He brushed his fingers through his scruffy locks, combing the curls. “So how did you find yourself in the streets?”
“I was taken away,” she whispered weakly.
“What do you mean?”
Amy’s head hurt with the memories: the horses’ hooves, the burning torchlight, the dark, masked figures. There was chaos in her thoughts, and it ached to sort through the disjointed images. “I was kidnapped.”
He crunched the muscles at his brow. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I was taken from my bed one night.” She struggled with the maelstrom of emotions that stirred in her belly, making her ill. “I was carried away on horseback. The kidnappers took me into the rookeries.” The first foul smells and unsightly figures from the slums bubbled to the forefront of her thoughts. “I sensed I was in trouble.” She bunched her fingers into fists. “I evaded them; I jumped from the horse. I knew they would hurt me…kill me.” She shuddered. “The villains told me my parents had hired them to take me away; that they didn’t care for me anymore.”
“And you believed them?”
“I was a child. I believed them at first.” She shrugged. “I was a spoiled brat and their claim seemed truthful.”
“You will do as you’re told, Amy.”
“No, Papa!”
“You will do as you’re told or I will see to it that the goblins take you away and never bring you home.”
“But as I matured,” she said quietly, “I understood their deceit and I doubted their claim.”
“Have you looked for your parents?”
“No,” she returned firmly, tamping down the tears that brimmed in her eyes. “I didn’t know where to begin the search. And it’s been so many years; I’m sure they’ve forgotten about me now.”
Edmund eyed her intently. “Parents don’t forget about their children.”
“Perhaps not, but I don’t know their whereabouts. I don’t remember my home; I’m not even sure I know my real name.”
“Don’t you want to know the reason for your kidnapping? Don’t you want to know if your parents are still alive?”
Yes!
But…“Hope is dangerous,” she said softly. “I don’t want to chase after ghosts.”
After another thoughtful pause, he murmured, “You look pale, Amy. Did you have breakfast?”
She sniffed, feeling silly for allowing her emotions to overtake her good sense. “Yes, I had tea and biscuits with your brother James.”
He lifted a black brow. “And how did the cur treat you?”
She groaned. “You know?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I really am trying to be a lady, you know.”
He offered her a small smile. “I admire your spirit, Amy.”
She blushed at the compliment. She curled her hair behind her ear, feeling fidgety, as a profound want entered her breast and commanded her heart. She desired so much to connect with Edmund in that moment, yet she wasn’t sure how to go about it.
“James treated me well,” she said at length. “I think he’s forgiven me for calling him a cur. He thanked me for assisting with Quincy.”
“He did?”
She nodded. “Madame Rafaramanjaka would never have pardoned such insolence. She would have thrashed me, then fired me from the club.”
“I don’t think the queen would have fired you—ever.”
“What?”
“You’re too good a dancer,” he said quietly.
She shuddered at the heat in his words. “But you offered me protection because you said I was destitute.”
“No, you assumed you were destitute. I didn’t contest the matter. I wanted you to quit the Pleasure Palace. It’s dangerous for you to work there. It’s too dangerous for you to be Zarsitti anymore.”
She stared at him, dumbfounded. “Madame Rafaramanjaka threatened me. She said she would fire me if I ever disobeyed her.”
“She threatened you to keep you in line, to control you.”
Amy looked through the window and mulled over the epiphany. Was it true? Would the wretched queen have employed her services even if there had been a scandal? She wasn’t so sure about that. But the matter was moot. She had an opportunity to better her circumstances with Edmund’s help, and she intended to take advantage of the fortuity.
The man’s eyes darkened. “I understand what it’s like to be controlled.”
She glanced at his brooding features. “I think you’ve misjudged your brother, Edmund.”
He lowered his head. The morning light caressed his strong and handsome profile, making her heart flutter.
“I don’t think so; I think I’ve pegged him right.” He paused, then: “You and I are not so very different, Amy. There’s always someone in our lives trying to keep us from rising too high.” He looked back at her with intense purpose. “But we don’t need anyone. We can go it alone, don’t you think?”
Alone? That didn’t sound so appealing. However, the thought of going it together sounded strangely…wonderful.
The smarting in Amy’s breast was profound. She thought of only one balm that would soothe the deep-rooted ache.
She stepped into the light cascading through the window and the soft drapery. On spiked toes, she bussed Edmund’s mouth, the tissue plump, swollen. She sucked at the tender flesh, so warm, the touch and taste of him making her giddy.
He stiffened, the kiss hard, and she hesitated, but soon the surprise in his bones passed away and his taut muscles softened…the kiss softened, too.
She sighed as he parted his lips and took her mouth in a more passionate gesture. She wanted him to guide her through the unfamiliar movements, to take possession of her body. And he did. The man’s strapping arms circled her midriff and squeezed her ribs. His mouth moved over her lips with greater pressure, an urgent, almost hungry appeal for more, and she gave him more. She matched his hard thrusts, kissing him with zeal. She raked her fingers over his shoulders and wrapped her arms around his neck in a tight hold.
In his embrace, the world seemed at right. But it was unwise to find succor with him, a scoundrel; she knew that in the rational part of her mind…yet he teased her senses with such sensual pleasure she needed to let him inside her being, if only to restore the joy that had died there so many years ago.
