She frowned at him. “I didn’t hear him mention anything about that.”
“Well, he did. When he mentioned our Egyptian friends. They are here, in London.”
“I believe he was lamenting the fact that they aren’t here, actually.”
“That’s what it sounded like, but I believe he spoke in code.”
“In code?”
She didn’t believe him in the least. He had to agree, it did sound a bit far-fetched.
“He didn’t want my uncle to know, but I’m certain he was saying that our friends from Egypt are here, in London.”
“He was saying that?”
“Yes. He was.”
“I didn’t hear it.”
“But it’s what he meant.”
“You’re certain of this?”
“Yes.” Mostly.
“Did he happen to tell you where in London we might find them?”
“In the same house where I’ve met with them before.” Hopefully.
“And where is that?”
“Beyond Russell Square.”
“And where are we now?”
“Well…I believe this would be Whitechapel.”
“Oh,” she replied, glancing toward the storefront window with new interest. “I’ve never been in this part of town before.”
“I don’t doubt it. And I fully intend to get you out of it as quickly as possible.”
She smiled up at him as if they had simply been taking a stroll through the park. Damn it, but the girl was being intentionally thickheaded. When was she going to realize that her life was in danger and he’d been the one to cause it? Instead of rushing her back to safety, he’d tossed her on the floor and shagged her until they’d both lost track of time and reality. She truly ought to hate him—for everything.
“Then we should be off for Russell Square,” she said. “How are you planning to go? Shall we walk?”
As if there were any other means. By God, her confounded optimism was grating. Especially when he knew how dramatically it would turn once the glow of lovemaking faded and she understood just what he’d done to her. And how he’d do it again in a heartbeat.
He was about to reiterate the importance of her not accompanying him to meet the Egyptians and the necessity for her to quietly allow him to take her directly home—at least as directly as they could make it with the darkened streets and who knew what manner of dangers between here and there—when a sound in the street caught his attention. A carriage! This could be a good thing, or it could be a bad thing.
He pushed her behind the one rack of clothing they did not topple in their heated passion.
“Hide yourself,” he whispered, slinking into shadows and moving closer to peer out the front window.
She harrumphed at his precaution, but she stayed behind the rack. He glanced out into the street. The sound of a carriage rumbling toward them, with the clop of one set of hooves, echoed in the narrow space between buildings. He moved closer to the window, risking the moonlight filtering in.
There it was, just coming into view. Fortunately, it did not appear to be Uncle Nedley or any of his hirelings come to search for them. Nor did it appear to be some hapless hackney he might jog out and hire to carry them swiftly to Mayfair.
It was a rag-and-bone man.
Damn. The lone mule plodded listlessly, and the cart—not carriage—behind it wobbled to the left and to the right. The various items piled into the cart jostled about, too, clattering and clanking. Somehow, the driver seemed to be able to sleep through it all.
No one stirred at his approach. A dog barked from an alleyway, but the mule ignored it and lumbered along. Somehow the piles of rubbish and secondhand wares managed not to tumble out onto the street while the driver hunched over and snored. The cart drew no attention and left no trail. Aside from the clopping, the rattling, and the snoring, it was almost as if it were not really there at all.
Ah, but that gave him an idea.
“Hurry! Come on!” he called, moving swiftly to retrieve his nearly forgotten pistol.
Penelope stuck her head out from behind the clothes. He could see her gaze catch on the cart rolling by, and she seemed to gather what he had planned. She smiled at him.
“That’s perfect! No one would think to look for us on that cart. You’re brilliant, sir.”
Trying not to swell too much with pride—or anything else—he unlocked the front door and led her quickly out into the street. He called to wake the rag-and-bone man.
“We need conveyance,” he said.
The man eyed him, then eyed Penelope. Then eyed her again. If the man hadn’t been nearly ancient Harris might have knocked him off his rackety perch. As it was, he simply gave him a warning glare.
“What have ye got for me?” the old man asked after a moment or two.
Damn. He was penniless.
“I have a ring!” Penelope said.
She held up her hand to display a demure little band. Of course Harris was loath to let her part with it, but they needed to be on that cart quickly. Besides, he was taking the girl home. Once there, no doubt Rastmoor could purchase her ring back for her.
The savvy man was pleased to receive her ring in exchange for delivering them across town. Harris helped her into the cart then went to give the man directions, careful not to let her hear. If she realized he had no intention of taking her to find his Egyptian friends with him she’d likely begin arguing all over again. Best let her settle in quietly.
The old man agreed to convey them, polishing his new acquisition and placing it in his pocket. Harris was congratulating himself on such a smooth transaction when Penelope let out a startling squeal. He whirled, looking for danger yet finding merely Penelope digging through some of the items collected in the old man’s cart.
“What is it?” he asked.
She pulled out a length of brightly colored fabric. No, it was more than that. It was trimmed and finished—a shawl. Dear God, it was identical to the hideous item he’d purchased for her at that shop several days ago. What horror would allow two of these to exist?
Judging by Penelope’s reaction to it, though, the world could not hold enough of these monstrosities.
