Night Storm (5 page)

“Do you think the attack is linked to your search for the missing tome or, perhaps, one of your other cases?” Amusement entered Jules’s voice. “You seem to gather enemies like a farm girl gathers eggs.”

Any other time, Adair would not have let his friend’s remark go unchallenged. Even though he suspected Jules was attempting to distract him, the slowly intensifying pain in his leg and shoulder did not allow for humorous conversation. Especially when Adair realized the laudanum was wearing off and he had nothing at his disposal to lessen the pain.

“I don’t know if the two are linked. It seems the most likely scenario. I’ll start there and work my way out.”

“Would you like me to speak with the Good Reverend?”

The “Good Reverend” happened to be Jules’s second cousin, a man of the cloth who had an uncanny awareness of most of the criminal activity in this part of London. And for a small tuppence, he willingly shared what he knew.

“Couldn’t hurt.”

Jules saw him as far as the door. He would have helped him inside and gotten him settled, but Adair’s pride would not allow him to be put to bed like an infant. “Thank you,” Adair said. “Let me know if you come across anything.”

“Try not to walk into any more bullets or knives. I’d rather not drag you up those stairs again.”

“I’ll do my best—just for you.” Unlocking the door, Adair staggered inside and made it as far as a plain wooden chair a few feet away. He stretched his leg out, releasing a low groan. Blood pounded in his thigh like the drone of an angry war drum. For a moment, he feared the pressure would rip the flesh away from his stitches.

“Who’s there?” a broken, high-pitched voice asked.

“It’s me, Trigger.”

A disheveled mop of brown hair appeared around the corner, under which were two suspicious green eyes. The young man was brandishing a rather large, but familiar, pistol. When the fourteen-year-old confirmed Adair’s identity, he popped out from the safety of the wall as though he’d been standing on a spring that had given way.

“Apologies, Mr. Adair, but you don’t normally make such a ruckus.”

“That’s because I’m not quite myself.” Adair indicated the door. “Lock up, Trig, then lend me your shoulder.”

“Sure thing.” The young man deposited the pistol on a table, twisted the dead bolt in place, and bent to help Adair to his feet. “Where to?”

Sharp, pulsing pain shot through his injured leg when he attempted to balance his weight. “My sitting room.”

Trig’s eyes widened when one leg of Adair’s trousers gaped open. The bandage on his thigh gleamed white. “What happened to you, sir?”

“A small altercation. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Did you let him have it, sir?”

“Much to my dismay, no.”

“You’ll be ready for him next time.”

If only everyone thought as highly of him as Trigger. Of course, his sullen musings brought Charley to mind. He’d known better than to attempt reconciliation. The day he’d walked out of her life, the day she’d stood in front of him with brokenhearted love shimmering in her eyes, he’d known she would never forgive him. So why had he put them both through an ill-fated reunion tonight after so much time had passed?

Adair forced down the bile forming in the back of his throat. He knew very well why. After learning of Charley’s return to London, he’d made regular trips down Long Acre Street looking for the opportunity of catching a fleeting glimpse of her. And he had. He’d observed her working long into the night, and he’d been there when she had greeted a boy and a young woman one morning. He’d watched and yearned and plotted ways to casually run into her. Tonight, he’d finally found an excuse to see her again, and she’d wanted nothing to do with him. Not that he could blame her, but her rejection had stung, nonetheless.

Trigger guided them down the corridor leading to the sitting room adjacent to his bedchamber. Although he had much more growing to do, the young man was blessed with a wiry strength and lightning-fast reflexes. Hence his nickname. That, and his inability to stand in one place for long.

Recalling the pistol, Adair asked, “What have I told you about breaking into my weapons cabinet?”

His assistant flinched, but said nothing. Trig eased him down on the brown leather sofa, then bent to remove Adair’s boots.

“Not answering my question won’t make it go away.” Exhaustion pulled at every corner of Adair’s mind. “I have to trust that you won’t do something stupid while I’m away.”

Trig shoved his hands into his pockets. “You were gone near two days, sir.”

