Rafe pulled back a little, his eyes wide. “Bow Street? A damned Runner has her?”
Cooke nodded, pushing at his wrists again.
Rafe swore and released him, turning away to mutter to himself, yanking his cap off of his head and throwing it against the wall viciously. A Runner might have been worse than a criminal taking her. He could storm any criminal holding, thrash whoever he wanted, and make any sort of fuss he wished about it.
Bow Street was proper law enforcement, and he could not actually defy them. Technically, he could order them about and do as he pleased, but not as the Gent, and not to the extent of breaking down their doors and pulling Margaret out of whatever office or drawing room they had ensconced her in.
Oh, lord, they would take her back to Ritson!
And she would try for Castleton.
Damn.
“Where did they take her?” Rafe asked, grinding his hands into his eyes.
“Dunno, Gent. Large bloke hauled her off like a strumpet and forced her into one of those dark hacks wif no windows.” He heard Cooke shrug, and turned to look at the rotund man. “I couldn’t leave to follow, but they left somefink quick.”
That wasn’t good. He hated the thought of Margaret barreling off to parts unknown in a completely dark carriage.
They would probably take her to the main office in Bow Street, and he would risk everything he and his associates had spent years building, and the wrath of the Shopkeepers, if he set foot in there.
He nodded at Cooke, picked up his cap, and left the building, a lethal glower forming.
It only grew darker the further he went, and people began avoiding him and his path. It occurred to him that this was a very rare occurrence, as no one was ever really skittish around him. He was congenial and open, under usual circumstances.
Now he would rather have a reputation for ruthlessness and the demeanor to match.
He had no patience for niceties. Margaret was gone, and he needed help to get her back.
The only people he knew that could do that were the same ones who had warned him about taking her on anyway. But their loyalties were infallible and they would be by his side. They would help him find the best solution and give him clearer sight, as his emotions were clouding his judgment and his vision was so tinged with red fury he was growing lightheaded.
He would find out who had taken Margaret and why.
And there would be hell to pay when he did.
He spoke with a few of his contacts along the way, sending them out for more information, anything that could give him leads on what happened, what was said, or where Margaret might have gone. He needed something, anything, not just the basic notation that Bow Street had her.
He couldn’t help her until he knew more.
Rafe stormed into the office without warning, ignoring Simmons’ inane protests and exclamations, and headed directly for the back of the building where Cap and Rogue would be.
He stopped short at the sight of Tilda sitting in one of Cap’s chairs, looking properly demure and buttoned up, despite her usual outlandish dress. Her dark hair was pulled tightly back, surprisingly elegant, and her complexion free and clear of any stage makeup that she tended to don. She could have been any other lady in London, and one of high caliber for her appearance.
It was almost eerie.
She never called at the offices, and it faintly registered to be curious about that, but he was too frantic to think much of it.
Cap and Tilda looked up at him in surprise, and Cap’s eyes narrowed a little. “Gent.”
He nodded at him, then at Tilda. “Tilda, lovely to see you.”
She smiled softly, her eyes twinkling. “And you, dear. You look quite done for, care to share?”
Cap looked at her in surprise, then back at him. “Yes, by all means, Gent.”
Rafe shook his head. “Can’t. Not in front of Tilda.”
That was not the correct thing to say and he almost winced as the words escaped him.
“You can’t what?” she demanded, her voice rising as she pushed herself out of her chair. “Might I remind you, Gent, of all your secrets that I have kept? All of the valuable information that I have helped you attain through my position and my connections, not to mention letting you use my props and wares for your needs without ever asking any questions, and then all that I do for your children that no one else does…”
“Tilda,” Cap and Rafe said together, trying to soothe her as she marched towards Rafe.
“After all of that,” Tilda bellowed with all the majesty she held herself with, “you still don’t trust me? How dare you, Gent!”
She moved to strike him, but Rafe gripped her wrist in his hand and gave her a hard look. “Don’t hit me, Tilda, I’ve had a hard enough day as it is.”