I want you.
He growled low in his throat. She was moaning softly, too, so unladylike. But she wanted the scoundrel in a very unladylike way. She cleaved to him, burrowed her fingernails into his stout neck. She demanded more from him than tenderness. She demanded passion. She wanted to feel. She wanted to keep the hot blood flowing through her veins, for it washed away the years of torment.
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
Amy staggered, her footfalls fumbled. Had Edmund pushed her away? No. He looked as winded as she was. She had pushed him away. And with reason. She glanced at the bed, where the ignominious remark had stemmed from, and witnessed Quincy as he rolled over the feather tick’s edge and retched into the chamber pot.
She closed her eyes and sighed, trembling, weak. It wasn’t the sight of them kissing that had sickened him, but the opium. She was still flustered, though, as Edmund dutifully treaded across the room to attend his brother’s needs.
Quincy yowled as he rested again. “I hate being sick.”
Edmund poured him a glass of water. “Here,” he said hoarsely. “Drink this.”
Quincy complied. With his brother’s support, he downed the tonic.
“Ouch.” Quincy massaged his arms, his midriff. “What the devil happened to me?”
“We wrestled you to the ground last night.” He set the empty glass aside. “You tried to jump from the window.”
Quincy looked confused. “I did?”
“You were hallucinating.” Edmund glanced at her hotly. “If it hadn’t been for Amy, you would’ve leaped to your death. You might even have taken her with you to your doom if she hadn’t the strength and wherewithal to keep you secured until Jam
es and I had entered the room.”
The scamp paled. He looked at Amy with a welter of pain. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” she was quick to assure him. “I’m fine.”
But Quincy still seemed gloomy, distraught. She, too, trembled, her nerves still frazzled. She reckoned it might be a good idea if she tiptoed from the room and composed herself, allowed the brothers some privacy, as well.
She headed for the door, casting Edmund one last, furtive look, but he had sensed her ogling and had matched her expression with a fiery one of his own.
I want you, too, Amy.
She rushed from the room, stifled. In the cool passageway, she stilled and placed her hand on the wall for support. She touched her mouth, the flesh swelling with blood.
She had kissed Edmund.
She had kissed him!
And she’d aroused the scoundrel. The sentiment had pulsed through his taut muscles, in his sensual stare, his raspy voice…
She quickly skirted off. She had embroiled herself in a tight fix. How was she going to disentangle herself from it now?
“Bullocks.”
Chapter 13
“You don’t belong here, mate.”
Edmund bristled. As he fisted his palms, he glanced at the looming figure that had sneaked up on him. He had failed to detect the other man’s stealthy approach, his thoughts engaged elsewhere, and in a wicked den like the Red Dragon that was a dangerous misstep.
“I don’t belong here, do I?”
Edmund relaxed his taut muscles and kicked the empty chair across from him, inviting the Bow Street Runner to join him at the table.
John Dunbar accepted the invitation and settled his long bones into the seat, removing his cap, allowing his mussed, sandy brown hair loose.
“You look more and more like a bloody nob, Eddie.”
“The devil I do,” he groused.
“It’s the hair.” John fingered his own unruly crop of curls, smoothing the locks. “The fashionable cut gives you away.”
Edmund humphed. He might look like a gentleman, but he didn’t feel like one. He possessed the same tainted blood as the thugs and wenches who filled the flash house with their hoarse guffaws and salacious antics.
John squinted in the dim room. “Have you quarreled with one of these roughs?”
“I’ve quarreled with a rough, but don’t worry about it.” He thumbed the glass of gin. “Would you like a drink, John?”
“No.” He set his cap on the table and placed his patched elbows on the soiled surface. “Is there a reason we always meet in the seediest pub in London?”
He shrugged. “I like it here.”
“You’re determined to get me killed, aren’t you?” he queried askance. “I suspect it’s retribution for almost arresting you last year.”
Edmund snorted at the absurd idea. He had no ill will toward his friend. A year ago, Edmund was involved in a dockside brawl that had aroused the River Police. The Bonny Meg had waited in queue in the Thames, the quays too small to accommodate the pressing ship traffic. With the ship a prime target for robbery, thieves had attempted to unload the schooner’s cargo, and a scuffle had erupted between the ruffians and the Bonny Meg’s crew.
The Bow Street Runners had arrived to assist the River Police in keeping the fray from turning into a riot and spilling into the city. John had attempted to apprehend Edmund during the struggle, but in the tussle, pistols had fired. It was Edmund who had pushed John out of the way of a bullet, and it was that episode that had united the pair as comrades…though Edmund had yet to admit he hadn’t intended to save John from the bullet; he’d merely tackled the Runner to the ground in hopes of disabling him and avoiding arrest.
Still, their pairing proved a curious one. Not for John, who wasn’t privy to Edmund’s past as a pirate, but for Edmund, who was reminded of their juxtapositions every time they gathered in public. In truth, he enjoyed keeping John as an acquaintance, for he admired and respected the man, but there was another, less wholesome, reason he maintained the amity—he knew it would turn his brothers’ hair white if they ever learned he was chums with a Bow Street Runner.