Guilt lanced through Adair’s cloudy mind. In many ways, Trig was old beyond his years. He’d been living on the streets for four years by the time Adair had found him. But beneath all those street smarts hovered a boy on the verge of manhood.

“Did Neville not check in on you?” Neville Vaughn took care of his business affairs and watched over Trig while he was away.

“Every day like clockwork.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Had he not been in so much pain, he would have caught the significance of the lad’s reference to “day” right away. Not night. Not when a person hears every creak of settling wood, every snap of buffeting wind. “Perhaps it’s time I found a different arrangement for you.”

“What do you mean ‘different arrangement’?”

“A family. Or, at least, someone you can count on to be home when you need them.”

“You throwing me out, Mr. Adair?”

“No.” Adair shook his head. “No. But I’m not the right person to look after someone your age. You need more attention than I can give.”

“Dog spit.” Trig stomped over to a large cabinet and pulled a blanket and pillow from its cavernous depths. He placed the pillow at one end of the sofa. “I’m no weebit. Don’t need no babying.” Trig knew from previous experience that when Adair came home injured, he preferred resting on the sofa to his bed. Undressing and lying in his massive bed after a skirmish had always made him feel too vulnerable.

“How do you explain the pistol?”

“Why do you have a hole in your coat?” As he started to stick his finger inside the hole, Adair swatted his hand away.

“Keep your grubby paw out of there.”

Rotating his wrists to demonstrate, Trig grumbled, “They’re not grubby.”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t need you digging around in my wound.”

The smooth skin above Trig’s eyebrows furrowed. “Is that a bullet hole?”

“Yes. Now stop avoiding my question.”

Trig glanced down at his leg. “He shot you twice?”

Adair sighed and stretched out on the sofa. Exhaustion poured over him like a ribbon of thick tar rolling down a ship’s deck. Trig threw a blanket over him. “Shot once, stabbed once.”

“By the same blackguard?”

“Yes.” A faint memory of a second figure standing over him right before he’d clocked Adair unconscious. “No.” Why was he only now remembering his assailant’s partner? Or was he confusing the incident with one of his prior altercations? He dug his fingers into his forehead, trying to force some sense into his skull. “There might have been two men—I’m not sure.”

“Did the second one give you that shiner?”

“Possibly.” His eyelids grew too heavy for him to hold them open.

“Rest easy, sir. I’ll be back in a blink.”

“Where are you going?”

“To fetch Dr. Graham.”

Adair shook his head, not bothering to open his eyes. “There’s no need. My injuries have already been seen to.”

“You allowed someone besides Dr. Graham to sew you up?”

“Either that, or bleed out on the street. Where do you think the bandage came from?” Telling Trig about Charley would be like introducing a fox’s scent to an overexcited hound. Trig, nor the hound, would stop sniffing around until they had located and cornered their quarry.

“Do you need anything else, sir?”

“Just some sleep.”

“Good night, then.”

“Trig?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Leave the pistol on the table. I’ll take care of it in the morning.”

Adair listened as Trigger’s footsteps faded into the distance. Then he waited another five minutes before reaching into his coat pocket for a beribboned bundle of dried herbs he’d filched from Charley’s back room while she’d locked up. Such a compulsive act was unusual for him. Where Charley was concerned, he seemed to react more from heart than by brain.

From the moment he’d staggered into her shop, he’d been overwhelmed with memories of their past. Scents he hadn’t encountered in five years had rushed in to fill his nostrils, some of which reminded him of how much he’d hated her father’s shop. How many times had he dragged Charley away from her duties so as to avoid her mother’s sharp, assessing gaze?

He held the bundle up to his nose and felt none of those old emotions. What he experienced was far more devastating than Mrs. Fielding’s disapproval.

Nostalgia, longing, terrible gut-punching loss.

He missed Charley. He’d felt the full brunt of it when their paths had crossed briefly a few months ago. A run-in he’d had no part in orchestrating. One minute he’d been in the midst of a horrific scene and in the next she’d been standing in front of him. He’d actually shaken his head, thinking she was one of those desert mirages he’d heard about.

