Dorothea wasn’t sure where she had taken the wrong turn, but she was lost. And London was a very frightening place for one who had never ventured outside Oxford’s boundaries. Though she had started out smartly dressed this morning, she now looked like a street urchin—or worse. She didn’t see a single omnibus, and there wasn’t a hackney anywhere that would stop for her. Not that she could blame them. She looked as if she’d climbed out of a dustbin.
Remembering the general direction of her father’s house, she trudged along on foot, taking care to avoid any well-dressed pedestrians in her path. Hatless, gloveless and with her clothes in such terrible disarray, she was in no condition to meet or speak to anyone. She would die before presenting herself in such a state.
Dorothea’s mother had always shown the highest degree of propriety and expected nothing less of her daughter. Though she had divorced her husband many years ago, it had happened before their move to the house in Oxford, and Honoria Bright had never seen fit to enlighten her neighbors on her true marital status. Everyone assumed she was a widow, which suited Honoria.
Even Dorothea had forgotten she had a father, until the occasion of her mother’s untimely death nearly three weeks before.
Dorothea and her mother had lived near the university in a comfortable home that was owned by Dorothea’s maternal grandfather, the earl of Groton. Dorothea had never known exactly how much she and her mother depended upon Grandfather for his largesse, until he died at Christmas time, leaving all his cash, investments and properties to his heir.
The new earl was a distant cousin, who wanted possession of his Oxford house. Honoria had managed to put off moving until she could arrange some other suitable lodgings, but she had become ill and died. When Dorothea and the solicitor had gone through Honoria’s papers, they found that she’d had very few prospects for any new accommodations and even fewer means to pay for such.
Dorothea earned some money through her talent for ancient languages, translating old manuscripts for a few of the professors at the university, but certainly not enough to live on. She did not know what her mother had been thinking, how she had expected them to survive. Perhaps it was worry about their future that had caused her to sicken and die.
That thought saddened Dorothea immeasurably. If only her mother had confided in her, discussed the problems they faced, she might never have fallen ill.
The bright afternoon sunshine gave way to clouds, and suddenly it was dusk and Dorothea still did not know where she was. She felt as weary as she’d ever been, and her heart was heavy in her chest. But she moved on, searching hopelessly for her father’s house.
Soon, the women she passed on the street seemed more shabbily dressed than the ones she’d seen earlier, and the buildings were run-down. Dogs barked and children played in dusty streets, and Dorothea began to feel some alarm—not only that she did not know where she was, but she began to have some concern for her safety.
And she was a bit short of breath. She would have to stop and rest soon.
This was all Mr. Temple’s doing. If the burly American had not abducted her from her father’s house, she would now be standing in her father’s kitchen, perhaps overseeing the inefficient Creighton as he prepared for tea. She would not be wandering the streets of London alone and unprotected as darkness fell.
She had to admit that if she had waited for Jack Temple on the wharf as he’d told her, she might have ridden safely back to her father’s house—at least as safely as a woman could be, sitting in such improper proximity to his…body.
Once again, Dorothea felt heat rise to her cheeks when she considered the sensations that had run through her during their short ride. She had never felt anything like them before. Not even when Albert Bloomsby had come to call and kissed her hand in greeting had she felt anything compared to the disturbance Mr. Temple had caused.
Though now was not a good time to analyze the emotions that careened through her, she could not forget the rough texture of the arm that had been draped around her midriff as they rode together. She’d felt strong muscle, tough sinew and thick veins, as well as a generous pelt of hair. Dorothea stumbled over a crack in the cobbles, but righted herself before falling.
Leaving the relative safety of Mr. Temple’s company had been foolish, though Dorothea thought that staying with him might have been worse. Clearly, the man believed terrible things of her father, and Dorothea was not about to put her person under his protection. Lord knew it had already suffered several indignities at his hands, not the least of which had occurred during her fainting episode.
The very idea that he had undressed her—had exposed her body to his gaze—was mortifying. She doubted she could ever face him again. Not that such an occasion would ever arise. She would be certain never to answer the door herself, and she would give specific orders to Creighton that Mr. Temple was not to be admitted to the house. That should take care of it.
She would do these things if she ever got back to her father’s house on Porter Street. It was nearly dark now, and, as much as she disliked having to ask for help, she saw no choice but to begin searching for a constable or some other likely person who might assist her. She was absurdly lost and needed directions—or an escort—to her father’s house.
“Eh, miss,” said an adolescent girl, teasing a kitten with a length of string. “Don’t suppose y’could spare a penny for cream for m’kitten?”
“I’m sorry,” Dorothea said, “but I haven’t any money. I left without—”
“What happened to yer clothes?” the girl asked, leaving the kitten to its own devices. She was obviously much more intrigued by Dorothea than she was by the furry feline. “Y’look like y’ve been run down in the street!”
“I just moved to a new house, and I was unpacking,” Dorothy said, embarrassed anew by her appearance. It was just one more indignity she’d suffered at Jack Temple’s hands. “Then I…left…and I’ve lost my way back. I don’t suppose you’d know where Porter Street is?”