“How much for this?” she called to the old man, hugging the shawl like a precious thing.
“What else have ye got?” the man asked.
“Penelope, you’ve already got one just like it,” Harris reminded her, wondering if the night’s events hadn’t finally taken their toll.
But she shook her head. “No, I don’t. I was angry with you so I threw it out.”
And now she regretted it. Ah, but the sentiment was so dear Harris practically rejoiced aloud. She cherished the ugly thing he had given her!
“It’s mine now,” the old man reminded. “Ye want it back, ye’ll be payin’ for it.”
Her expression fell and she looked as if she might suddenly cry. Oh God, Harris would give anything to prevent that. He rummaged his pockets, desperate for something of value. Ah! Yes, he did have something.
“No, not the knife!” Penelope said when he pulled it from his boot.
The old man paled. “Now, I don’t want no trouble, here…”
“Take it,” he said, handing it to the man. “The lady needs her shawl.”
Penelope tried to protest, but he would have none of it. The old man seemed pleased with his haul, and at last their bartering was done. Harris climbed up into the cart and settled himself beside Penelope.
“What if you need that?” she asked quietly when they were hidden among the contents of the cart and clattering along the road.
He patted his side where the pistol still rested. “I have the other.”
She shuddered at the thought, but said nothing more about it. He pulled her tight up against him. There’d be hell to pay once he got her home to Rastmoor, but for now she was content to rest against him, yawning. He tucked the shawl around her and really did not mind that he’d had to buy the dreadful thing twice.
SHE MUST HAVE DRIFTED TO SLEEP, BECAUSE SHE’D BEEN blissfully unaware of her uncomfortable surroundings until a pot from the rag-and-bone man’s pile dropped onto her lap and startled her. She roused quickly, glancing at the darkened houses around them and eventually recognizing them. Mayfair! Heavens, they’d come all the way to Mayfair already.
“Shh, don’t worry. You’re safe now.”
Lord Harry was beside her, his arm wrapped snugly around her in the most caring manner. She liked that, but not that he’d brought her here. She’d not heard Lord Harry give the old man directions or she’d surely have argued.
“You need to go find your friends, not bring me home!” she protested now.
“After I know you are safe, then I’ll go find them.”
So it had been his intent all along to leave her. She should have known. So far he’d found her useful for just one thing, hadn’t he?
Not that she was complaining about that. Good gracious, no! That had been wonderful, heavenly. She only wished she’d been able to prove to him that she had other good qualities, as well. That there were other things about her that might interest him, might be of use to him. She wanted him to want her near him, and obviously he did not. This should come as no surprise.
“But when will…” she began to ask, wishing he might give her some hope that he’d find a way to be with her again, but her words trailed off as she became aware of a great commotion ahead.
She craned her neck to see around the masses of rags and dishes and broken chairs that surrounded them. Indeed, there were carriages and torches up ahead, just around the bend on Regent Street, just beyond the next…Why, it was just in front of her own home!
What was happening? She strained for a better look.
“Got us a ruction, we do,” the rag-and-bone man said, his raspy voice making Penelope jump again. “Want I should go around it?”
Lord Harry had peered around the piles on his own side of the cart, and now he glanced back at Penelope, his brow furrowed.
“I hope it’s nothing that—”
But he stopped. They could hear shouting ahead. It was Anthony! His voice rang out, the words reaching them quite clearly through the empty street.
“It’s Chesterton!” he was declaring loudly. “I don’t know where he’s taken her or how he thinks I’ll let him get away with this, but we will find him. I’ll see my sister safe, and I’ll see him hanged!”
There were other voices, too, but they were just a muddle of noise. Not that they mattered. It was clear what was happening. Anthony thought Lord Harry had kidnapped her, and now he was rousing a party to go after him! Well, how fortunate that soon she and Lord Harry would be there to tell them the truth of the matter.
But Lord Harry called up to the driver. “Stop! Don’t go any farther.”
She looked at him, perplexed. “But that’s my brother! He’s looking for us.”
“Indeed he is, and it appears he’s enlisted the night watch and a pack of bloody constables.”
“Oh my, has he?” she peered around, trying to get as good a view as Lord Harry seemed to have.
The driver did as commanded and pulled his tired mule to a halt. Indeed, she could make out several large men collecting in the roadway ahead. Rather sweet of Anthony, it was, to go to so much trouble to find her. She hoped everyone wouldn’t be too very upset when they arrived to prove all this clamor to be unnecessary.
If, of course, they did arrive. Why had Lord Harry ordered the man to stop the cart? She turned to him, questioning.
“I can’t go with you,” he said before she had a chance to ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Your brother is looking to have me hanged!”
“But once I tell him you had nothing to do with those awful men taking me, then—”
“Then he will still hate me and I’ll have to answer a thousand questions and the constables will haul me in and it will be tomorrow afternoon before I can convince anyone to let me go.”
And by then something dreadful could have happened to his father. Oh, but she understood his quandary immediately. He did not have to say any more.
“You cannot come with me!” she agreed.