He’d been hired by Sydney Hunt of the Hunt Agency to locate William Townsend, a gentleman suspected of being linked to an unscrupulous schoolmaster at Abbingale Home for Displaced and Gifted Boys.

Adair had led one of Miss Hunt’s men to Townsend and the idiot Irishman wound up getting shot. Rather than allow Adair to summon a doctor, Sydney’s man had insisted on being taken back to the agency. And that’s where he had come face-to-face with Charley again.

She had tried desperately to save the Irishman, putting everything she’d learned from her apothecary father, midwife mother, and her Scottish apprenticeship into action. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her the entire time.

In the aftermath, they had stood over her patient’s body, bloody, exhausted, and
aware
. Aware of each other’s presence, aware of how long it had been since they’d stood in the same room together. Aware of what had happened at their last meeting. Awareness had drenched the air in a thick, choking cloud of regret, anger, and guilt.

Other than their first brief locking of gazes when she’d marched into the agency’s drawing room, full of purpose and determination, she had not looked at him. She had walked away, face drawn and shoulders slumped, without a single glance in his direction.

Watching her leave had been the second worst day of his life. The first had been when he’d walked away from her in much the same way five years ago. Why hadn’t he taken her message that evening more to heart? He could have saved them the trouble of this evening.

Adair shook his head. Who the hell was he kidding? He wouldn’t have traded all the diamonds in Africa for the hour Charley’s hands had grazed over his body or for the tantalizing scent of lemon winding through her hair.

But he could not afford to indulge his longings again. Tonight’s close call with death reminded him of how complicated and dangerous his business had become. Every case he accepted carried risks—some more severe than others. Bringing someone as fragile as Charley into his life would be selfish and irresponsible—not that she would even consider the possibility.

Adair inhaled the herbal bundle’s sweet fragrance one more time before tossing it onto the floor. The soft
plop
of the herbs hitting the carpet echoed through the room like thunder rolling across a stormy summer sky.

Chapter Three

Snowflakes large enough for Charlotte to see their intricate pattern covered her forest-green mantle by the time she reached the Hall for the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries in Blackfriars. Having been in existence, in one form or another, since the mid-seventeenth century, the society membership was closed to women.

If not for her family’s long-standing membership and her father’s close friendship with the Society’s master, all of this would be forbidden to her. It also didn’t hurt that her father used to bring her here as a small child, so many of the seasoned members viewed her as an honorary member.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Fielding.”

“Hello, Mrs. Hodder.” Charlotte smiled, comforted by the familiar sight of the Society’s butler. For as long as Charlotte’s father had brought her here, Mrs. Hodder had greeted her at the door. According to her father, Mrs. Hodder was but one in a long line of female butlers for the Society. A situation Charlotte had always found odd, given the society’s exclusion of female members.

Removing her winter wear, Charlotte handed her belongings over to Mrs. Hodder. “Has Mr. Buchanan arrived?”

“Yes, ma’am. He’s in the library.”

“Thank you.” Earlier that morning, she had received a message from her Scottish mentor, Angus Buchanan. He was in town for a few days and wished to discuss something with her. Although his timing could have been better, Charlotte was delighted by this chance to spend some time with him.

Pausing outside the library, she smoothed her palms down her lavender dress and patted her hair to make sure all was in its proper place. From the first instant she’d stepped inside his shop, she’d wanted to please Mr. Buchanan.

He was everything her father wasn’t. Warm, expressive, open. He never shied away from giving praise, nor did he balk at delivering corrective suggestions. He always treated her as an adult and often solicited her thoughts on issues, no matter how great or small. And best of all, he always had a smile for her.

It wasn’t that her father was a cruel, uncaring man. She knew he loved and wanted the best for her. But he had always been serious and exacting, especially when it came to medicine. Until her mother’s death, that is. Now he just seemed broken.

However, during the few months it had taken them to reestablish the business, they had worked in perfect harmony together. She wished he hadn’t retired to the country. It would have been nice to consult with him on occasion. But he had left and, as of yet, had not returned.

Charlotte entered the library and found her mentor leaning over a large sheet of drawing paper spread across one of the long oak tables members used for research and study. “Mr. Buchanan, I’m so happy to see you.”