Jacquie D'Alessandro - [Regency Historical 04] (6 page)

Emma’s gaze sharpened. “Ye say that as if there’s reason to think they might.”

She wrapped her hands around her mug, absorbing the warmth into her suddenly cold fingers. “Emma, tonight I met a man. It’s…
him
.”

Emma blinked twice in clear confusion, but then her eyes widened with realization. “
Him?
The man from yer card readings?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Yer certain?”

“I am.”

Emma didn’t question how Alex knew this was the
man who’d figured so prominently in her readings over the years, which didn’t surprise her. Her friend was well accustomed to Alex’s “intuition.” Instead, she nodded thoughtfully, then said, “Well, now. He’s been a long time in comin’. Who is he?”

“His name is Colin Oliver.” She refused to acknowledge the tingle that rippled through her at saying his name aloud. “His title is Viscount Sutton.”

Emma’s jaw dropped. “A
viscount?
” She shook her head. “Ye must have the wrong bloke. Yer cards said the man would figure prominently in yer future. Would have a great impact on ye. How could that apply to a viscount?” Her mouth rounded into an O and she touched her fingertips to her lips. “Oh. Unless he’s wantin’ ye to be…unless ye’re plannin’ to be his…ladybird.”

Heat flashed through her, which she immediately blamed on the steam rising from the hot tea. Pushing her cup aside, she whispered, “No, of course not.”

“Then how else could such a man figure into yer future? Anyway, the man from the cards is supposed to be someone ye’ve already met. Years ago.” She gave her head a decisive shake, prying loose a dark red curl from her braid. “No, he’s not the man, Alex.”

“He is. I…I’ve met him before. I picked his pocket.”

“How can ye be sure it’s same bloke? All look the same in the dark, those rich toffs do. Always full of themselves and of drink. Easy marks, that’s what they are.”

“Were,”
Alex stressed. “That was our former profession. And I remember him distinctly because he caught me.”

“Caught ye?” Emma repeated in an incredulous whisper. “But ye never got caught! Ye were the best!”

“While I appreciate your assessment of my
former
talents, I assure you, he caught me. I managed to escape and never saw him again. Until tonight.”

The ramifications hit Emma instantly. “Lord above. Did he recognize you?”

Unable to sit still, she rose and paced in front of the table. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but…” She shook her head, then told Emma the entire events of the evening, including the conversation she’d overheard and the note she’d left for Lord Malloran. The only details she left out were the way Lord Sutton had made her feel and the way he’d kissed her wrist. She concluded with, “I’m giving him a private reading at his home tomorrow afternoon. Or rather, later today.”

Emma looked at her with troubled eyes. “I’m not sure which worries me more, Alex. The fact that ye’re seein’ this viscount again—that smacks of pullin’ a tiger’s tail—or the conversation ye overheard. What if someone finds out you did? That you were the one who wrote the note?”

“How could anyone find out? I deliberately disguised my handwriting. No one will waste time trying to discover who wrote the note. They’ll be too occupied trying to figure out who’s going to be killed at Lord Wexhall’s party and preventing it from happening.”

In spite of her assurances, Emma still looked troubled. “I hope ye’re right.”

So do I
, Alex thought.
So do I
.

Colin stood in the shadows provided by a doorway
across the narrow, cobblestone street from the building he’d followed Madame Larchmont to last night. In the light of day, the soot-covered brick looked uninviting, made all the more ominous by the gray clouds hanging low in the slate-colored sky.

From his observations last night after she’d entered the building, the shadows moving across the window in the third room on the second floor indicated that was her destination. Two people had exited the building in the last quarter hour, but so far no sign of Madame Larchmont. He withdrew his pocket watch and checked the time. Half past two. Was it possible she’d already left for her three o’clock appointment?