“I’m sorry,” he said, taking one of her hands in his and raising it to his lips. “I’m truly, truly sorry. For all of it.”
“I’m not,” she said, realizing what he planned to do. “But please don’t simply—”
He did. He shoved the piles aside and slid out of the cart. She had to fight back the urge to grab at him and make him stay.
“Tell your brother whatever you have to, just don’t tell him where I’m going.”
“Where are you going?”
“To save my father.”
And without another word or a backward glance he was gone. He ran off, backtracking and disappearing around the bend in the road where they had just come from. His footsteps faded a few seconds after he was gone.
“Yer young fellow run off, did he?” the rag-and-bone man asked.
She shifted to sit on her knees, facing forward.
“There was no young fellow. I’ve been alone all night.”
The old man gave a knowing—and degrading—laugh. She half expected him to argue with her, so she supposed she ought to be happy with nothing more than insulting laughter.
“Go ahead,” she commanded, or at least she tried to sound commanding. “You may move on now. Take me to that house, the one with the lights burning. My brother is there.”
He just gave a knowing smile and slapped the mule back into motion.
She had no doubt what he must be thinking, but tried to ignore it. “If you have no story to tell my brother that differs from mine, then I’ll see you get rewarded well.”
He chuckled. “I was young once meself, you know. You ain’t done nothin’ tonight hundreds o’ other young people ain’t doin’…or wish they could be doin’. Don’t worry, fancy miss, I’ll tell yer story. Course, a little some’ing extra to take home for me wife wouldn’t be bad of ye…maybe something from your brother, or what.”
“I promise, your wife will be more than happy to see you when you get home.”
DAMN, HE’D WASTED TOO MUCH TIME! HE COULDN’T afford to slow down. Unfortunately, though, he couldn’t for the life of him run another step. He had to pause, to lean against a post and catch his breath.
He’d been all over London tonight and was no further ahead than he’d been an hour ago. Thank God he’d gotten Penelope home safely, at least. He could only imagine what things her brother had said to her. Hell, he should have been there with her to take the force of Anthony’s anger. She shouldn’t have had to face it alone.
Knowing her, though, she’d not quite told her brother all of what had happened tonight. He rather hoped she would not tell him; not tonight, at least. She deserved some time to think through what had happened, to know for certain how she felt about it. By God, he hoped she might not hate him once she’d had time to contemplate. It would be dashed difficult to convince her to marry him if she did.
It would also be dashed difficult to rescue his father without help from their Egyptian friends. Unfortunately, it seemed he would have to. He’d gone to the house—the small house his father kept in London—but when he’d finally roused the housekeeper he’d been told the Egyptians had indeed sent word they were in Town, but they’d never arrived at the house.
Something must have happened to them. He had an idea what: Uncle Nedley.
So, here he was now, running—literally—across town again. He was back in Mayfair, on his way to Burlington’s. Damn, but he hoped he’d be in time.
He no longer had hopes of getting any of the treasure back. No, if he’d had his friends perhaps that would have been possible, but not alone. Alone he’d be doing well to simply rescue his father. There was no telling what they’d face; Uncle Nedley might have hired himself a virtual army to get those treasures packed up and taken to the docks. Hell, he might have already co
mpleted the job and made Harris’s rescue attempts unnecessary.
While he’d been off ruining poor Penelope, his uncle could have been pocketing French payment and doing away with Oldham. He needed to keep moving. There was too much at stake to waste any more time.
Taking a deep, burning breath and wincing at the shooting pain in his side, he took up his pace again, passing rows of stately homes and finally turning onto the street that would lead him to Burlington’s house. There he could see evidence of his uncle’s activities.
Two wagons waited in front of the house. One was already full of an assortment of crates and carefully wrapped items. The second was very nearly full. Two men worked to load that wagon—one was another hired thug, one was his father. Thank God!
He ducked into the shadows to catch his breath and formulate a plan. Where was his uncle? Was anyone armed? What was to keep his father from simply walking away?
True, running away might be more effective, and perhaps the older man could accomplish such a thing right now, but Harris was fairly certain he himself could not. If they escaped, it would be by walking. Slowly.
“Hurry!” someone called.
Harris took care to keep hidden. There, in the doorway of Burlington’s house, he could see his uncle, pointing and directing as forcefully and quietly as he could. He appeared to be unarmed. Could it be this easy? Could Harris simply wait for Nedley to turn his back then waltz in and tap his father on the shoulder? Things never quite seemed to work out that way for him, so he was understandably skeptical.
But if his damn uncle thought he was still miles away, under guard, why should he be on full alert here? He’d already bullied Oldham into believing if he didn’t do as told things would go badly. Hell, his father likely thought by cooperating he was assuring their well-being when Nedley returned to the docks. He may not have figured out that Nedley’s intentions were exactly the opposite.
Well, he’d lost the upper hand when Harris and Penelope tied up his thug and left that rotting storeroom. He’d better let his father in on the secret now, before someone might learn the truth and inform Uncle Nedley. If he knew his prisoners were no longer there to be used as leverage, things might get ugly here.
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