Suzanne Robinson (7 page)

Prim glanced at the gold watch chain that looped across his waistcoat and sniffed. “I suppose you chose this house because its owner’s clothing fits you.”

He gaped at her for a moment before grinning. “You’re a right clever little thing, you are. Me and the old buster are right of a size together.” He pointed at the trunk. “Got some duds for you too. Didn’t steal them though. Featherstone got them for me.”

Not believing him and having exhausted her store of remarks, Prim merely stared at him, wary and alert. When she didn’t speak, Nightshade continued.

“Right. Now, we’re leaving. Stayed too long in the city as it is. But before we go, I’m going to save meself a bit of annoyance by explaining how things are going to be. You can ride with me in the coach as long as you’re quiet and don’t give me no trouble.”

“I shan’t be any trouble, I assure you.”

Nightshade gave her a skeptical stare. “Right. But the first time you give me trouble, you go in that.” He pointed at the trunk.

Had he known her intimately, he couldn’t have chosen a more terrible threat. Prim paled at the idea
of being shut in that wooden box, locked in without any way to get out.

“Here!”

Prim felt a hand on her arm and realized Nightshade was supporting her. “I’m quite all right.”

“You don’t look too chirpy.”

In spite of her protests, he guided her to a chair. Prim lay back in it with her eyes closed, but only for a moment because he knelt in front of her. Her eyes flew open to find him subjecting her to a severe examination. Then he raised his voice.

“Featherstone, you can come in.”

The butler appeared bearing a tray. Prim smelled roast beef, which made her realize that her stomach was burning from emptiness. Nightshade pulled her out of her chair and guided her to one in front of the writing desk. Featherstone set the tray down and vanished at his master’s command. Weariness was overwhelming her, and Prim just stared at the food, the china, the silver teapot, the white napkin. Then Nightshade gave her a gentle shove.

“Eat quick.”

How could she be so hungry when she might be killed at any moment? Well, not at any moment, but soon. Prim gave up trying to understand her own inclinations and stuffed a forkful of roast in her mouth. While she ate, her captor poured tea and thrust the delicate china cup at her.

“Drink this.”

Prim took the cup and poured half the little pitcher of milk into it. Then she heaped sugar in after it.

“Oy! You’re ruining it. That tea is dear, I’ll have you know.”

Prim ignored him and drank the whole cup. Nightshade shook his head and walked to the window. He gazed out at the grounds until she finished. Then he came back to her.

“You want any more?”

“No, thank you,” she said.

“Feeling better?”

She nodded.

“Well then, what’s it to be—the coach or the trunk?”

Prim glanced at the trunk. “I should have known you would devise some such revolting scheme.”

“That’s right, you should have. Now give me an answer, Miss Prim.”

“I shall ride in the coach.”

She rose, ready to bolt as he approached her. “Just you remember that trunk’s coming with us.”

He was close now, too close for Prim to remain anything like calm. She smelled soap and freshly washed linen. Then she started as he took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. The gesture was disorienting, for it was one to be expected of a gentleman toward a lady in his care. He was escorting her out of the room as if they were a husband and wife on their way to the opera or a drive about the town.

All the way downstairs she could feel the warmth of his body, the hard mass of muscles beneath the expensive wool of his coat. In the entry hall, she received another surprise. Featherstone and a footman were waiting. The butler handed his master a woman’s
mantle. Before she could protest, Nightshade whirled it around her shoulders, and Prim found herself enveloped in velvet and fur. Her captor donned an overcoat and tall hat, then escorted her from the house.

When she stepped outside, Prim beheld a shining black town coach drawn by four matching bays. A footman and coachmen were loading the trunk, but what caught Prim’s attention was the heraldic arms painted on the coach door. Before she could ascertain whose arms they were, the footman opened the door and she was hurried into the vehicle.

Setting such a house and its inhabitants at the service of a ruffian, even one like Mr. Nightshade, spoke of wealth and power. As she scooted to the far side of the seat, Prim realized the implication. The killer had devoted his entire resources to finding her. He wanted her in good health long enough to question her, and the black-haired ruffian was just the kind of elegant yet ruthless villain to accomplish the task.