“Oh, aye, miss,” the girl said. “It’s just two streets down.” She pointed the way, then told Dorothea that she probably wanted to turn left once she reached the correct street. “That’s where them fine houses are, miss.”
“You’ve been very helpful,” Dorothea said, truly grateful, and regretting that she had nothing to give the girl. “Do you live here?”
“Aye, miss,” she replied. “With my mum and brother.”
“What is your name?”
“Kate, miss.”
“You are a very kind young lady, Kate,” Dorothea said. “Would you mind very much if I sat here a bit to rest?’
“All the same to me,” Kate said.
In spite of the impropriety of doing such a thing, Dorothea sat down next to the girl and watched as she resumed her game with the kitten. Then she reached into her jacket and discovered she did have a bit of money.
“I haven’t a penny, Kate,” Dorothea said, handing the child a pound note, “but will this do?”
Jack kept to the shrubs across from Bright’s house, waiting for the man to appear. There were no lights in any of the front rooms, and he wondered where the old man’s daughter might be. He could not imagine that she had taken to her bed so early.
He squelched that thought the minute it entered his head. He did not need to visualize Miss Bright with her lush curves unfettered under her nightclothes, her wild hair spread out beneath her, her fiery green eyes dormant under closed lids. While he sat crouched in the gathering gloom of night, he did not care to recall the delicate scent of lavender that emanated from all that glorious hair or the softness of her skin.
She was Bright’s daughter, and that was reason enough to avoid her and to refrain from having any preposterously wicked thoughts about the straightlaced old maid.
Jack scratched his head. He should never have dragged her down to the wharf with him, but he had to admit he’d enjoyed his encounter with the woman far too much to let her go so quickly. He really regretted tha
t she’d been gone when he’d returned.
It didn’t matter now. Jack had no business with the swindler’s daughter. He only wanted to get his hands on Bright and force him to turn over the key to the Mandylion map. Once Jack had it, and he found the cloth, he would have his vengeance for Bright’s treachery in Africa.
Jack doubted the key would be in the house, but he decided that if Bright didn’t show up soon, he was going to go inside and search the place. It wouldn’t hurt to know what else the old man was hiding in there.
“What the…?”
A haggard figure limped through the darkness toward the front door of Bright’s house.
The daughter! Jack felt a sharp pang of guilt. By the light of the streetlamps, he saw that she carried one broken shoe in her hand. Her hair was down around her shoulders, and her clothes were badly disheveled. She was only now returning from the wharf.
He rubbed a hand across his unshaven face and muttered a curse. He should have known better than to take the woman with him, and to trust her to wait where he’d left her. She might be Bright’s daughter, but she’d obviously had some difficulty in returning home.
Jack stemmed his guilt and forced himself to remain where he was. It was not necessary for him to charge up to the house and see for himself that she was all right. She might be small, but she was ferocious as hell, and there wasn’t a derelict in London who would get the better of her.
Unless perhaps her corset was laced too tight.
Damn. That was a thought he really wished he’d squelched. He narrowed his eyes and watched from a distance, only to reassure himself that she truly was all right. He was responsible for taking her down to the dock and it would not have settled well with him if she had come to harm, even if she was Alastair Bright’s daughter.
She went inside. After a moment, there was a faint light in the drawing room. Then nothing. No other lights, no one in the house to greet her.
That seemed odd. Wasn’t there a housekeeper or caretaker who maintained Bright’s house while he was away? Surely he did not allow his daughter to inhabit the house alone. Yet there’d been no sign of anyone at home—besides Miss Bright—when he’d barged in earlier.
Well, this suited his purposes even better. A nearly empty house would be much easier to climb into. Obviously, Bright and his daughter had arrived home unexpectedly. If the old man didn’t return home within the next few minutes, Jack would go through the unlocked window in the collection room, and look for the key to the map. Once he had it, he could begin his search for the ancient cloth and wreak havoc on Bright’s plans to sell the thing to the highest bidder.
Ever since Jack’s temper had cooled, he had known it would be better not to confront Bright. If he could manage to find the key without the old man, it would suit him better than getting it from Bright himself. That way, Jack could leave on his own in search of the Mandylion, and it would take some time—weeks, perhaps—for Bright to discover where the map had led him.
He touched his back pocket and felt the fastened button that secured the map within. He wasn’t going to let this map out of his possession until he had the Mandylion in his hands.
But he would need the key. Besides being hundreds of years old, the map’s markings were written in ancient Arabic, admittedly not one of Jack’s best languages. He hoped the key would be written in Greek, or maybe Latin, but he wasn’t counting on it.
It didn’t matter. He would find someone who could do an accurate translation and follow the instructions to the letter. He hoped he would not have to check on every Mandylion rumor and legend that had circulated for centuries. Jack had heard stories about the cloth for years, but hadn’t really believed them until Bright had boasted of the map.
Now, with the map, Jack would not have to investigate each of the rumors, which mostly centered in Yorkshire. He could just follow the instructions given in the key, and go directly to the Mandylion’s location.
