Chapter 6
Blake crept toward the little cottage, his nerves tensed for the coming confrontation. After a frustrating morning spent in travel and investigation, the swift end to his mission should have eased his mind. But he suspected the thatched roof covered more than modest furnishings. He dreaded what he might find inside. No sound came from the cottage as he strained to catch any evidence of the heinous crimes within.
When Jason came to him last night, the mission had seemed simple. His brother told him of a child’s abduction, a little girl belonging to the maid of a past mistress. Blake had thought he’d simply track the girl to Devonshire and bring her back to her mother.
He’d ridden into London soon after dawn this morning to question the Bow Street runners about their involvement in the case. To his utter disgust, they had no interest in searching for the child. He shouldn’t have been surprised after the way they mishandled Robert’s disappearance.
“This happens far too often to indicate foul play,” one overworked runner had said. “The child no doubt ran away.”
“Ran away?” Blake exploded with anger. “She is all of five years old.”
The runner’s answering shrug had told him that he’d have no help from them. Thus he followed his lead alone and ridden into Devonshire. Fitting, as he was used to working alone since Robert’s disappearance.
Questioning the country folk had yielded terse answers, though some alluded that wealthy families who wished for children found other ways than God to get them. Only when pressed did an old woman admit what Blake knew to be true. It seemed Ramsey, son of a local steward, earned money by selling children to childless gentry. Ramsey traveled in low society in Town, and he wasn’t the angel the new parents believed; sometimes the young man fancied the little ones for his own pleasure. Blake’s stomach churned at the vile possibilities. He prayed the old woman would notify the constable as he’d instructed her.
A cry came from within the cottage. Blake fisted his hands. He’d take pleasure in relieving the bastard of his stolen charge, and seeing to it that he never again took another innocent.
He neared the closed door, his pistol at the ready.
“I want my mama!” a young child wailed.
“Shut yer yap, child!” a man’s voice ordered. “Shut it or I’ll—”
Blake shoved the door open, his eyes quickly taking in the scene before him. Ramsey, a tall thin man, held a tiny dark-haired girl in his arms. Her face was smudged and red as she flailed her fists.
“Put down that child!” Blake said in a deadly voice.
Ramsey’s eyes widened as they settled on Blake. “You can’t come in here and order me about,” he spat. “This here be my daughter, and—”
“Nay, he lies!” the girl cried, kicking her captor in his shin.
Ramsey dropped the child and cursed as he rubbed his leg. Blake reached out to grab her gently by one arm and pushed her behind him. He leveled his pistol at the bastard.
“You won’t take another child, Ramsey,” Blake growled. He sought to keep the disgust from his voice for the sake of the little girl. “I’ll see to it.”
The child clutched at the back of Blake’s leg, trembling as she sobbed against his jacket. He eased one hand to the girl’s head and patted gently. “Easy, little love,” he soothed, keeping his gaze on Ramsey.
Ramsey lunged toward him and Blake fired the pistol, hitting the man’s right shoulder as intended. Ramsey howled and fell to the cottage’s dirt floor, clutching his shoulder. A moment later, the constable entered the cottage.
“Thompson,” the older man began, “Mrs. Ashby told me of—What the devil . . . ?”
Blake pocketed his pistol and shot a dark look at Ramsey. “He’ll be fine, more’s the pity.” He turned to the constable. “I plan to return this child to her mother in London. I trust you’ll see to Ramsey’s punishment?”
The constable’s eyes narrowed on the groaning Ramsey, and Blake knew justice would be served this afternoon. “Aye.”
Without another glance wasted on Ramsey, Blake calmed his little charge as well as he could and set off for London.
Thankfully, the girl slept for most of the journey, her little body curled into a ball on the opposite seat of the carriage he’d hired. They were in London well after nightfall, and the vehicle rocked to a stop in front of the tidy house whose address Jason had provided. The child roused from her slumber and yawned, her eyes suddenly growing round as she spied her home through the small window of the hack.
