“Yes, sahib, I understand.” Singh nodded, gingerly stepping over a stream of raw sewage. “Though I think you may be mistaken. For what could be worse than robbing a man of his life?”
Nicholas waved off a beckoning prostitute and swore in exasperation. “Bloody hell, Singh. You seem to be missing the point. If we continue into the depths of St. Giles, there is every possibility that we will be attacked. A criminal in this part of London prays for men such as us to wander into their web. In this world, they are the spiders and we are the flies.”
“That reminds me of a very well-known saying in my country …”
Nicholas felt his frustration grow. He’d never intended to actually enter the heart of the rookery; he’d have to be a lunatic to do such a thing. St. Giles was dangerous enough during the day, its narrow lanes seemingly designed for crime.
And yet, here he was, with night threatening to fall, walking down Queen Street with Singh at his side. Duty was all well and good, but Nicholas had not rescued the village wise man only to have him murdered in St. Giles.
He stopped abruptly and turned to face his companion. “Are you not afraid, Singh?”
“Are you, sahib?” the man countered in his annoyingly wise way.
Nicholas sized up the distance between them and the Seven Dials. Other than the prostitute, no one else looked to be standing between Singh, himself, and safety. “Well, frankly, yes. I could hold my own, I’ve no doubt of that. But I never intended for us to go this far.”
“Why are we here, then?” Singh asked, his eyebrows drawing together into one perplexed line below his turban.
“I don’t remember you asking so many questions in India,” Nicholas replied, cracking his knuckles in frustration.
“Then I will give you an answer, sahib. Yes, I am frightened of this dark place. Less so, I think, than the boy there, though. He looks to be running for his life, which would be frightening indeed.” Singh pointed past Nicholas’s shoulder and up the street behind him.
Nicholas turned, his gaze following Singh’s finger. An urchin was running toward them as fast as his spindly legs would allow, two burly men following close behind. The child nearly knocked Singh down before taking a quick right and disappearing into the rookery’s labyrinth of lanes.
There had been only a moment when his eyes met the lad’s, still Nicholas suspected that he knew him—had in fact employed the urchin to gather information concerning Lady Afton’s killer, Francis Smeade. “Was that Mouse?” he asked, staring after the boy.
The two men chasing the boy came roaring down Queen Street, short lengths of wood held like clubs in their beefy hands. “You go that way. I’ll cut ’im off at Bowl Yard,” one of them yelled as they passed Nicholas and Singh. The bigger of the two peeled away and followed the boy while the one who’d given the order continued straight on.
“I cannot say if this boy is your Mouse,” Singh answered, his voice remarkably calm.
“For the love of God,” Nicholas swore, beginning to run. “Retrace your steps to the Seven Dials and secure a hackney. I will see you at the Albany,” he yelled.
He turned down the alley where the boy had disappeared, picking up speed as his blood heated with the familiar feel of danger racing through his veins. He had nothing more than the sound of feet slapping against pavers to guide him, the waning light in the narrow lane hiding any view of his quarry.
He reached Shorts Garden Road and stopped, listening intently. The fast thud of footfalls was more muted here, telling him he’d either gone the wrong way or the two he chased were simply too far ahead.
A dim light shone through the grimy windows of an apothecary just up the street and on his left. Nicholas ran toward the building, so intent on identifying his whereabouts that he nearly missed a street sign affixed to a tall post just beyond. Jolting to a stop, he narrowed his eyes and read it. “Bowl Yard.”
He raced down the lane, the sound of pounding footsteps growing louder once again, accompanied now by a roar of angry slurs and violent threats. Nicholas could not be sure that he’d found Mouse and his pursuers. Children being chased by armed men were not unusual here in the rookery. Really, anyone could be chased by armed men in St. Giles without raising eyebrows.
But it was all that he had. He followed the sounds down Bowl Yard, narrowly missing stepping on a terrier who’d wandered out from one of the shops to bark at the passersby. The small dog yipped as Nicholas raced past, then finished his complaint with a low growl.
