Jacquie D'Alessandro - [Regency Historical 04]

by Never A Lady

  Alex made her way swiftly through a series of back alleys, then hurried up the worn stairs to the second floor of the building where she lived. After glancing around the dark corridor to ensure she was alone, she inserted the key and silently opened the door to her rooms. Slipping inside, she quickly locked the door behind her, then leaned back against the rough wood panel and closed her eyes. Her ragged breaths burned her lungs, and her heart pounded—not only from her haste but from the unsettling feeling that someone had been watching her. Following her as she’d made her way home after leaving Lord Sutton’s carriage. She was accustomed to the presence of thieves and footpads and knew how to avoid them. Her fingers brushed over the bump on her skirt from the sheathed knife tucked into her garter. And she knew how to defend herself if she couldn’t.

  But what she’d experienced tonight was different. An overwhelming sense of being watched, stalked, had plagued her the entire way home, slithering unease down her spine. Unease that was especially acute after the conversation she’d overheard tonight in Lord Malloran’s study. Whoever had her in their sights was very good at remaining hidden, but she’d lived in the mean streets of London too long not to know when she was being observed.

  “Are ye all right, Alex?”

  Her eyes popped open at the softly spoken question, and she found herself being regarded by Emma’s concern-filled blue eyes.

  Even though, at seventeen, Emma Bagwell was six years younger than Alex, she was, thanks to her acquaintance with London’s underbelly, very resourceful and perceptive. They’d found each other three years ago and, together, had managed to survive and rise above where they’d come from.

  Realizing it was not only useless to try to keep a secret from her tenacious friend, but needing to confide the details of her unsettling evening, Alex said, “Actually, there is something troubling me, but before I tell you…” She nodded toward the faded blue velvet curtain that separated a third of the room. “How many have we tonight?”

  Emma’s gaze shifted to the curtain. “Eight.”

  Eight. Last night there’d been six, the night before that, twelve. Last Tuesday they’d made room for seventeen. “Is Robbie here?”

  Emma nodded. “He were the last to arrive, about an hour ago. Filthy and exhausted. Could barely stay awake long enough to eat.” Anger flared in Emma’s eyes. “He were more than filthy, Alex. He’d been beaten.”

  Alex’s hands clenched her cloak. “How badly?”

  “Swollen eye, busted lip. I cleaned him up, but ye should check on him. He asked for ye.”

  “All right,” she murmured. “I’ll do it now, because he’ll be gone before we awaken.”

  “Like a ghost he is,” Emma agreed, nodding. “All of ’em are. I’ll add more water to the kettle and make us some tea.”

  “Thank you.” She crossed the room and hung her cloak in the battered wardrobe she shared with Emma. Even with both their clothes combined, there was room to spare. Knowing Robbie and the others were already asleep, she took a few extra minutes to remove her gown, then quickly dress in her plain cotton nightrail. She knotted her robe’s sash around her waist, then walked to the velvet curtain. After doing this for the past two years, she knew what to expect; still, she pulled in a bracing breath before pulling aside the heavy material.

  She waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark, and slowly they became more visible. Eight of them tonight, each wrapped in the only comfort they’d ever known—a blanket. Her gaze touched their sleeping forms, and no matter how many nights she saw them here, each night they tore at her heart.

  She recognized Will and Kenneth. Dobbs, Johnny, and Douglas. And there, in the corner, lay Mary, and next to her, Lilith. All sleeping on the pallets that were kept rolled in the corner, ready for them, each child looking like a small, broken angel. Which in Alex’s mind they were, as none of them was older than twelve. All safe for a few hours in the shelter her meager home provided, but all too soon dawn would arrive, and they’d leave this sanctuary for the hell that awaited them on the unfriendly streets and back alleys where they spent their days.

  Her gaze fell last on Robbie and, as it did every time she saw him, her heart clenched, more so now as the soft light from the low-burning fire in the main room touched on his bruised eye and busted lower lip. All these children, and the scores of others like them, who were orphans or abandoned, victims of severe poverty and abuse and horrible living conditions tore at her heart, but something about Robbie touched her even deeper. Perhaps because he so reminded her of herself at his age. A bundle of trembling fear wrapped in layers of false bravado.

  Tears of anger and frustration and utter pity pushed at the backs of her eyes. Dear God, he was barely six years old.

  A lock of his pale hair, darkened with soot, fell across his forehead, and her fingers ached to brush it aside. But she knew if she touched him, he would most likely awaken. Out of necessity, because of where they lived and how they lived, all the children were light sleepers. If one slept too deeply, any manner of horror could sneak up upon them. To this day, Alex slept lightly, and never for more than a few hours at a time. The children slept more soundly here, knowing they were free, for a few hours, from harm. So although she ached to go to him, Robbie needed sleep more than Alex needed to touch him and risk frightening him.