She had her back pressed against the carriage wall when her captor got in. He rapped a walking stick on the roof, and the horses set off. As the carriage wound its way around the curved drive and out the gate, the ruffian reached for her. Prim threw up her arms and cried out.

“Quit squawking.”

She felt him grip her wrists. Despite employing her full strength, her arms were forced down. Turning her head aside, Prim strained away from this frightening man. He held her wrists in one hand and leaned close. When she felt his breath on her cheek, she gasped and turned to face him. His gaze locked with hers, and she
thought she glimpsed the stirring of hell’s fires. His hand moved slowly from her arm, up to her shoulder.

The feel of his hand caused Prim to shiver. He noticed and smiled. His hand neared her throat, and Prim nearly whimpered. Then he reached up and tugged on her bonnet, pulling the veil down so that it covered her face. While she goggled at him with her mouth hanging open, he released her and sat back against the leather squabs.

“Now, Miss Prim,” he said softly. “You’re going to tell me what’s drove a fine-bred lady like you into hiding in the stews.”

Fear was making her stomach queasy, but Prim sat up straight and said, “Mr. Nightshade, I should be an ill-conditioned wretch indeed if a bath, new clothes, and a little food caused me to forget my duty.”

Her answer didn’t appear to annoy him. Holding her gaze, he pulled off a pair of buckskin gloves, revealing hands with long fingers with whose strength she was too familiar. Slowly, with deliberate menace, one of those hands strayed to the top button of his overcoat and unfastened it. The second was undone, then the third. All the while Prim remained trapped in his dark stare.

“I can wait, Miss Prim. We got a long journey ahead, and I got plenty of time to think of a way to persuade you to talk.” He slipped the overcoat off and put his hand on the button of his suit coat as he gave her an evil smile. “Choke me dead if before we’re through, I don’t have you pattering and babbling.”

Nightshade unfastened the last button of his suit coat and leaned back in the carriage seat. “Well, Miss Prim. You going to save yourself a deal of trouble and tell me why you were hiding in the stews?”

“I should have thought you more clever than to repeat the same lies, Mr. Nightshade.”

“I told you, I ain’t in with Mortimer Fleet. Choke me dead. I never saw a lady more averse to getting herself rescued.” He waited for her to answer, but she appeared to have fixed her attention on his hands. Her own clutched her bag as if it tethered her to safety. “You still don’t believe me, after I put myself to the trouble of cleaning you up and giving you clothes and everything.”

“I am not in the habit of believing the tales of
persons of furtive manner, ill-conditioned acquaintances, and revolting language.”

Nightshade flushed and sat forward, propping his forearms on his knees This slight change in his position caused Miss Dane to gasp and throw herself against the carriage door. She fumbled for the handle. Nightshade was almost too late to stop her from turning it. He snatched her hand and dragged her back from the door. She fought him and landed a kick on his shin.

“Ouch! Blighted little tart, that hurt.”

He thrust her into the opposite seat and rubbed his shin. She remained where she landed, staring, her eyes like small planets, her color fading. Nightshade grumbled to himself while he nursed his sore leg. When he glanced at his captive, he grew alarmed. He’d seen children that pale, usually after a beating or something worse. And she was trembling.

“Oy. Don’t you go fainting on me.”

Miss Dane’s tongue appeared at the corner of her mouth and she straightened her shoulders. “I assure you, I have no intention of becoming vaporish. Nor do I consent to tell you anything about my situation.”

“You still look bad.” He eyed her complexion, searching for a hint of the pink that usually enhanced her cheeks and the glitter of determination that enlivened her gray-green eyes. He felt guilty for having been the cause of her present misery. “Now see here, Miss Dane. I’m not going to hurt you.” He had to strain to hear her reply.

“But your master will.”