The spotty lighting from the lane’s shops and taverns was suddenly overwhelmed by another source close ahead. Nicholas saw Mouse, followed closely by the large man, burst into the pool of light briefly, then disappear. He pushed himself to run faster and soon discovered they’d reached the end of Bowl Yard and exited onto Belton Road. A lamppost illuminated the cobbled stretch, where Singh stood over one of the men, lying prone on the lane’s grimy surface. Mouse crouched behind the Indian, gulping down air, while the second pursuer paced back and forth in front of his partner’s apparently lifeless body.
“Sahib, there you are,” Singh said by way of greeting. “Do not be concerned. He is not dead.”
Nicholas gave the second man a wide berth as he strode across the cobblestones to join Singh and the boy. “I told you to go.”
“Yes, you did, sahib.”
Nicholas eyed the unconscious man on the ground. “Did he fall?”
Singh shook his head.
“Suffer some sort of fit?”
“No, sahib.”
“I don’t give a bloody ha’penny how he found his way to the ground,” the second man spat out, pulling a knife from his waistband. “Hand over the boy or you’ll be suffering yourself.”
Singh reached back and protectively wrapped one arm around Mouse. “I am afraid I cannot do as you ask. And should you insist, I will be forced to stop you.”
“There are two of us and only one of you,” Nicholas pointed out coolly, prepared to defend his friend and the boy.
“You’re out of your bloomin’ mind,” the ruffian replied, ignoring Nicholas to step over his partner’s prone body and leer at Singh. “The boy is more of a challenge than your man here.”
Nicholas palmed the haft of the razor-sharp stiletto stowed in his boot and with one smooth, practiced motion drew the knife. “That may be so, but you still have me to—”
He didn’t have the opportunity to finish his sentence. Singh cocked his elbow back, then his hand moved at lightning speed, his fingers striking the man’s right inner thigh.
The brute crumpled to the ground, landing sprawled on top of his partner.
“Singh.” Nicholas stared down at the incapacitated thugs. “What in God’s name just happened?”
Singh bowed his head humbly. “I do apologize for interrupting you, sahib. But I felt it would be in our best interest to remove ourselves as quickly as possible. The night is nearly fully upon us.”
Nicholas could not argue with the man’s logic. And besides, he was out of breath and completely lacking in patience. “Come along. We will take Mercer Street to Long Acre and hire a hackney there. You too, Mouse,” he ordered. “Oh, and say hello to Mr. Singh here. He did, after all, just save your life.”
Singh and Mouse obligingly fell into step next to Nicholas and the trio set off for the eastern end of the rookery, moving quickly.
“How does a Hindu wise man know anything of hand-to-hand combat?” Nicholas asked pointedly.
Singh put his arm about Mouse’s shoulder and urged him to walk faster. “Wisdom must be earned, sahib, through much experience and struggle. And I am a very wise man. Very wise, indeed.”
THE ALBANY
Picking the lock on Nicholas’s front door had been as effortless as the felon Roger Rollins had always assured Sophia breaking and entering would be. A chatty and extremely dexterous burglar who worked the Hyde Park mansions, Rollins had taken a particular liking to Sophia when they’d met by chance at the Bow Street Office. He’d claimed
her hands were made for thieving, and proceeded to prove it, schooling her in the ways of silent entry.
Sophia blew out a breath in frustration, sending an errant lock of her hair fluttering. Yes, gaining entry had been easy. However, reading her mother’s case notes had proved to be the opposite.
She sat in Nicholas’s study, mindlessly drawing on a piece of discarded foolscap while she reviewed the official papers. She’d begun, sensibly enough, at the beginning. Dash’s father and Lord Carmichael had supervised the efforts, the notes written in the agent’s loopy scroll. Most of the details were ones Sophia already knew from Dash. They included a list of people in attendance at the house party where her mother had been murdered, as well as servants and anyone else connected to the Afton estate, and their comments when they’d been questioned over the following two days. In addition, there were drawings of the nursery where her mother had been found, including the exact location of the body.