  After one last lingering look, she let the curtain close, then made her way toward the kitchen area, where Emma poured tea into thick ceramic mugs. She sat at the long wooden bench, suddenly bone-weary, drained of all her energy. The scent of oranges and fresh-baked muffins lingered in the room.

  “Thank you for doing the baking this evening,” she said with a tired smile, keeping her voice low so as to not awaken the children.

  “Ye’re welcome.” With a flourish, Emma produced a plate upon which sat a single biscuit. “I saved ye one.”

  Alex’s throat tightened at the thoughtful gesture. Emma well knew her weakness for sweets—a weakness Emma shared. Reaching out, she broke the biscuit in half and gave the bigger piece to her friend. “I’m sorry to leave all the chores to you.”

  “Nonsense,” Emma said, setting a steaming mug before her. “’Tis a labor of love for me, and is more important for Madame Larchmont to ply her fortune-tellin’ wares on the rich, fancy folks. With the extra money yer earnin’, we’ll be able to move to a bigger, better, safer place. And sooner than we’d thought possible. Then you can start educatin’ them.”

  Yes, a bigger, better, safer place for herself and Emma and the children who trusted them, came to them for protection, was what she’d worked so hard for. What she was determined to have. What she’d finally been able to hope, with the recent success of her Madame Larchmont persona, to achieve.

  “That is my hope,” she said, “but you know how fickle Society can be, how easily bored, how quickly they move on to the next entertainment. I’m in demand now, but I have no illusions that my current popularity will last more than the length of the Season.”

  “Then let’s make certain ye make a killin’ this Season,” Emma said, looking at her over the rim of her steaming mug.

  “Again, that is my hope…but…well, we both know that Madame Larchmont’s career would be over if the elite of Society now clamoring for her services were to discover her past.”

  Emma’s gaze sharpened. “Ye say that as if there’s reason to think they might.”

  She wrapped her hands around her mug, absorbing the warmth into her suddenly cold fingers. “Emma, tonight I met a man. It’s…him.”

  Emma blinked twice in clear confusion, but then her eyes widened with realization. “Him? The man from yer card readings?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Yer certain?”

  “I am.”

  Emma didn’t question how Alex knew this was the man who’d figured so prominently in her readings over the years, which didn’t surprise her. Her friend was well accustomed to Alex’s “intuition.” Instead, she nodded thoughtfully, then said, “Wel
l, now. He’s been a long time in comin’. Who is he?”

  “His name is Colin Oliver.” She refused to acknowledge the tingle that rippled through her at saying his name aloud. “His title is Viscount Sutton.”

  Emma’s jaw dropped. “A viscount?” She shook her head. “Ye must have the wrong bloke. Yer cards said the man would figure prominently in yer future. Would have a great impact on ye. How could that apply to a viscount?” Her mouth rounded into an O and she touched her fingertips to her lips. “Oh. Unless he’s wantin’ ye to be…unless ye’re plannin’ to be his…ladybird.”

  Heat flashed through her, which she immediately blamed on the steam rising from the hot tea. Pushing her cup aside, she whispered, “No, of course not.”

  “Then how else could such a man figure into yer future? Anyway, the man from the cards is supposed to be someone ye’ve already met. Years ago.” She gave her head a decisive shake, prying loose a dark red curl from her braid. “No, he’s not the man, Alex.”

  “He is. I…I’ve met him before. I picked his pocket.”

  “How can ye be sure it’s same bloke? All look the same in the dark, those rich toffs do. Always full of themselves and of drink. Easy marks, that’s what they are.”

  “Were,” Alex stressed. “That was our former profession. And I remember him distinctly because he caught me.”

  “Caught ye?” Emma repeated in an incredulous whisper. “But ye never got caught! Ye were the best!”

  “While I appreciate your assessment of my former talents, I assure you, he caught me. I managed to escape and never saw him again. Until tonight.”

  The ramifications hit Emma instantly. “Lord above. Did he recognize you?”

  Unable to sit still, she rose and paced in front of the table. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but…” She shook her head, then told Emma the entire events of the evening, including the conversation she’d overheard and the note she’d left for Lord Malloran. The only details she left out were the way Lord Sutton had made her feel and the way he’d kissed her wrist. She concluded with, “I’m giving him a private reading at his home tomorrow afternoon. Or rather, later today.”

  Emma looked at her with troubled eyes. “I’m not sure which worries me more, Alex. The fact that ye’re seein’ this viscount again—that smacks of pullin’ a tiger’s tail—or the conversation ye overheard. What if someone finds out you did? That you were the one who wrote the note?”

  “How could anyone find out? I deliberately disguised my handwriting. No one will waste time trying to discover who wrote the note. They’ll be too occupied trying to figure out who’s going to be killed at Lord Wexhall’s party and preventing it from happening.”