She gave him a long, dubious look, then sniffed and stepped back, brushing off her prim dress and sitting herself back in her chair.
Cap looked almost amused as he watched her, then turned back to Rafe with a more serious expression. “As I was saying, Gent, please proceed.”
Rafe opened his mouth to begin, when there was a brief commotion behind him.
“Who the bloody hell set Tilda off?” Rogue demanded from the doorway. “My ears are going to bleed.” He stopped at Rafe’s side, pretending to be surprised at the woman’s presence. “Ah, Tilda, my fine flower, what a pleasant…”
“Shove it, Rogue,” Tilda replied with a smile that would not have been out of place outside of a boudoir. “And shouldn’t you mind your language in front of a lady?”
Rogue snorted. “Not when that lady is you.”
“Save your flirtation for another time, Rogue,” Cap ordered, waving him into the room. “Rook! Stop lurking outside to eavesdrop and make your presence known.”
Rook grumbled loudly and pushed passed Rafe, going to lean against the desk as Rogue settled himself on the arm of Tilda’s chair, triggering Tilda to rub his back soothingly as a sister, mother, or lover might have. Cap kept his gaze squarely on Rafe, as if he could dismantle him through his eyes alone.
He probably could, under other circumstances.
“Gent,” Rook drawled, folding his arms and smirking. “Where’s Margaret? I would love to see what she looks like after a full day with you.”
Tilda perked up, slapping Rogue on the back. “What?” she practically squawked. “Who is Margaret? Gent, do you have a woman?”
Rogue chuckled darkly. “Oh, he’s got something, all right.”
“Shut up, all of you!” Rafe barked, in no mood for anyone’s games.
They did so, looking at him with suddenly alert eyes, all traces of humor gone.
Rafe felt his arms begin to tingle with an odd warmth, now that he was faced with admitting his worst fear, and currently reality, aloud.
He cleared his throat and forced himself to look directly at his superior and mentor. “Margaret is gone,” he said, his voice weaker than he’d meant it to be.
Cap straightened up slowly, his gaze focusing even more. “What do you mean, gone?”
Rafe rubbed a hand over her face. “She was taken.”
“By who?” Rogue demanded sharply.
“Whom,” Rook corrected.
“Shut up.”
“Where?” Tilda asked, her still-young face hard with determination.
“Just outside of Cooke’s shop,” Rafe told her. “Cooke saw the whole thing. Says it was Bow Street.”
Rook pushed off of the desk and left the room, his face suddenly furious and set.
Rafe looked after him, then glanced at Cap. “What is that all about?”
“His brother is at Bow Street,” Cap told him. “Works for us, though.”
Rogue groaned. “There are two of them? God save me.”
Cap gave him a sardonic look. “His brother is Sphinx.”
Rogue coughed in surprise and Rafe would have to consider Rook in a whole new light. Sphinx was the most brilliant code breaker, cypher, and linguist they’d eve
r seen, and were he not one of the deepest seated assets they had, Rafe would have hunted him down to learn from him.
And he was related to Rook? That was mind boggling.
Tilda brought him back to attention with a click of her tongue. “Cooke’s shop is not a good area for a miss to be alone in. My girls have had some trouble there.”
Rafe looked at her sharply. “How so?”
Tilda lifted an elegant shoulder. “Confusing my chicks for common street whores, picking up the less than honest working woman for minding her own business, poor treatment by the high and mighty…” She smirked a little. “It has not been pretty. Bow Street is fine enough, I have no issue with them as a body, but certain individuals…” She shook her head. “I would rather thieves took your lovely instead of them.”
Rafe swore under his breath and turned to the window in the back wall, far too dirty to actually be used as such, but light enough streamed through.
“Where would Bow Street take her?” Rogue asked, his voice clipped. “And why?”
“My contacts are spreading out to get information,” Rafe said with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know how long that will take, but Margaret won’t have that much time.”