Sophia turned the disturbing sketch over onto the growing pile, and then skipped ahead to where Nicholas’s notes began. There was a summary of the information provided in Lord Carrington’s journal of his encounter with the prostitute—though the journal itself was nowhere in sight.
And finally, Nicholas and Dash’s investigation began in earnest. “The Bishop” was printed in dark, bold letters on the page; someone had clearly traced and retraced the strokes until the paper was nearly torn. References to the Bishop’s appearance within Carmichael’s original report were called out beneath the ominous headline, including notations concerning several similar murders that took place in the years following her mother’s death.
Sophia licked her fingertip and turned the page. A crude map of the Seven Dials district followed, with a handful of nefarious businesses circled on the sketch. She pondered what significance the infamous area held for the case before setting the map aside.
Mr. Smeade’s profile appeared next. According to Nicholas’s careful notes, the man had killed in order to fund his lavish lifestyle and taste for the extravagant.
My mother was murdered for cheroots and coats by Bond Street tailors.
Both outrage and sadness washed over her. She pushed on, though, aware that she couldn’t afford to become distracted. After all, there would never be a reason that made sense, Sophia silently acknowledged as she continued to leaf through the bundle of bills of sale and specialty orders.
Still, there was something particularly demoralizing about the bill from Fribourg & Treyer: a two weeks’ supply of the highest quality snuff.
Sophia forced herself to return the bill to the stack, and her gaze was caught by the drawing on the small sheet of foolscap.
The shape of a Catholic bishop’s hat occupied most of the page, with a small chess piece roughly sketched in the bottom right corner.
The Bishop.
Could the church be part of this? Sophia had been raised to believe in God and His holy rule. But even she had to admit that not all church officials were saints on earth.
As to the chess piece? Sophia had less luck imagining a situation in which a game took center stage.
The slamming of a door made her jump. She listened closely, Nicholas’s deep voice reaching her through the closed study door.
Sophia wanted to stay there, safe in the study, where she could sort through the papers again. She’d failed to take any notes of her own and surely the sketches deserved more of her attention.
She folded her arms on the desk and pressed her forehead down. Safe. As if to say she wasn’t so when she was with Nicholas. It was ludicrous. Still, her response to him at the Primrose continued to weigh heavily on her mind. Sophia could not explain why she’d acted in such a manner. And even more worrisome, she could not guarantee it would not happen again.
Even now she could feel his hands on her bare arms. Her skin still pulsed with the memory of that moment when heat had poured into her from him.
She dreaded facing him, afraid her countenance would reflect all the confusion and turmoil she felt toward him. She was unaccountably vulnerable as never before in the presence of a man. It wasn’t a circumstance she welcomed.
Perhaps she should slip out of his apartment as silently as she had entered, and return tomorrow?
“Stop making excuses,” she said aloud to herself, lifting her head and purposely squaring her shoulders. She’d held her own against Nicholas many times before, and would do so many times again.
There was no need to be afraid.
6
“I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it,” Mouse exclaimed around a bite of stew. “You poked him just like one of those thugs Miss May pays to beat up customers when they won’t let loose of their money.”
Confused, Nicholas and Singh stared at Mouse as they sat around the scrubbed kitchen table. The boy had not uttered a word during the hansom ride from the rookery to the Albany, nor at any time since they’d arrived home, not until that moment.
“Perhaps young Mouse does not know what he is saying?” Singh offered, ladling more stew into the youth’s bowl. Mouse’s gaze followed the transfer of carrot chunks, potatoes, onions, and beef, all swimming in thick gravy, with an expression of awe and greedy anticipation.
Nicholas swallowed his spoonful of stew, flavored with the faint bite of Singh’s curry spice, and pushed his bowl away. “He is speaking of you, Singh.”
“And perhaps sahib is confused as well?” Singh’s perplexed brown gaze fastened on Nicholas’s face, his dark eyebrows lifted in inquiry.