“Ooh, we’re home!” she squealed. “Oh, ya’ brought me home to Mama!”
Blake smiled. He took her from the hack and set her on the walk, attempting to smooth down her tousled hair and rumpled dress. She seemed wholly unharmed by the incident. He didn’t see any bruises on the girl’s face, and thanked God that Ramsey had apparently been unable to satisfy his perversions with the child. Her brown eyes bright, her gap-toothed smile wide, she scampered away from him and up the few steps to the front door of the house.
A maid opened the door, her eyes as round as the little girl’s. “Marie!” she gushed, sweeping the child up in her arms. She rained kisses on the child’s laughing face before turning to Blake. “My mistress was right!” she cried. “She said you’d bring her home, my lord.”
Blake opened his mouth to correct her when a beautiful woman appeared in the doorway. Her dark hair artfully arranged, her makeup a bit heavy, she was the perfect specimen of a kept woman in her fancy pink dressing gown. She eyed him with appreciation as she descended the front steps.
“You must be Thompson’s brother,” she said, her head cocked to one side.
“Blake Thompson,” he returned.
Her rouged lips spread in a smile. “I’m Monique.”
Monique. Ah, the woman who provided ‘entertainment’ for gentlemen with money in their pockets—and the employer of little Marie’s mother. He doubted any of her ‘girls’ were upstairs at this hour. The memory of his brother’s stories about Monique caused him to lower his eyes. Jason hadn’t exaggerated the woman’s bounty or enthusiasm as she slid close to him. She placed her hand on his arm in a show of familiarity.
“Take the child to your room, Jean,” she said to the maid. She turned to the little girl and smiled indulgently at her. “There’s a surprise waiting for you upstairs poppet.”
The little girl gasped in delight, curtseyed and thanked Monique.
Blake smiled at the child’s exuberance. “I’m glad you’re well, Marie.”
She nodded, adoring eyes shining at him. She clasped her little hands together and faced her mother. “The gentleman had a pistol, Mama,” Marie said with excitement. “He shot that horrid man.”
The maid, Jean, eyes bright with tears, picked her daughter up and held her tight.
“The man will live,” Blake said, his heart warming at the touching reunion, “though he won’t attempt such actions again.”
Jean nodded with relief, her tears spilling down her cheeks. Holding her daughter close, she thanked Blake and Monique profusely, and then turned, carrying the child toward the back of the house.
Monique stood very close to him, her lush body nearly visible in the clinging dressing gown. “Jean has been out of her wits these past few days, my lord,” she said. “Jason said you were the gentleman for it. Though why anyone would steal a child is beyond me.”
“Desperation can make people do the unthinkable, Monique.”
She nodded in understanding before turning a siren’s smile in his direction. She obviously wasn’t thinking about desperation or a mother’s concerns now.
“You’re much like your brother in looks, my lord.” She stroked her hand up and down his arm. “I can think of a pleasant way to repay your gallantry. Perhaps one of my girls, or . . . ?”
Blake grasped her hand and set her from him. “I thank you, Monique, but I must be off.” He softened the rejection with a smile. “Jason gave me the fee you graciously paid for Marie’s return and I
can’t stay in Town. I’m needed elsewhere.”
Her dark eyes danced over his form. “A man of mystery,” she sighed. “Ooh, I’ve been too long without one to occupy my, um . . . time.”
Blake managed another smile, but his keen senses sharpened. The glint in Monique’s kohled eyes spoke of more than idle chatter and emotion-free pleasure. There was a shrewdness there that went beyond her occupation.
Freeing himself from the clinging woman, he again assured her that his fees were taken care of and he wouldn’t need anything from her. He climbed back into the hired hack and returned back to The Hideaway.
Another case solved, yet he still knew nothing of Robert’s disappearance. He couldn’t find a clue then or now, and with Taylor under his roof he felt the responsibility like a weight on his soul.
