Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage 05]

T
he old restlessness was upon him again like a serpent uncoiled from sleep and ready to strike. It did not matter that he was a gentleman with influential friends and important connections. It was of no consequence that he had a shiny new title that he’d finally managed to secure after years of peddling himself like a whore with the rent overdue. Here he was once more, prowling the streets of London in search of the justice he so desperately longed to mete out.

He recognized that he was up to his old tricks again partly in response to the frustrations of his daily profession. Being one of the most powerful barristers in England should have been satisfying enough to quench his thirst for justice. But lately the wheels of justice seemed to turn torturously slow. Endless politics interfered; the administrative bureaucracy prolonged even the simplest of cases. And when he’d tried to speed things along, he’d run into even more hurdles…

Here on the streets, things were simpler. Right and wrong could be easily judged and justice meted out with striking efficiency. If thieves robbed a gentleman too deep in his cups, he could chase them down and “convince them” to return the booty. If a gang attacked a woman, he could intervene and stop the assault, making sure that the men saw the error of their ways. If knaves plotted to kill the Prince of Wales, he could track them to their lair, gather the evidence, and gain confessions, all without undue complications.

After that particular intervention, he couldn’t tell whether the prince had been happier that the plot had been upset or that it had been thwarted without public notice. The Prince of Wales had very quickly and quietly granted him the title of viscount, making the night-prowling barrister into the first Viscount Steele.

In the swirling darkness of the fog-shrouded night, Steele barely withheld a snort. The irony was not lost on him. After years of striving to become the titled noble his dear Deidre had deserved him to be, he’d achieved his ambition through the vigilante work that he’d given up for her.

The image of Deidre’s ethereal beauty rose up in his mind like a specter to haunt him. With her lovely dark curls, brown eyes, and milky white skin, she’d been the epitome of a refined English miss.
Too bloody refined for a rough-edged country bumpkin like me.
But, oh, how he’d loved her from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. He had thanked the gods a thousand times since for that rainy night when her carriage had been attacked by a highwayman. He had always rel
ished being a Sentinel, one of the band of brothers that kept the country safe from outlaws, but until that night it had never felt like his destiny calling.

Yet the very occupation that had led him to Deidre was what he’d given up to claim her hand. And he’d surrender it all a thousand times again if he could have her back beside him.

The familiar grief constricted his chest like a vise. It had been eight years and nine months since her death, and to his utter shame, her features grew hazier with each passing year. The terrible sense of loss was still there, though.

Sighing, he welcomed the ache, knowing that he deserved it since he’d caused the end of her tragically short life. If he’d been the kind of man she’d deserved, they wouldn’t have had to hide their love and meet secretly. If only he’d been the man he was today.

“The Viscount Steele.” His voice was a rasping whisper even to his own ears. He looked about the empty street of Charing Cross, glad that no one was around to hear him exercise his new title.

This was not his first new identity. He wondered if it would be his last. As a testament of his love for Deidre, he’d changed his name, expunged his past, and cut himself off from his only family, the Sentinels, who had welcomed him as a brother. She hadn’t asked him to do it, but she’d been delighted. She’d wanted—hell, had deserved—a better man than he’d been born to be. So he’d become another. For her. He’d become Mr. Dagwood, barrister. If only she’d been alive to see him rise to become Solicitor-General of England.

Now he was the Viscount Steele. He wondered what she’d say.

A viscount doesn’t walk the streets of the worst neighborhood in town, dear.
He could hear Deidre’s honey-sweet voice.

As he adjusted the black scarf higher over his mouth to mask his features, he whispered to the darkness, “I’m no bloody viscount and you know it.”

Then who are you?
the shadows taunted.

He had no answer for them.

The moonlight barely bathed London’s rooftops in an eerie gray glow as Miss Abigail West entered the alleyway to meet the woman who was supposed to have information about her wayward brother.

The fog was thick and the air damp enough to permeate her veil. She was thankful for the anonymity the widow’s costume gave her, knowing that if anyone in society knew that she traveled the streets of London at night, she’d never secure a position, and she was in desperate need of a job. Moreover, no one could know that she was related to a fugitive from the law.