All his irritation at the inconvenience she’d caused
him faded. He’d underestimated her fear, which meant he’d also underestimated the danger. “Bloody hell, Miss Dane. What’s wrong? Oh, don’t bother with that condescending retort of yours. I see I got to explain myself before you’ll come out with the truth.”

“I doubt any explanation of yours would suit, Mr. Nightshade.”

“That’s the first thing we got to change. My name isn’t Nightshade. It’s Luke Hawthorne.”

“I’m sure you have many names.”

“Well, that’s the one I’m sticking at.”

She didn’t answer him, but he noted that she wasn’t trembling so much. He’d distracted her.

“As to me being in somebody’s pay, that’s all wrong. Your aunt, Lady Freshwell, asked a friend of mine to help find you. He called on me, and here we are.”

Miss Dane regarded him skeptically. “My aunt knows a friend of yours, Mr. Night—Hawthorne?”

This was the problem. He hadn’t expected to have to convince the lady he rescued that he was an ally. Still less had he expected to be forced to prove himself respectable.

“Yes, well …” He cleared his throat and employed the grammar he’d abandoned so easily upon returning to the Black Fleece. “I suppose I’d better explain. You see, I’m not really Nightshade. That is, not any longer. I left Nightshade behind when I quit the East End. Years ago, I made my fortune and became a gentleman.”

“Indeed.”

“Oy! Don’t you be sneering at me, Miss Prim. I
was better at thieving than most toffs is at guzzling wine. I got out of the stews and got me a gentleman’s occupation. I even got me an education—some of it, leastways. And you can call me Sir Luke, ’cause that’s who I am. Sir Lucas Hawthorne.”

Miss Dane stared at him for a moment before looking out the window at the city traffic. “How long will it take us to reach your master?”

“Now you see here, Miss Primrose blighted Dane. I got no master. My friend Ross Scarlett come to me when you vanished and asked me to find you. As a favor to him, who I owe for his part in helping me get out of the rookeries. A proper gentleman is Ross Scarlett, and he knows your aunt.”

“I have never heard of this person.”

“Blow that. You ain’t heard of most people, but they still exist. Choke me dead if you’re not a proper sneering little dried-up nut of a creature.”

“I find this conversation useless, Mr. Hawthorne.”

“It’s sir. Call me Sir Luke.”

“I doubt if I could without feeling absurd.”

“Absurd, by God. What’s absurd about my name? Didn’t you see them arms on my carriage door?”

“The door of this stolen carriage?”

“And my house. You saw my house.”

“I saw a house.”

“Blow the house, Miss Primrose blighted Dane.”

Luke subsided, muttering and cursing to himself. He never expected such a devil of a time as he’d had doing this favor for Ross Scarlett. His friend had come to him with a tale of a vanished spinster and asked him to search east London for her. Luke hadn’t
wanted to go back. To him, Nightshade was dead and unlamented. If he could, he’d forget most of his past.

His earliest memory was of a woman too busy with her male visitors to take care of him. He remembered her skirts the best, because they were what he saw at his eye level. Limp, worn skirts of thin wool, their dark brown faded to something closer to dingy gray. He would cling to them and lean against her legs, until she shoved him away.

Between these memories and those of his foster parents was a nightmare. One day his mother had pushed him out the door, and when he came back, she was dead. The landlady had her body taken away. Luke tried to go with it, but the men who put it in a wagon shoved him back and drove off so fast he couldn’t keep up. After that, his home was the streets, until the Hawthornes took him in. His new ma was a charwoman, and Pa had worked the docks until he was injured. Then he became a rag-and-bone man who riffled through garbage for old cloth and bones. The Hawthornes could barely support themselves. When they adopted Luke, their meager resources were insufficient.

Luke grew up hungry and desperate to save his parents from the fate of many of the East End’s elderly poor—becoming pure-finders. These unfortunates gathered dog dung. A bucketful would buy a day’s food and shelter. Fear of the workhouse drove many to such disgusting occupations. Luke promised himself that neither he nor his own would ever resort to such extremities.