Oh, he knew Taylor would be physically safe with Jason to protect her. But her heart, her delicate sensibilities, were another matter. After their kiss last night, he suspected she worried about his actions and her own. Shame whispered through him. God, they fit together beautifully. She wanted him. And he’d never felt such desire.
She’d been so upset last night, nearly desperate for any information about her brother. Her words stung him almost as much as her distress. Didn’t she know he wanted to find Robert more than anything in this world?
He tapped on the roof of the carriage and directed the driver toward the waterfront. Perhaps another visit to an old acquaintance would prove fruitful.
Soon the carriage pulled to a stop in front of a filthy public house. The Maid’s Skirt made The Hideaway look like the finest inn in London. Its shrouded windows and scarcity of lighting allowed it to blend seamlessly into the decrepit buildings around it.
Blake pushed open the narrow door, its uneven bottom scraping on the scarred and sticky wooden floor. He quickly took in the scene: drunken sots deep in their cups, overloud laughter from dark corners, blank-eyed serving maids moving between close-set tables. Dismissing the sounds and odors from his mind, he eyed the fat man seated at a table in the far corner.
Sir Reggie Platt was his name, though Blake suspected the title was as ill-gotten as the goods Platt distributed among the ton. Reggie, clothed in fine but ill-fitting garments, undoubtedly procured less-than-honorably, held court in the corner, his smile wide in his round face. That smile faltered as his small dark eyes fell on Blake.
“Thompson,” he grumbled.
“Sir Reggie.” Blake threw a dark glance at the reprobates surrounding the table before settling his gaze on Reggie. “I suspected I’d find you here.”
Reggie forced a laugh. “Where else would I be but under the Maid’s Skirt?”
Guffaws resounded in the tight corner. Another flick of Blake’s gaze in their direction promptly cleared the table of everyone but Reggie. A flash of unease showed in the man’s beady eyes and Blake felt a glimmer of satisfaction. He sat in the chair opposite. A serving maid began to approach, swiftly turning from them as Blake gave a terse shake of his head.
“You know why I’m here, no doubt,” Blake began.
Reggie pouted. “Aye. Yer partner.”
Blake slowly nodded.
“Look, Thompson,” Reggie said. “I tol’ you before. I didn’t see him that night.”
“Where were you?” Blake asked. “You’re never one to deny yourself a good deal.”
“True. But I weren’t in the market that night. I was at Monique’s. And I tell you I wasn’t thinkin’ of no goods.” Reggie grinned. “Save for the lady’s, that is!”
Blake grabbed Reggie’s dingy neck cloth and pulled him closer. “Robert Shelby is missing,” he growled.
Now Reggie wore the expression of a man listening to Blake’s brand of wisdom. “Y-yes.”
“You put him in touch with the dealer.”
“Yes, but not directly!”
Blake nearly growled. This case was about more than stolen goods and pilfered heirlooms. He felt that in his bones. Who the hell would attack Robert? Robert had been posing as a potential customer, an aristocrat with gambling debts and a need to fence some heirlooms. Money could be easily made by selling the item he’d brought with him. Blake knew he’d never intended to sell the item, a signet ring he’d inherited on his mother’s side. Had the buyer recognized it?
“Who is it, Reggie? Who met Robert that night?”
Reggie was sweating now, a greasy sheen that glistened on his cheeks and forehead.
“I can’t tell you,” he squeaked.
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“I set up the meeting through channels.”
Blake was about at the end of his patience now. “Give me a name, damn it.”
“Martin,” Reggie blurted.
Blake straightened. “Who the hell is Martin?”
“That’s all I can say.”
Blake longed to shake Reggie until his teeth rattled, but the mood in the pub had subtly shifted. A quick glance around the place showed everyone was paying very close attention to their conversation now. Who was this Martin? There was no way Reggie would divulge that bit of information. Not tonight. And not in front of witnesses. Blake released him and came to his feet. “I haven’t let this case go, Reggie. And if I find out you’re keeping anything else from me, you won’t live long enough to enjoy another evening at Monique’s. Or anywhere else.”