A red-haired young woman emerged from the building, and Colin’s eyes narrowed. Not his prey. Dressed in a plain brown gown, she carried a shallow box, which rode low on her midsection, strapped to her front. The sort of carrier orange girls used to sell their wares, although from what he could see, whatever she carried wasn’t oranges. They appeared to be tarts or muffins.

Another ten minutes passed, and he patiently waited, biding his time. He’d just checked his watch again when he saw her exit the building. Although a wide-brimmed bonnet shaded her face, there was no mistaking her. She carried a bag that resembled a knapsack. His breathing hitched, and his heart executed a strange maneuver when he saw her, pulling his brows down in a frown. She hesitated for several seconds, her gaze quickly scanning the area, and he melted farther into the shadows. Then she took off at a brisk pace, heading in the opposite direction of his town house.

As she had last night, she moved with the surefootedness of someone well familiar with the area. After approximately ten minutes, she approached a battered building just outside the fringes of the rookery. Four shop fronts, three of them boarded up, lined the ground floor. A stained sign with a poorly painted mug of ale advertising The Broken Barrel marked the fourth door. She entered the pub, then exited five minutes later, no longer carrying the knapsack. Before starting off, she again glanced around, and he wondered if she normally did so or if she’d sensed his presence. Might just be the unsavory area, however, as he, too, felt the weight of eyes upon him. After his own quick look around and detecting no one, he followed her for a few more minutes. Once it became clear she was not heading back to her rooms but in the direction of Mayfair, he retraced his steps. He paused around the corner from the building where she lived to rub his thigh, which pulled with a dull ache.

After ascertaining he wasn’t observed, Colin entered the building. The scents of cabbage and stale bodies clung in the air as he made his way silently up the stairs. Muffled voices and the sound of a baby crying floated downward. Once he’d arrived on the second floor, he stopped outside the third door, pressing his ear to the
crack to listen for voices within while his nimble fingers played with the lock. Hearing nothing, and satisfied the room was empty, he opened the door and slipped silently inside.

Leaning back against the door, he stood perfectly still for several long seconds, noting details. The room was larger than he would have imagined, although not spacious by any stretch. And scrupulously clean. He sniffed the air, noting the pleasant scents of oranges and fresh-baked muffins. The wooden floors were covered with rugs made from what appeared to be braided strips of material. A single wardrobe stood in the corner, flanked by two narrow, neatly made beds. A gray-striped cat lay curled up on the end of the bed nearest the window. An end table stood next to each bed, a hip bath occupied the corner, and a single dresser sat against the wall. On the opposite side of the room was the kitchen area, with a table and two bench chairs. A faded blue velvet curtain cordoned off a portion of the room. Another sleeping area?

Colin walked on silent feet toward the wardrobe. Opening the door, his senses were immediately hit with a delicate, citrusy scent. An image of Madame Larchmont, her chocolate brown eyes assessing him, her full lips poised to speak, slammed into his mind. His gaze riveted on a familiar bronze gown. Reaching out, he ran his fingers over the material, vividly recalling how it had appeared to glow against her pale skin. Before he could stop himself, he leaned forward, and brought the material up to his face and breathed in.

Oranges. And something else, something pleasing he couldn’t name other than to call it
fresh
. The remnants of her soap, most likely. He closed his eyes and another image of her materialized in his mind, rising from the bath, a trail of soap bubbles meandering down her wet, glistening form. Heat shot through him and his eyes
popped open. A sound of self-disgust rose in his throat, and he dropped the material as if it had burned him.

A quick search through the wardrobe revealed one other gown in a deep green that looked like something Madame Larchmont would wear, then a plain brown day gown showing signs of age, but meticulously cared for. At the other end of the wardrobe he saw two gray gowns. Like the others, these were old yet neatly mended, but were at least four inches in length shorter than the other gowns. Not a single masculine item anywhere.