The twenty-seven-year-old investigator smiled, his brown eyes brimming with jest. “Have you ever thought about joining the Bow Street Magistrates’ Office?”
“No,” Edmund returned brusquely…but the twisted humor in the matter perked his interest. A former pirate serving the law? It was an amusing idea. He also wouldn’t have to confront the darker side of being a privateer in the Royal Navy’s African Squadron.
The caustic smile that had touched his swollen lips quickly faded away as he remembered the deep-rooted groans and the haunting iron scuffs as hundreds of manacles clashed together. The sounds wouldn’t wail in his ears at night anymore, he thought.
“The profession might suit you, Eddie, since you already combat the slave trade. And you fit into the underworld so well; you know the haunt of every villain.” He scratched his chin in deliberation. “I think you must have been a member of the underworld at some point in the past.”
“Do you?” he drawled.
John shrugged. “Well, I know you’d get the criminals confessing their sins, that’s for sure.”
“Why do you think that?”
“You have a sour look about you, Eddie. A ‘give me what I want or I’ll draw your cork’ sort of look. Add to it the fact that you were a member of the crew that destroyed the infamous pirate Black Hawk, and it makes for an intimidating front. You have a sound sense of justice, too.”
Edmund refrained from smirking.
“I can put in a good word for you at the magistrates’ office, if you’d like.”
“Thank you for the offer, John, but I’m not interested in the post.” He had not invited his comrade to the flash house for idle chitchat. He had a more pressing matter to impart. “I need a favor.”
“I don’t know.” John sighed and rubbed his brow, etched with fatigue. “I’m in the midst of an investigation. I haven’t the time for favors.”
“What are you investigating?”
“The dowager Lady Stevenson’s jewels are missing.” He yawned. “We suspect one of the servants, a footman, the culprit. He was apprehended by the other staff members, skulking from the country house after the jewels had disappeared. He must have tossed or hidden the jewels, though, for they weren’t on his person when he was detained, and he won’t utter a word about their location.”
“Of course he won’t confess to their location. He’ll hang.”
“Aye.” John stroked his head. “It means I’ve got to comb the house and the grounds in search of the blasted baubles. I suspect the footman intended to evade capture and later return for the prize. I’m sure the jewels are still somewhere on the property.”
“Have you checked the well?”
John snorted. “I sincerely doubt the vandal drowned the priceless ornaments.”
“I would.” He shrugged. “Gold doesn’t rust. Besides, no one would think to look in the well…right?”
John stared at him thoughtfully. “All right, I’ll inspect the well on the property. And if I find the jewels, I guess I owe you that favor. What is it about anyway?”
As soon as Edmund envisioned the spirited lass, his blood warmed. He rubbed his lips together at the memory of her sweet mouth pressed hard over his, seeking kisses.
She wanted him.
He was tempted to let her have him, too, but he set aside his desires, determined to put the matter of her abduction to rest. Was there a family out there, looking for her? He’d be remiss in his duty as her guardian if he didn’t make some inquiries into the unpleasant affair.
“I need you to look through the files at the magistrates’ office, going back about thirteen years, perhaps more.”
“What am I searching for?” said John.
“A report about a missing girl. Her name is Amy. The surname might be Peel. And she possesses a birthmark.”
“Do you know how many �
��missing’ children there are in the city? The last survey places the figure well into the tens of thousands! Most parents don’t even report the child’s disappearance, they’re too thankful to be rid of the spare mouth.”
“I understand, but I’d still like you to search for the potential record.”
John sighed. “Why the interest in the girl?”
“I can’t tell you that.” He stood and prepared to depart from the flash house. “Don’t reveal our conversation to anyone. Let me know what you find.”
“If your tip about the well proves fruitful.”
“It will.”
Amy entered the dining parlor—and paused. She admired the elegant table settings and inhaled the rich scent of freshly cooked fare. Candlelight flickered across the green-and-gold striped papered walls. In the narrow room with a high ceiling, the flames skipped over the dark woodwork, giving the polished furnishings a warm and lustrous glow.
Slowly she lifted her gaze and narrowed her eyes on the scoundrel standing behind one of the high-back chairs, carved in the classical baroque style. He offered her a sensual smile.
“Good evening, Miss Peel.”
A tremor skipped along her backbone. “What’s going on, Edmund?”
“I thought we’d continue our lessons.” He pulled out the chair for her; its legs scraped softly across the floor. “With dinner etiquette.”
She remained standing beside the door, transfixed on a single thought. “Alone?”
“James and Sophia have departed for Mayfair, William’s away on business, and Quincy’s still resting.” He gestured toward the chair. “That leaves you and me, Miss Peel.”
Amy stared at the offered seat and balled her fingers into fists. What must he think of her after their morning kiss? That she was a brazen harlot? Was that why he’d arranged for such an intimate dinner? To seduce her?
She wanted to be a lady’s maid or companion. She hadn’t behaved like one, though. She had forsaken her good sense and polite manners for a scandalous kiss. And now he was treating her like a strumpet.
“Edmund—”
The Notorious Scoundrel Page 14