He almost laughed aloud. He practically had the cloth in hand. All it would take was a quick translation of the Arabic and the Mandylion was as good as his.
But he would have to work quickly. As soon as Bright learned that Jack had taken the Mandylion map, the old man would mount his own campaign to unearth the legendary cloth. Jack would have to cover his tracks in order to keep Bright from discovering where the map and key led.
The light in the drawing room faded, and Jack waited. He assumed Miss Bright would take herself off to bed soon, and he would then climb into the second-story window that he’d unlocked earlier in the day and gain access to the house. With the woman asleep in her bed, he would have free rein to search the place.
When sufficient time had elapsed, Jack left his hiding place and circled around to the back of the house. He had no doubt that he’d find a way to climb up to the window he’d unlocked earlier. Moving stealthily, he tested the short wooden fence that bordered the garden and found that it moved with only a slight squeak—not enough to disturb anyone.
Keeping low to avoid being seen by a neighbor, he edged his way along the house and saw a light coming from one of the back rooms. The windows were partway open, but curtains fluttered there, so he could not see inside. Beyond the lit window was the second-floor row of sash windows that covered the wall of Bright’s collection room.
He looked around. No one was near, no one had spotted him, but he heard a soft voice coming from Bright’s house. He listened closer. It was a woman’s voice, singing quietly. A slight breeze ruffled his hair and disturbed the curtains at Bright’s window. He looked inside.
She was sitting in a metal bathtub in the middle of the kitchen. With her body angled away from him, Jack could see only her back and part of her profile, but he had no doubt who she was.
The curtain fluttered closed again and he shook his head to clear it. Naked, she looked nothing like the overstarched spinster he’d met that afternoon. Her voice was soft and voluptuous, unlike that of the prim fusspot who’d been laced so tight she could hardly breathe. Yet he recognized the curve of her shoulder, the delicacy of her neck, the rich auburn color of her hair.
When he got another glimpse of her, she was washing her outstretched arms with a wet cloth. She drew the cloth across the back of her neck, then out of sight, and Jack had to close his eyes and try to slow the pulse pounding in his ears.
Still singing softly, she placed her hands on the sides of the tub and began to raise herself up.
The curtain settled over the window again, blocking his view, but not the sound of her voice, and the water sloshing in the tub. He did not need to see her to picture her in his mind, standing there naked, dripping wet. She would be reaching for a towel just now, rubbing it down her arms, across those extraordinary breasts, and lower, to her belly, her legs…
Snapping his mind shut to any more images of Miss Bright, he stepped over to the house, squelching the fire that boiled his blood at the mere sight of her. He took a deep breath, wiped a hand across his mouth and looked for a way to climb.
It was not difficult. There was a ladder lying lengthwise against a nearby shed and Jack carried it to the house. He propped it up on the wall and began to climb, certain that he knew exactly which window he needed to enter. He pushed at the sash and the window gave an inch—just enough for him to slip his fingers inside and push it up the rest of the way in silence.
He climbed in through the window and lit a match. Once he located an oil lamp, he lit it and started searching the room. He was sure that Bright hadn’t taken the map key with him on his African trip—he would not have risked losing it during such a dangerous journey. He may have locked it up somewhere else, but Jack believed it was very likely to be somewhere in this house. Perhaps not in this room, but after a great deal of thought, Jack was certain that Bright wouldn’t trust anyone else enough to keep it safe for him.
He wasn’t a very trustworthy character—why would he believe he could trust anyone else?
The stone and wood-carved genitals, the satyrs and
the pictures of various methods of copulation were still here, of course. Old clay pots, depicting cartoonish figures engaged in libidinous activities, stood next to the rolltop desk that Jack had already violated once today. He tipped each pot over, in search of the document, but discovered nothing more than a few pen-and-ink drawings of Japanese origin.
Jack let out a slow breath of appreciation. He had to give Alastair Bright credit for his single-minded collection, though Jack’s own tastes ran to the more mundane. He enjoyed flesh-and-blood women—not artistic representations of what men and women might do together. Still, he doubted there was a more extensive collection of ancient erotica anywhere.
He explored the room thoroughly, not missing a single crack or crevice, finding no hidden drawers or secret compartments—nothing of interest beyond the obvious.
Still certain that the key was somewhere in the house, Jack opened the hall door slightly and paused to listen for Miss Bright’s singing. Everything was quiet now. He waited another couple of minutes, then exited the collection room. He turned down the lamp to give minimal light and went in search of the master bedroom.
Moving down the second-floor hall, he took care to make no noise. He slipped into the front room and closed the door behind him. A large bed, covered in deep blue brocade, was the centerpiece. Turning the flame of the lamp up again, he saw that there was one wardrobe and a small writing desk in the room. A battered trunk lay in one corner of a small alcove, and a pair of worn men’s boots lay on the floor beside it.
After looking in every possible hiding place without success, Jack dropped to his knees and ran his hands across the surface of the rug that covered most of the floor.
When he reached the head of the bed, he found it. The ridges of something hidden underneath.
Scoundrel's Daughter Page 4
