He made a choking sort of noise and stepped back. “I think you will find it is you who stinks of dog, Tribbie. What have you been doing?”
“Well, I couldn’t very well have people following me, now could I?” She cocked her hip and grinned cheekily.
“Who is using their nose to follow you?” he asked with interest as he ushered her into the building. Though she knew the way, he led her along the darkened hallways, which desperately needed new rugs, and the curling wallpaper and cobwebs made her smile.
It had always looked this miserable in here, and nothing had ever changed.
Jean had a small office, merely four walls and a desk outside of the main door to the club, and on several occasions, she had spied him taking naps in the old chair behind it. He led her to his desk, which was dust-covered, as usual, and offered her the chair while he leaned against the wall.
Amelia looked towards the entrance to the club, stationed behind the legitimate front of the customs works in the building, and then up at Jean. “Not taking me into the club tonight?”
Jean shook his head firmly. “No. There are men in there that I would not wish you to meet, or for them to lay eyes on you.”
“Even dressed like this?” she asked, gesturing to herself dubiously.
A heavy chuckle and a mocking smirk preceded his answer. “Who do you think you are fooling dressed like that?”
“It’s a perfect disguise!” she gasped in outrage.
“It’s a terrible disguise,” he assured her before she could finish. “Anyone with eyes or sense would see that you are a woman, and dressed as you are, it would not stop them.”
Amelia snorted and folded her arms over her chest. “You assume any of them are sober.”
“They are never sober. It would not change a thing.” He studied her for a long moment, then tilted his head to consider her differently. “You are, ah, much changed since last I saw you. Perhaps next time I may suggest, ah, binding, and perhaps padding of…” He gestured the form of her waist with a puzzled expression, searching for the word.
“Thank you,” Amelia said a little too loudly, her cheeks heating. Really, she did not need to hear about her figure, and how it hindered her abilities, from him, of all people.
He smiled easily and shrugged. “Or perhaps you should jus’ get fat.”
She barked a laugh and leaned her elbow on the desk. “Would that help?”
“It would not hurt. Might I suggest drinking more? It seems to do the job around here.” He gestured faintly to the club and the docks in general.
“I’ll take that into consideration,” Amelia muttered, taking her cap off and shrugging out her hair. She braided it quickly and tied a strip of fabric from her pocket around it. She flung that over her shoulder and sighed, looking back up at Jean. “I need your help, Jean.”
“Name it, mon chère,” he replied at once, leaning closer. “You need somebody killed?”
She smiled, forgetting how much she loved being around Jean. He always thought someone needed to be killed, and he was more than willing to do it. As far as she knew, no one had taken him up on it.
Yet.
“Not right now,” she replied, shaking her head. “I need information.”
He instantly looked wary. “You should be talking to Dubois or Skips, Tribbie. I am not a man of information.”
Amelia offered him a pitying look, watching his discomfort with interest. “I will ask Dubois and Skips. But I am also asking you.”
He shifted against the wall, averting his eyes. “I will help you if I can. But some things, you understand, I cannot speak of.”
“I don’t care if you are smuggling the wives of Russian aristocrats into the country to be the new girls at Madame Rosemary’s,” she snapped, drumming her fingers on the table.
He looked slightly offended and more than a little surprised. “How do you know about Madame Rosemary’s?”
She waved her free hand dismissively. “The point is, Jean, that I need you to tell me everything you can about whatever you know.”
Jean stared at her for a moment longer than she was comfortable with, but then he heaved a sigh and folded his arms. “Very well. What is this about?”
“My father.”
The large man jerked and slid slightly on the wall, his eyes wide. “Ton père?” he coughed, readjusting his position.
Amelia nodded slowly. “I have a name, Jean. At least, I believe I do. And he was a merchant, perhaps even a smuggler.”
He swore rather vibrantly in French, and even Amelia with her high tolerance for vulgarity, had to raise a brow in surprise.
Jean shook his head. “Give me the name, Tribbie. I will find him, and I will gut him like the disgusting pig that he is.”
“I will give you the name,” Amelia told him, sitting up more fully in her chair, but keeping her gaze firm, “but you will do nothing of the sort. He is mine, do you understand? Mine.”
“He is yours, mon chère,” Jean repeated, though his expression was dark and dangerous. “But if you think that I will not take my revenge on him for what you endured…” He growled and shook his head again. “No. Not after what I saw. Not after… No.”
She understood his fury, his emotions at the recollection, and she had the same. There had been some horrible things in her past that should have been avoided, that she ought to have been protected from, and only Jean knew every detail of those incidents. But it could have been so much worse, and they both knew it.
All things considered, Amelia had been lucky.
“So, who is the scélérat?” he grunted, taking her lack of response as acquiescence.
Amelia looked up with steady eyes and steadier hands. “Daniel Cole.”
She waited for a reaction, any kind of response, and she knew how to watch for the smallest indication of recognition, any trace of hesitation. She would know if he was hiding something; she was sure of it.
