated reaction to her tantalizing proximity a much-needed opportunity to subside. By the time he regained a small measure of his equilibrium and climbed down from the carriage to join them, Deirdre and Cullen had calmed the frightened horses and were standing together, both of them observing the mob of people gathered around the entrance to an alleyway just up ahead of them. The milling crowd had spilled over into the street, effectively blocking the road to any sort of traffic.

“What’s that all about?” he asked, squinting in an attempt to make out the reason for the melee.

“We’re not certain,” Deirdre replied, “but it must be rather earth-shattering to stir up this sort of reaction. It takes quite a bit to ruffle the feathers of the people of Tothill.”

At that moment, Tristan caught sight of a familiar face at the fringes of the group. Deirdre must have recognized her at the same time, for she took a step forward and raised a hand in a frantic wave. “Lilah! Lilah, over here!”

The prostitute detached herself from the throng and hurried toward them, and as she approached, it became apparent she’d been crying. Her pale face was streaked with tears and her eyes were red-rimmed, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

Deirdre gasped and reached out to grip her friend’s elbows. “Dear God, Lilah. What’s wrong?”

“Oh, Deirdre, it’s—it’s Mouse.”

Tristan felt his lungs seize, very much afraid he knew what had occurred. But before he could make a move to stop her, Deirdre’s face whitened and she pushed past Lilah to plunge off down the street.

No, no, no, no, no
.

The words became a litany in Deirdre’s head with every step that brought her closer to the entrance to the alley. Mouse was fine. He just had to be. He had to be.

Shoving people aside, she ignored the curses that flew at her as she made her way to the front of the crowd. As she drew closer, through the shifting mass of bystanders she caught sight of a pair of grimy feet lying motionless on the sidewalk. A choked cry escaped her. “No!”

Before she could throw herself forward, however, strong arms wrapped around her from behind, and she was pulled back against a broad, hard chest.

“Deirdre, don’t,” Tristan murmured close to her ear, his tone soothing. “You don’t want to see him like this.”

“Yes, I do,” she insisted, her voice breaking with the effort to hold back her tears. “Let me go.” But even as she struggled against him, her eyes went to the brick wall next to the alley.

Smeared across the dingy surface was a bright red stain of blood.

Mouse’s blood.

She let out a low, keening cry and yanked herself from Tristan’s restraining hold, stumbling away a little distance to retch helplessly, holding her sides. Poor Mouse. Oh, poor, poor Mouse.

As the world seemed to spin around her, she closed her eyes, trying desperately to keep from fainting. She’d never swooned in her life and she wasn’t about to start now, although she couldn’t help but be grateful for the hands that slid around her waist to hold her upright, that supported her as she sagged with sudden weakness.

Tristan’s hands.

Even in her state of dazed horror, she was aware of the words drifting to her ears, garbled snippets of conversation from the onlookers standing nearby.

“Who is ’e?”

“I think it’s that rat-catcher. You know, the one who acted so strange all the time, talking to ’imself …”

“’E was bloody mad, that one. ’E probably offed ’imself.”

“With a knife? Not likely, mate. ’e’s been carved to bloody pieces!”

How could they?
she thought, the bile rising to the back of her throat. How could they speak so callously about an innocent man’s death?

Then she remembered. She was in Tothill Fields. For the people who lived here, violent death was a sad fact of life.

Taking a deep breath, she fought to gain some semblance of control. She would not fall apart. She couldn’t. Not now.

“I suppose it wouldn’t do to cast up my accounts in front of all these people,” she husked, managing a wobbly smile.

Tristan frowned and reached out to brush a few strands of hair from her face. “I’m sorry, Deirdre. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Be sorry for Mouse.” She glanced over her shoulder to where the mob still stood, gathered around that small, pitiful figure that lay so still. “How could someone do this? He wouldn’t have hurt a fly.”

“Is it possible that Flynt had a hand in this?”

“Anything is possible. But why?”

“For the same reason we sought him out.”

Of course. Emily. Flynt had believed that Mouse knew something about Emily.

She hugged herself in order to ward off a shiver. “I should have known. I should have realized that if Flynt was looking for Emily, sooner or later there was a chance he’d come after Mouse.”

“And what could you have done about it, even if you
had
realized it? He ran from us, remember? And that was
my
fault.”

“Still—”

His thumb covered her lips, and she instantly quieted, her gaze flying to meet his. She could feel the warmth of his touch like the faintest brush of butterfly wings.

“No,” he said, his tone serious. “I will not let you blame yourself for this. There was nothing you could have done.”

She ducked her head, biting her lip. “He couldn’t have told them anything. He didn’t know anything.”

Or had he?

Desperately, she began to sift through the information in her mind, trying to remember what Mouse had told her yesterday in the alley. There had been something odd, something that had registered with her momentarily, then it had been forgotten in the altercation with Tristan that had followed.

The devil sent ’is demons after the angel because she saw ’is sin. I saw it, too. But the devil can’t find out. ’E can’t find out what I saw, or ’e’ll come after me and throw me in the deepest pit of ’ell …

Could it be …?

Looking up, she spotted Cullen and Lilah coming toward them. The coachman had a burly arm slung protectively around the prostitute’s shoulders while she sniffled into the collar of his shirt.

Tugging away from Tristan, Deirdre met them halfway. “Lilah, I need to ask you something very important.”

Raising her head, the prostitute blinked owlishly, dashing away her tears with the back of a hand. “All right.”

“Do you remember yesterday when you told me about Mr. Baldwin, the man who was stabbed?”

“Yes.”

“Where did they find his body?”

Lilah’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “Not too far from ’ere. In the alley be’ind ’is pawnshop.”

That would have been right in the middle of Mouse’s prime hunting grounds. Was it possible …? Could both the rat-catcher and Emily have actually been witnesses to Barnaby Flynt’s slaying of the pawnbroker?

Tristan was obviously thinking along the same lines, for he spoke up from behind her. “Do you think Emily and Mouse may have seen Flynt murder this fellow Baldwin?”

“It seems highly likely.” She whirled to face him. “Do you realize what this could mean, Tristan? If Emily truly saw Barnaby kill a man, and if we could persuade her to tell her story to Bow Street, the law would no longer be able to ignore his crimes. They would
have
to arrest him. We could rid Tothill Fields of that monster for good.”

His mouth tightened. “We have to find her first.”

“We will. She’s close. I can feel it.” She rested a hand on his arm. “And at least we know that as long as Barnaby is still looking for her, he doesn’t have her.”

“Yes, but who does?”

There was the puzzle, and Deirdre wasn’t certain what to tell him. With every second that passed, she feared for Emily more and more. Flynt’s boys were obviously becoming desperate if they would search out Mouse for information, and if they happened to finally stumble upon Tristan’s sister, there was no telling what they would do to her.

She moved away from the others, head bowed as she sorted through her muddled thoughts. As she did so, however, she became aware of a faint sound, a sort of low whimpering that drifted from behind a pile of debris at the end of the alley.

A second later, a small, brindle-colored dog appeared and began to hobble toward her on three legs, one paw held limply above the ground.