He told them what he could about her situation, which didn’t sound dire at all until he told them about Castleton being in the mix. Then Rogue and Cap sprang into action, each having their own network they could tap into. Cap issued several orders, none of which Rafe heard as he sank into a chair, weary and worried and desperately needing a drink.
“Gent,” Tilda said quietly, coming over to him and taking his hand.
“Leave it alone, Tilda,” he replied, shaking his head. “I can’t…”
“If she got picked up at Cooke’s, they probably thought she was a whore.” Tilda squeezed his hand hard. “And I can talk to my girls, but I’m fairly certain when they pick them up, they don’t take them to Bow Street.”
Rafe looked at her, feeling hope flare to life. “Where do they go?”
“The Bounty.”
That brought a frown to his face. He’d heard of the place, but it wasn’t part of his usual haunts, nor had he ever had any reason to explore it.
“What is that place, exactly?” he asked, fearing the answer.
Tilda gave him a thin smile. “A holding place, more than anything else. Common drunks and trollops go there, as do missing children. Someone comes to claim them, or they stay for a day, and then are released with a warning. It’s fairly innocent, all told, but…”
“It won’t be for Margaret,” Rafe groaned. “It might as well be a prison for all she’s experienced. She’s not nearly as bold as she thinks she is, and seeing a place like that…” He shuddered and covered his face with his hands. “I shouldn’t have left her, Tilda. I shouldn’t have left her.”
He felt his shoulder being squeezed and heard Tilda tell him she would talk to her girls, then he was left alone again.
What had he been thinking?
He knew the answer easily enough, and it was not such an easy thing. He’d been thinking of duty and loyalty, and that had driven him his entire life. The thrill of the chase, the energy of being on a trail of something particularly exciting, the satisfaction of knowing he had the upper hand… All of those instincts had taken over, and even his burning passions and emotions for Margaret had been pushed to the background in favor of what he knew.
He didn’t deserve her if that was his inclination. She deserved a man who would cherish her and put her above all else.
And yet…
He hadn’t forgotten her entirely. He’d thought of her first when he’d seen Castleton. His instinct had been to hide Margaret from his sight, and then to investigate what the traitor was up to. What else could he have done? He would have never been able to forgive himself if he’d let Castleton go without setting someone on him.
But how would he ever forgive himself for letting Margaret be snatched up? And now she would be served up to Castleton anyway, because he couldn’t storm into the Bounty and thrash Bow Street.
Or could he?
Something inside him snapped and he surged to his feet, overturning his chair with his fury. He stormed out of the office, down the hall, ignored Johnson’s warning calls, and wrenched open the door, only to be pulled back in and have the door slammed in his face. He was whirled around and shoved back against the door, and an irate Rogue was in his face.
“Are you outside of your ever-bleeding mind?” he bellowed, gripping Rafe’s shirt in his fists.
Rafe’s vision turned red and he shoved Rogue off of him, the shorter man being stockier, but Rafe’s rage was enough to unbalance him. “Shove off!”
Rogue rolled up his sleeves, shaking his head. “Not a chance. You aren’t setting foot out of that door until you’ve got a clear head, I’ll not have you ruining everything we have worked so hard for over some impudent, wandering, spoiled chit.”
Rafe released a roar of some dark anger and charged at his friend, finding himself swept aside as easily as he had done to Camlo only the day before. He was still sore and ached in various places, but that was nothing in the face of his crazed emotions now. He spun back and punched Rogue quickly in the face, then swung his left fist into his jaw, sending Rogue stumbling back.
Pearce squawked again, something about the office and the desks, but Rafe ignored him. The scrawny fellow was pressing himself back against the far wall, out of the way as it was, there was no cause to even acknowledge him.
Rogue wiped at the blood that streamed from one corner of his mouth, his brow furrowing darkly. “That is one shot I’ve let you get in,” he growled. “You won’t get another.”
Rafe smirked at him. “That was two shots, Rogue, and I’ve got a few more for you.”