She saw no sign.
He blinked at her, then furrowed his brow, obviously lost in thought. Then, with great disappointment, shook his head slowly. “I do not know that name, Tribbie.”
That couldn’t be possible. Jean had been here for years; he knew everything and everyone that came through all the docks, not just the London docks. If Daniel Cole had been the merchant he claimed, he would have been known here.
“You have to,” Amelia insisted, fisting her hands. “You have to.”
He gave her a pitying look. “I do not. I told you, I am not the sort to trade in information.”
This, at least, was true. Jean had always been the guard, the muscle, the intimidation factor. He was the doorman and enforcer of the club when it suited him and had never met with a challenge there he could not manage. His former life as a fighter had given him ample time to understand the perfect ways to injure with minimal effort, which had made him a most capable tutor for Amelia in her hour of need.
He was one of the most well-respected men on the docks, and when he was not working as the foreman for one of the most impressive merchants in London, he was here, keeping the disreputable in line however he could.
Information was not something that he would have access to in these circles unless he overheard its sharing during his rounds, or if he was told directly. As foreman of the docks, he would have more opportunity to hear of it, but she understood him to run a tight ship there. If he did not know Mr. Cole personally in his time, it would be difficult for him to know anything about him.
“Pardonne-moi, mon chère,” he said softly. “I do not mean to disappoint you.”
Amelia smiled at him as much as she was able, given her upset. “You could never disappoint me, Jean. You merely offer another piece to the puzzle.”
Jean smiled at her with real fondness. “You were always very clever with the puzzles.”
She laughed a little and ran her fingers over the tarnished candelabra on the corner of his desk, the wax of one candle starting to drip down the sides. “Mr. Banes loved giving me n
ew ones.”
“He did,” Jean agreed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “He always said you were more clever than half the men in the club. It was why he let you work here, you know.”
“I didn’t know that,” she murmured, looking away. “I never understood why. But I was grateful.”
It had never made sense for a grizzled gambling club owner, who only served the riffraff and dockworkers, to hire a young woman with a stubborn will and no skills to work in his club. She’d been a maid, a serving girl, a runner, and had even helped Dubois, the factotum, with some of his tasks. Jean had been her protector and guardian, and the one who had arranged for her living quarters. Mr. Banes had seen Amelia take an interest in the games in the club and had surprised everyone by permitting her to be taught in them all.
Dubois, Jean, Skips, and various other employees had delighted in teaching her the rules, and how to cheat, and it was not long before Amelia had been doing far more when she’d wandered the club. She’d caught at least a dozen cheaters in her time and helped some worthy fellows to earn more than they should have. It was an exciting time in her life, and surprisingly rewarding.
But even then, she had known it was only a stopping point on her journey, and when she had saved enough from her scarce wages, she’d moved on.
She looked up at Jean with a small smile. “Is Mr. Banes still here?”
“Not tonight,” he replied, scratching his beard. “But Dubois and Skips are around. I’ll fetch one of them, and you can interrogate them.”
Amelia’s smile turned devious, and she drummed her fingers slowly. “You know how I interrogate, Jean. Mr. Partridge taught me before Bow Street got him.”
The older man pushed off the wall with a clearing of his throat. “Oui, and that is why I have never done anything suspicious where you are concerned.”
He turned to go into the club, and only paused when he heard Amelia come up behind him. He scowled at her, but she just shrugged.
“Who is going to bother me with you nearby?” she quipped, putting her hands in her coat pockets. “Besides, I want to see the place. I’ll wager you a half a crown I catch a cheat.”
“J’accepte,” he grunted, shaking her hand like a man. “But stay close all the same, eh?”
Gabe leaned against the wall of the customs house, fuming and furious, but not altogether unsurprised.
Amelia had gone out again. And worst of all, she had come to the docks, the one place he would have quite literally dragged her away from, by the hair if necessary.
That picture was growing more and more appealing the longer he stood here.
But what had surprised him had been her familiarity with it, and with the club itself. It was not a well-known establishment, even in the world of dock life, yet she had been friendly with the doorman, by all accounts one of the most terrifying Frenchmen that Gabe had ever come across.
Granted, Jean had been one of Trace’s contacts and, when needed, was also a contact of his. One of his best, in fact. However, that did not explain how Amelia knew him well enough for the man to embrace her warmly.
That embrace had been the only reason Gabe hadn’t followed the mad woman into the building. Any other time, he would have tossed her over his shoulder and returned her to a more appropriate place. However, if Jean had her in his protection and took the obvious care with her that he appeared to, she was in the safest place she could have been, all things considered. No one would dare approach her or even tease her inappropriately with Jean by her side.
He wished he’d known it was her earlier, so he could have prevented this at all. It hadn’t occurred to him until her form had become clearer, and then he’d caught sight of Knutt, his operative that had been tailing Amelia, following at a safe but mindful distance.