“Miss May is the proprietor of a local opium den,” Nicholas explained, leaning back against the thick oak slats of his sturdy chair. “The thugs are Miss May’s family and also in her employ. She brought them into her business for their fighting technique skills—which come in handy when dealing with customers who are reluctant to pay her fees.”
Singh’s brow cleared and he nodded in understanding. “Ah, I see. And these men, they are quite adept at their craft?”
Mouse’s spoon scraped the bottom of his bowl and he shoveled the last bit of stew into his mouth. “No one messes with Miss May’s boys if they know what’s good for ’em.”
Singh’s face lit with pride and approval. “Then I am glad for the comparison, young Mouse. And I would very much like to meet these accomplished men.”
“No, you would not, Singh, nor they you,” Nicholas told him in no uncertain terms. “Now, Mouse, tell us why those men—”
“Good evening.” The melodic feminine tone and unexpected greeting startled all three males.
Nicholas looked over his shoulder and found Sophia poised in the doorway.
She was dressed simply in a pale yellow gown with a modest neckline, no jewelry or adornments visible.
He would have bet the last shilling he possessed that Sophia thought she presented a plain appearance. She was wrong. Her skin glowed against the delicate yellow of the gown and her dark hair shone in the candle’s glow. She was a slim, vibrant female presence who subtly demanded the attention of all three males in the room.
She glanced at him through half-lowered lashes. There was a flash of uncertainty in her green eyes and Nicholas suddenly realized that he’d been staring at her, silently, for far too long.
He shoved his chair back and rose. “Well, this is a surprise.”
A broad smile broke out across Singh’s lips. “Sahib, will you properly greet the beautiful lady or should I? It is not polite to keep her waiting, you understand.”
“Well, of course I know it is not,” Nicholas began, recovering from the impact of Sophia’s sudden appearance. “And she is no beautiful lady, Singh. That is, she is …”
Nicholas looked to Sophia for help.
“Please, do finish your thought,” she said wryly. Her eyes gleamed with amusement, her soft, plush lips curving in what surely was an unconsciously tempting smile.
Nicholas nearly groaned aloud.
“Singh, take Mouse upstairs and find a bed for him.”
Singh’s
bright smile slowly dimmed until his disappointment was unmistakable. “If that is what you wish, sahib. Then I will obey.”
“Obey? I am not your master, Singh,” Nicholas countered.
“But you are, sahib.”
“I am not.” Nicholas felt his jaw clench.
“I mean no disrespect, but you are.”
“I am not, and that is final!” Nicholas roared, slamming his hand on the table. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “That sounded like someone’s master, did it not?”
Singh and Mouse nodded in unison.
Sophia merely dipped her chin in quiet agreement, which was far worse.
Nicholas rubbed his fingertips over his temples, where a headache had begun to pound in time with his pulse. “You will remain silent. Do I make myself clear?”
Singh nodded in understanding.
Mouse peered longingly at Nicholas’s bowl of stew. “Of course, my lord.”
“He is not a lord, young Mouse,” Singh corrected. “He is the second son, you see—”
“The particulars of the peerage may be addressed at a later time, Singh,” Nicholas broke in, pushing his bowl across the table to Mouse.
“If you would make the introductions,” Sophia suggested leadingly.
“I wonder if we might simply avoid those two altogether and move on to the reason for your visit?” Nicholas posed hopefully.
Sophia looked at him as though he were mad. “I believe the gentlemen are as curious to know more of me as I am of them.”
“ ‘Gentlemen’ is rather stretching it,” Nicholas said under his breath, the headache beginning to pulse harder. “But yes, by all means, let us be polite. Singh, Mouse, stand up.” Chairs scraped back as the two obeyed with alacrity.
Nicholas waved a hand at his turbaned friend. “This is Singh.”
Sophia glared at Nicholas.
“Mr. Singh,” Nicholas amended begrudgingly.
“I am glad to properly make your acquaintance, Mr. Singh,” Sophia said graciously, giving Singh an enchanting smile.
The Scoundrel Takes a Bride Page 5