Rogue’s lip curled in a sneer. “Come on then, Gent.”
Never one to refuse such a kind invitation, Rafe came again, only to have Rogue slam his elbow into his still-tender ribs, wringing a pained grunt from him as he tossed Rogue off of him and into the wall.
Rogue laughed darkly and gestured for him to come again, and that laugh irritated Rafe so much that he snarled and started forward once more.
“Enough!” Cap barked as he wrapped an arm around Rafe and hauled him away with surprising strength. “What the hell is the matter with you, Gent?”
Rafe seethed, exhaling noisily, a buzzing sound in his head, and feeling as though he had fought three of Camlo. He couldn’t see straight and he wanted to tear the room apart. “I have to get Margaret,” he managed. “I have to save her, I can’t leave her there, I can’t…”
Cap grabbed his shirt and yanked hard. “Pull yourself together, Gent! You are not going to Bow Street, you are not going to come at Rogue again, and you are not going to tear this office apart because your blood is boiling, am I understood?”
Cap’s firm, no-nonsense commands were enough to break through his haze, and he wondered how he’d been able to pinpoint his chief desires so easily. But then, Rafe wasn’t that complicated a man. It was probably written across his face.
He nodded slowly, and felt his limbs shaking as the fight left him. He grabbed Cap’s arms as he inhaled sharply. “I love her,” he managed. “I can’t… I love her, Cap.”
Cap met his eyes, and gripped his forearms back, hard. “I know, Gent. I know.” He shook him slightly. “We will do what we can, but you need to collect yourself and let us handle this.”
“You want me to stand aside?” Rafe cried, releasing his mentor and feeling betrayed.
Cap gave him a sardonic look. “Of course not, I’m not that idiotic. But you do need a clear head and some semblance of sense.”
Rafe made a face. “That might not happen.”
“Then pretend.” Cap patted his shoulder, then left the room, apparently satisfied.
Rafe looked over at Rogue, who had watched the whole exchange calmly, and now regarded him with bland interest.
“Rogue…”
He held up a hand. “I don’t actually think any of those things about Margaret, I was goading you.” He shrugged. “I figured you needed to let off some steam before you tore apart the more respectable parts of London looking for her.”
Rafe exhaled a laugh. “Thank you.”
Rogue nodded, then straightened. “Come with me, we’ll see what we can do until Rook and Tilda come back with reports, and then we can act.”
Rafe followed, his anger simmering beneath the surface, wondering if he was going to be able to last that long.
But his words to Cap kept rising to the surface. I love her.
It was that simple… and that complicated.
Love.
Despite everything, his anger, his worry, his desire to storm into the streets, he found himself smiling a little. But only a little.
Chapter Sixteen
"'Ere, you let me go, I ain’t done nuffin’! You dirty crock, I’m respectable, I am!”
“Of course you are, now shut up.”
Margaret winced at the volley of vulgarities the underdressed woman unleashed at the poor officer who had deposited her into the cell.
A very rough-looking, buxom woman next to her snorted loudly. “Respectable me arse,” she muttered. “Mollie Grover ain’t a respectable nuffin ‘cepting a pain in the royal…” She looked over at Margaret with a knowing nod, and Margaret swallowed, not entirely sure where she was going with the expression, but also not wanting to know.
She had been here for a couple of hours, and only recently had she actually been interviewed by one of the officers. There weren’t very many of them who seemed capable and intelligent, let alone appearing to have authority. The building appeared to be a house from the exterior, but once within, it could not be more different.
There were large cells with bars, not unlike pictures she had seen of prisons, and there was cheap, uncomfortable furniture within, as each cell had space for several people. Each room in the house was a cell or two, and there were guards at every turn, large and silent men who looked as dangerous as the room of men she had glimpsed upon her arrival. She did have to admit, the eyes of the guards were not as frightening as those men had been, who had eyed her with a very dark sort of appreciation, while the guards only viewed her as an irritation.
The Lady and the Gent (London League, Book 1) Page 19