Tucking away that interesting bit of information, he turned his attention to the end tables. Both held tallow candles on chipped plates. The table closest to the window had a book resting next to the candle. Colin noted the title:
Pride and Prejudice
. The other table also contained a book, one that appeared more of a tablet similar to what students used. He picked it up and flipped through the pages of carefully copied letters and numbers made in a childish scrawl. After replacing the book, he glanced toward the cat who’d awakened and was treating him to a suspicious glare.

“Good afternoon,” Colin murmured, taking a slow step toward the animal. In a flash, the cat darted under the bed.

Not wishing to frighten the beast, Colin moved on, crossing the handmade rug to look over the kitchen area. Oranges were stacked in a pyramid shape, the top one missing. A slight sound caught his attention, and his head whipped around to look at the blue velvet curtain. The cat? Moving silently, cautiously, he approached the curtain, then with lightning speed, whipped it back. To reveal a small area empty except for a stack of rolled-up pallets in the corner.

And a child attempting to escape down a trapdoor opened in the floor.

Their gazes met, and, for an instant, pure terror
flashed in the child’s eyes. Colin ran forward and grabbed the door before it closed, then plucked up the youngster by the back of the collar.

“Let me go, ye bloody bastard,” came a voice that throbbed with outrage and unmistakable fear. Scrawny arms encased in a filthy coat swung wildly while thin legs in ragged pants and deplorable, hole-filled shoes tried to connect with anything. “Let me go, or I’ll slice open yer bloody gut I will.”

In spite of the brave words, Colin could see that the child, who appeared to be a boy of perhaps five or six, although it was difficult to tell, was terrified. “No need to slice me open,” Colin said mildly, setting the boy on his feet. The child tried mightily to get away from him, but Colin held him firmly by the shoulders. The boy went still and glared up at him with narrowed eyes in a dirty face. The area surrounding Colin’s heart went hollow, then his jaw clenched when he saw the bruises under the dirt. Bloody hell, someone had beaten this boy.

“Who are ye and wot are ye doin’ here?” the boy demanded. “If ye think I’ll let ye steal from Miss Alex and Miss Emmie, ye’re dead wrong.”

He wrested his gaze from the sickening sight of the purple bruise surrounding the child’s eye and found himself staring at the round lump in the boy’s pocket. “You mean the way you stole their orange?”

The boy flushed under the dirt and bruises. “Ain’t stealin’. They leave ’em for me. ’Sides, I only took one.” The boy’s gaze flicked to Colin’s hands gripping his upper arms and undeniable fear flickered in his dark eyes. He swallowed, then said, “I’m allowed here. You ain’t.”

That flicker of fear tugged on something deep inside Colin. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly.

“Whys don’t ye prove that by takin’ yer hands off me,” the boy said, with a sneer Colin couldn’t help but admire.

“If I do, I’ll expect you to answer a few questions.”

“Why should I?”

“Because there’s a shilling in it for you if you do.”

The boy’s eyes widened a fraction, then took on a sly look. His gaze slid over Colin’s tailored clothing. “Bloke like you can do better than a bob.”

Letting go with one hand, Colin reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a gold coin. The boy’s eyes widened. “Very well,” he agreed, holding up the coin between his fingers. “A sovereign for your answers.”

“Just fer answers?” he asked, eyeing the coin. “Nuthin’ else?”

Colin’s stomach tightened at the horrific implications of the boy’s suspicious question. “Just for answers. You have my word.”

It was plain that a man’s word meant little to this child. “I won’t let ye hurt Miss Alex or Miss Emmie.”

“I have no intention of hurting them. Again, you have my word.”

The boy considered for several seconds, then jerked his head and held out his grimy hand. “Coin first.”

“One question first, as a show of good faith, then I’ll give you the coin.”

The boy pressed his lips together, then nodded.

“How do you know Miss Alex?”

“She’s my friend.” He jabbed out his hand. “My coin.”