Blake left the pub. He climbed back into the carriage for what felt like the tenth time that day. The smell of Monique’s perfume clung to his clothes, a thick floral scent that mingled with the sourness from the pub. He shifted on the seat and heard a soft rustling. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a note. It had no address, the handwriting almost illegible. Just three words. He’s in London. Was this a clue about Robert? Or was it about this Martin fellow that Reggie spoke of? Was he still in Town? But where had the note come from?
He mentally retraced his steps. First a stop at Bow Street. Perhaps a runner had slipped it to him there. Or when he tracked down the bastard Ramsey. But he doubted anyone in that village was that sharp or cunning to escape his notice. Monique? The woman seemed shrewd but surely she was more interested in her business of pleasure. Reggie, then? No. That worm would throw out any excuse to get Blake off his back. He would have to search Robert’s case files when he got back to The Hideaway. Damn.
Taylor would question him again when he returned, too. She did little else, it seemed. God, how would he face her with another failure? He would have to show her the note, but only after getting her promise that she wouldn’t run off to London. Robert would kill him if he learned Blake hadn’t kept her safe. He tucked the note in his pocket and settled back, closing his eyes as tendrils of this mystery wound their way through his mind.
* * *
“Bring a bit of that ale here, sweet,” one of the diners called.
Taylor sighed and brushed a curl off her forehead. Her feet were tired and her head ached. Time and again this long evening she’d been forced to fend off untoward comments, glances, and pinches to her backside. No man had dared attempt anything more, thank God. Not with Blake’s brother sitting in the dining room.
If Annie hadn’t taken ill tonight, Taylor would be safely upstairs. But even though Polly wasn’t one of Taylor’s favorite people, it wouldn’t be fair to let her bear the brunt of the workload. Besides, what Blake didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
She hefted the pitcher of ale. A glance toward Jason told her that he was watching her with the same concern his brother always did. With Polly perched on his lap, Taylor doubted the viscount would be around much longer. He captured the maid’s mouth in a deep kiss. No doubt the late hour and the willing woman would draw him from the dining room. Taylor was relieved. She wished only to take care of the last few diners and find the solitude of her chamber.
“Ale!” the man called again.
“Yes, sir,” she said absently.
She took small steps toward the man. The big fellow held his empty tankard aloft and gave it a jaunty shake
before setting it down hard upon the table’s scarred surface. Ignoring his leering gaze, which continually locked on the buttons on the front of her gown, she bent at the waist and poured. His big hand grabbed her bottom and she jerked upright, spilling ale on the table. She turned wide eyes to him, her mouth open in shock. Incredibly, the man laughed. He lifted the tankard of ale to his lips and drank deeply, his eyes running over her. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he let out a growl and set the tankard down once more.
“Mmm, ya’ make me thirsty,” he said. He grabbed Taylor by the waist and pulled her down onto his lap.
The man’s actions stunned her. His blunt fingers worked on her waist, squeezing as he moved his hands upward. She placed her hands on his shoulders and tried to shove him away from her.
“I see why young Thompson keeps ya’ around, wench,” the man chuckled. “A hellcat, ya’ are.”
Wriggling, she attempted to free herself. The man groaned in pleasure.
“Let me go,” she gasped.
Her captor lost his grin. “Not bloody likely. You’ll take me money and give me pleasure.”
Taylor let out a cry as the man grabbed her breast. She squeezed her eyes shut as he brought his mouth toward hers. In the next instant, she was pulled roughly from his grasp to find herself shoved behind a broad back. A glance toward Jason’s table showed her that he wasn’t her savior. He and Polly looked on with surprise on their faces.
“Keep your hands off her,” she heard her rescuer growl.
She took in the long-legged stance, the glossy black hair. Relief flooded her. Blake.
“I was only playin’ with the wench, Thompson,” the fat man said as he struggled to his feet.
“Get out, Duggins,” Blake said, his voice a low rumble.
A Hero and A Gentleman Page 6