Knutt had seen him at once, of course, and gestured the question.
Gabe hadn’t even hesitated. He would take over the task of tailing Amelia tonight, and Knutt could wait in the shadows.
It was for the best, really. Amelia required a different sort of suspicion, and Gabe could not let anyone else know just what that was. She might not be a traitor to the British crown or a French sympathizer, but there was certainly something unnerving about this whole affair.
And he would discover it.
His plans for the evening’s investigations had been obliterated in the face of her actions, but another investigation had taken its place.
Who was Amelia Berger? And why was Jean Valerie a close friend?
And why did he call her Tribbie?
Had Trace known her while he was undercover here? If so, why hadn’t he ever mentioned her?
Gabe decided he would question Jean later.
A movement caught his attention and he watched Amelia exit the building some time after she’d entered, cap situated properly once more. Right now, he needed to follow this maddening, frustrating, confusing woman back to her rented establishment, prevent her from getting killed, or killing anyone herself, and decide how best to act with her from here on out.
He would not be holding her in his arms in relief this time.
But he did not feel the same need to throttle her either.
Now that he knew what she was capable of and who she knew, all he felt was an overwhelming curiosity.
And the instinctive desire to hunt for the answers.
Chapter Twenty
Amelia fairly skipped along the cobblestone to the offices the next morning, her optimism only surpassed by the brightness of the day and the chirping of the birds that darted between the buildings.
Her evening had been productive beyond anything, despite having less information than she had wished for. Reconnecting with her old friends at the docks had given her a new sense of purpose and drive, and Dubois had recalled the name of Daniel Cole, and had even given her a potential merchant company. Dawes & Pope, he had said, though the company was no longer in operating business, and all assets had been sold to various other shipping groups.
He had given her some possible associates to track down, and she was anxious to share the information with Gabe.
How she would accomplish that without confessing what she had done, she had not decided, but all the information was now available to them, with the additional notes she had made. She hoped that proof of her success would be enough to dissuade him from attempted murder.
If she were most fortunate, he would even be a little proud of her.
But that might be hoping for too much.
It really wouldn’t make much difference either way, for she had a direction and clarity of purpose now. She could track down these men and find answers about her father. She could avenge her mother and finally set herself free of the pain and bitterness of all those years.
What a liberating thought that was!
Amelia looked behind her and saw Daisy walking several paces behind, studiously kicking a pebble with her right foot with every step. The girl was a miniature of Amelia herself, dark eyes aside, and everything from the scabs on the ankles to the patches on her dress brought Amelia back to her childhood. She’d never learned anything about Daisy’s personal life, despite her best efforts, but she suspected the child led a life even worse than Amelia had. No matter what she might say about her life, Amelia had always had the love of her mother, and that had left an impression.
She very much doubted Daisy had that.
“Daisy,” she called with a wave of her hand. “Come up here and hold my hand, will you?”
Daisy surveyed her with uncertainty, biting her lip with her crooked and gapped teeth. “Dunno, miss. Rogue won’ like that.”
Amelia shrugged and held out a hand. “We won’t tell him, then. Come on, I need a skipping partner.”
There was a moment’s hesitation, and then the girl broke into a toothy grin and ran for her, seizing her hand, her toy pebble forgotten.
The two of them skipped and laughed all the way back to the offices, and then Daisy surprised Amelia by giving her a tigh
t hug around her middle before darting around to the back of the building.
Amelia stared after her, wondering where the child slept at night, who took care of her, and why she was working for Gabe if Gent was the one who had the children in his network.
It was all very curious. Could it be that the recalcitrant Gabe, who secretly had a soft and honorable spot for women, felt the same way about children despite his vocal aversions?
She’d have to ask him once they got underway with the investigation today. She wasn’t sure she wanted him to be fond of children, it would only make him more attractive and give him more power over her heart. Maybe it was not all children, and Daisy was an exception.
That might be even worse.
A shout of a distant street hawker broke Amelia’s reverie, and she shook herself, exhaling noisily and forcing her mind back to where it belonged.
Her father. The shipping company. Possible associates.
She nodded to herself and marched into the offices as she would have done any other day. One and Two were scribbling away at their desks and greeted her without ceremony, as per usual. Callie was dusting, oddly enough, and winked at her with a quick smile that Amelia returned. She’d asked her the other day when they could play sisters again, as she had enjoyed herself a great deal.
While she couldn’t see the need to do so, she might concoct a reason.
Or perhaps she and Callie ought to just be themselves and gallivant about London together.
It was an entertaining thought. Amelia had never really had friends, particularly ones that were female, for one reason or another. But she thought she could truly become friends with Callie, and more than that, she thought she would actually enjoy it.
The day was getting better by the moment!
She removed her bonnet and long coat, dropping them on the bench outside Gabe’s office, and then pushed in without knocking, fixing a bright smile on her face.
A Rogue About Town (London League, Book 2) Page 24