Despite those initial reasons for donning her widow’s attire, she couldn’t deny that pretending to be someone else gave her added courage. In Abigail’s mind, widows seemed freer from the constraints of society and tended to have a confidence that she longed to possess.

Abigail’s footsteps were muffled by the soft kid lining the bottom of her boots as she approached the woman the street urchin had assured her could be of help. She was a barmaid, the urchin had said,
and knew many of the goings-on in this part of London.

The woman waited, as promised, outside the rear door to the tavern where she worked. She was about Abigail’s age of three-and-twenty, with brown matted hair and pale pockmarked skin. She wore a blue shawl that she clutched before her.

“Willy sent ya?” the woman demanded, her voice harried.

Abigail nodded. “Yes. I have the money—”

“Not ’ere.” Looking over her shoulder, the barmaid motioned for Abigail to follow her.

As they moved away from the rear of the tavern, male muted voices could be heard through the wooden door. Abigail followed the woman down the alley and around the corner into an even darker passageway. A sense of foreboding overcame Abigail, but she told herself that she had little choice; she had to find her brother. Still, she fingered the pistol in her pocket and clutched her walking stick tighter in her other hand.

The barmaid turned. “Show me the blunt.”

Removing her hand from her pocket, Abigail held out the coin.

The barmaid reached for the money, but Abigail withdrew it. “First the information.”

“The fella yer looking for has brown hair and gray-blue eyes?”

“Yes. His eyes are a unique color in that they’re very light. He would be twenty years of age.”

The barmaid nodded. “Light eyes. I remember ’im because of the scar.”

“Scar?” Abigail’s heart skipped a beat.

The barmaid motioned to her face. “Across ’is cheek. Now I want my money!”

The scrape of a boot heel drew Abigail’s head up.

A shadowy figure separated from the wall, its movements purposefully heading toward her. “An’ I want mine!” the man sneered.

Turning, Abigail pulled out her pistol and pointed it at the man.

Suddenly the barmaid slammed into Abigail’s arm, knocking the weapon to the ground. “Get ’er, Fred!”

The man lunged, his meaty hands gripping Abigail’s arms. Abigail desperately wrestled to break free. But the man was too big and too strong. He shoved her to the ground, pressing his foul-smelling body on top of hers.

“Get the money!” the barmaid shrieked.

“After I’ve ’ad my fill! I ain’t never ’ad a
highbrow
before!”

Abigail kicked and struggled, reaching…reaching…Her walking stick was stuck partly beneath her thigh. The odors of gin and unwashed male overwhelmed.

“Yer gonna love it!” His foul breath made her stomach twist.

Her fingers clawed for her walking stick…grasping…reaching…Hard metal kissed her fingers, and she grabbed the hilt, pulled out the knife, and rammed it into the man’s gut.

The brute howled in pain, rolling off her.

Panting, Abigail jumped to her feet, the knife clutched tightly in her grasp. The barmaid stepped forward, blocking the only escape.

“She cut me!” The brute stared down at his bloodied shirt.

“Stay back!” Abigail cried, holding up her weapon.

Rising to his feet, he growled, “I’ll kill ya fer this!” He lunged.

Abigail spun away, her knife cutting air as the man swatted it aside, and it clattered to the ground. Abigail kicked him in the knee. He grunted and stumbled, reaching for her lost blade. She dodged around him, heading toward the mouth of the alley. But the barmaid tripped Abigail, and she tumbled forward on hands and knees. “Snotty bitch!”

Suddenly an unknown man in a whirling dark cloak raced into the alleyway. He knocked the barmaid off Abigail, and the woman crumpled to the ground.

The brute raced forward, wielding the knife. He lunged, but the nimble rescuer slipped out of reach before the man could make contact. The brute attacked, but the rescuer spun and danced, avoiding every blow as if it were anticipated and landing punches with each turn.

Slowly Abigail rose, hypnotized by the struggle. The rescuer was tall, and his features were purposefully concealed. He wore a dark head covering, like a hood, and a black scarf over the bottom half of his face. Only his eyes shone clearly, dark, yet blazing with intention.