Colin tossed the gold piece lightly in the air. The boy plucked it from midair, then, like a lightning bolt, he shot toward the door. Colin watched him go, not giving chase. Deeply troubled, he walked slowly to the door, closed and locked it, pushing back the dozens of questions bombarding him regarding the child and “Miss Alex and Miss Emmie.” Later. He’d have time to reflect later.

He returned to the room behind the velvet curtain. After lifting the trapdoor, he slowly descended a rough wood ladder. The air was cool, dark, and musty. When he reached the end of the ladder, he carefully felt his way along a narrow passageway guided only by a thin sliver of light peeking through a hole about thirty feet in front of him. When he reached the sliver, he realized it came through a door which appeared boarded over. Applying his eye to the crack, he saw what appeared to be a deserted alleyway. He tried to open the door, but failed. Clearly there was a way in, which meant there had to be a way out.

He felt carefully around and after a few minutes located a length of rope near the top of the door. When he pulled it, he heard a muffled scraping sound, as if something on the other side of the door were lifting, and he realized that a bit more light had flooded into the passageway near the floor. Bending down, he saw an opening. He lowered the rope a bit and the opening was covered over. An opening small enough for a child to fit through, but not a man.

He slowly released the rope, watching the ray of outside light lessen to a sliver, then made his way back along the passageway and up the ladder. After a cautious peek through the trapdoor to ensure no one had entered the rooms, he quickly exited, then made use of the skills that had come in so handy during his spying days to lock the door from the outside. Less than a minute later, he stepped outside and began walking quickly in the direction of Hyde Park.

Without breaking stride, he consulted his pocket watch. Madame Larchmont was due at his home right about now. While his brief look into her life had answered a few of his questions, it had spawned dozens more. Who was that child? He’d said Miss Alex was his “friend.” Did he live there? Other than the child himself,
he’d found no evidence of a child’s presence—no clothing or trinkets. Just as he’d found no evidence of a man’s presence. Who was this “Miss Emmie” the child had mentioned? Just another piece of the mysterious puzzle that made up Madame Larchmont.

He arrived home twenty minutes later and was greeted by Ellis. “Is she here?” Colin asked.

“Yes, my lord. Arrived at precisely four o’clock. As you instructed, I gave your apologies for not being readily available and offered her tea in the drawing room. She awaits you there.”

“Thank you.” Colin strode down the paneled corridor, tugging his cuffs and jacket into place. He paused in the open doorway of the drawing room and went still at the sight of her.

She stood in front of the fireplace, gazing up at the portrait hanging above the white marble mantel. A cheery fire burned in the grate, dispelling the gloomy gray spilling into the room from the wall of windows behind her. He studied her profile, noting the slight tilt of her nose, the graceful arch of her neck as she looked upward. Her midnight hair was arranged in a simple chignon, with a pair of loose, glossy dark curls curving over her shoulder. Her pale green day gown highlighted the creamy texture of her skin, and lace gloves, similar to the ones she’d worn last evening, covered her hands. Everything about her looked soft and feminine, and his fingers twitched with a sudden, powerful urge to touch her, to discover if she felt as soft as she looked.

His gaze ran down her form, and although her gown was perfectly modest, his imagination conjured up lush, feminine curves. She shifted slightly, tilting her head to the left, pulling his attention upward. Her tongue peeked out to moisten her lips, and his body tightened with an unmistakable grip of lust. As if in a trance, he found himself mimicking the action, his imagination
ignited, burning with a mental picture of his tongue brushing over her plump lower lip while his hands explored the lush curves hinted at by her gown.

A tiny part of his rational brain coughed to life and hissed out a warning that such thoughts about this woman—a woman who at
best
used to be a thief, and most likely still was—were totally inappropriate, but there was no stopping the sensual images bombarding him.

Just then, she turned, and their gazes met. He tried to blank his expression, but suspected some remnants of his thoughts must have remained when her eyes widened slightly. As on each occasion their gazes locked, he felt slightly off-balance, a puzzling phenomenon he neither understood nor liked.