The rescuer landed a glancing blow to the brute’s shoulder, and the knife clattered to the ground. The brute snarled, swinging his meaty arms and hounding after his assailant.

“Fred!” The barmaid’s shout shook Abigail from her trance. Picking up a brick, the barmaid raced toward the rescuer. Abigail tackled her, slamming them both into the far wall and knocking them to the ground. With a groan, the barmaid lurched up and then fled.

The brute endured a hammering round of blows and then staggered back up against the wall. He was breathing heavily, his body hunched.

“You’d best follow your friend,” the rescuer commented, his accent crisp and upper class.

Abigail’s head whipped around. A gentleman! And he fought like the devil!

Suddenly the brute let out a nasty hiss, tumbled past the rescuer, and stumbled down the alleyway. Soon he was swallowed by the night, gone, save for the clamor of his retreating boot stomps.

The rescuer’s panting breath was the only sound in the darkness. He moved with leopardlike grace as he approached Abigail and extended his hand. “Are you all right?”

She hesitated for only a moment, then slipped her hand into his larger one. His grip was strong but gentle as he helped lift her to stand on wobbly knees. “Thank you, sir.”

“No need to thank me, but you’re welcome just the same.” He had an air of distant respectfulness about him that made her feel safe in his company. He released her hand. “Is that knife yours?”

“Yes.”

Turning, he moved deeper into the alley, seemingly to retrieve it.

She spied her pistol on the ground, quickly picked it up, and slipped it into her pocket within easy reach. “Are you a police officer of some kind?”

“No, I’m not a police officer.”

“Then why did you help me?”

Returning, he offered Abigail her knife and her walking stick. “Cannot one Englishman help another?”

“That’s all there is to it?”

“That’s all.”

After a long moment, she accepted his offerings. He seemed too good to be true, but his actions spoke louder than his words, and she seemed to be in no danger from him. She slipped the knife into the sheath with a snap.

The gentleman nodded. “Ah, the blade doubles as a walking stick. I’ve seen that before. Smart of you to come prepared. That was an unsavory pair you encountered.”

“Quite. And I only have myself to blame,” she added ruefully.

“Are you in some kind of trouble?” She was surprised by the lack of censure in his tone. Most men she knew would be quick to ridicule a woman for her seemingly reckless folly. Few would treat her as he did, as if she must have her own good reasons for her actions.

“Trouble?”
Where should I begin? Fugitive brother in trouble again
,
lack of funds
,
in need of a job…
“No, I’m not in any trouble.”

“I’m merely asking since you don’t meet many posh widows alone in Charing Cross at this hour.”

She stepped away. “I really must be going…”

He moved to follow, yet kept a respectful distance. “May I escort you somewhere?”

No matter how handy she was with her knife, the attack had shaken her. And she felt safe with him. But could she trust a man in a mask who fought like the devil? He was a stranger, and a dangerous one at that. “If you could escort me to Wentworth Square…” The words spilled from her mouth before she could stop them. “I’ll find my way from there.”

“Very well then.” As he adjusted the folds of his cloak, Abigail spied a tipstaff with a shiny silver head.

She straightened. “You’re a Sentinel. I heard about you…in the country, men who protect people from outlaws.”

“No, I’m not a Sentinel. There are none in London.”

“But…the silver staff…the mask…?”

“It’s a good weapon, that’s all. And the mask is merely a convenience.” He motioned to her veil. “Something I suspect you can understand.” His tone made it clear he did not wish to discuss it further.

She nodded, feeling a sense of affinity with this man and not wanting to insult him. “I do. Like you, I don’t wish to have my identity known. Nor do I wish to discuss my business.”

Tilting his head, he motioned for her to join him, and they fell in step side-by-side leaving the alleyway. “We make quite a pair; neither of us wants to talk about anything.”

He was more than a head taller than she, even
with her heeled boots, and yet his powerful stride was as graceful as any lion’s. He was so fascinating, and she was driven by a hungering curiosity. “On the contrary, I would be happy to discuss many topics…And I submit to you that we are freer than most to engage in conversation. Since you don’t know who I am and I don’t know you, we are free to discuss anything since there are no judgments, no repercussions…”

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