  In spite of her assurances, Emma still looked troubled. “I hope ye’re right.”

  So do I, Alex thought. So do I.

  Four

  Colin stood in the shadows provided by a doorway across the narrow, cobblestone street from the building he’d followed Madame Larchmont to last night. In the light of day, the soot-covered brick looked uninviting, made all the more ominous by the gray clouds hanging low in the slate-colored sky.

  From his observations last night after she’d entered the building, the shadows moving across the window in the third room on the second floor indicated that was her destination. Two people had exited the building in the last quarter hour, but so far no sign of Madame Larchmont. He withdrew his pocket watch and checked the time. Half past two. Was it possible she’d already left for her three o’clock appointment?

  A red-haired young woman emerged from the building, and Colin’s eyes narrowed. Not his prey. Dressed in a plain brown gown, she carried a shallow box, which rode low on her midsection, strapped to her front. The sort of carrier orange girls used to sell their wares, although from what he could see, whatever she carried wasn’t oranges. They appeared to be tarts or muffins.

  Another ten minutes passed, and he patiently waited, biding his time. He’d just checked his watch again when he saw her exit the building. Although a wide-brimmed bonnet shaded her face, there was no mistaking her. She carried a bag that resembled a knapsack. His breathing hitched, and his heart executed a strange maneuver when he saw her, pulling his brows down in a frown. She hesitated for several seconds, her gaze quickly scanning the area, and he melted farther into the shadows. Then she took off at a brisk pace, heading in the opposite direction of his town house.

  As she had last night, she moved with the surefootedness of someone well familiar with the area. After approximately ten minutes, she approached a battered building just outside the fringes of the rookery. Four shop fronts, three of them boarded up, lined the ground floor. A stained sign with a poorly painted mug of ale advertising The Broken Barrel marked the fourth door. She entered the pub, then exited five minutes later, no longer carrying the knapsack. Before starting off, she again glanced around, and he wondered if she normally did so or if she’d sensed his presence. Might just be the unsavory area, however, as he, too, felt the weight of eyes upon him. After his own quick look around and detecting no one, he followed her for a few more minutes. Once it became clear she was not heading back to her rooms but in the direction of Mayfair, he retraced his steps. He paused around the corner from the building where she lived to rub his thigh, which pulled with a dull ache.

  After ascertaining he wasn’t observed, Colin entered the building. The scents of cabbage and stale bodies clung in the air as he made his way silently up the stairs. Muffled voices and the sound of a baby crying floated downward. Once he’d arrived on the second floor, he stopped outside the third door, pressing his ear to the crack to listen for voices within while his nimble fingers played with the lock. Hearing nothing, and satisfied the room was empty, he opened the door and slipped silently inside.

  Leaning back against the door, he stood perfectly still for several long seconds, noting details. The room was larger than he would have imagined, although not spacious by any stretch. And scrupulously clean. He sniffed the air, noting the pleasant scents of oranges and fresh-baked muffins. The wooden floors were covered with rugs made from what appeared to be braided strips of material. A single wardrobe stood in the corner, flanked by two narrow, neatly made beds. A gray-striped cat lay curled up on the end of the bed nearest the window. An end table stood next to each bed, a hip bath occupied the corner, and a single dresser sat against the wall. On the opposite side of the room was the kitchen area, with a table and two bench chairs. A faded blue velvet curtain cordoned off a portion of the room. Another sleeping area?

  Colin walked on silent feet toward the wardrobe. Opening the door, his senses were immediately hit with a delicate, citrusy scent. An image of Madame Larchmont, her chocolate brown eyes assessing him, her full lips poised to speak, slammed into his mind. His gaze riveted on a familiar bronze gown. Reaching out, he ran his fingers over the material, vividly recalling how it had appeared to glow against her pale skin. Before he could stop himself, he leaned forward, and brought the material up to his face and breathed in.

  Oranges. And something else, something pleasing he couldn’t name other than to call it fresh. The remnants of her soap, most likely. He closed his eyes and another image of her materialized in his mind, rising from the bath, a trail of soap bubbles meandering down her wet, glistening form. Heat shot through him and his eyes popped open. A sound of self-disgust rose in his throat, and he dropped the material as if it had burned him.

  A quick search through the wardrobe revealed one other gown in a deep green that looked like something Madame Larchmont would wear, then a plain brown day gown showing signs of age, but meticulously cared for. At the other end of the wardrobe he saw two gray gowns. Like the others, these were old yet neatly mended, but were at least four inches in length shorter than the other gowns. Not a single masculine item anywhere.

  Tucking away that interesting bit of information, he turned his attention to the end tables. Both held tallow candles on chipped plates. The table closest to the window had a book
resting next to the candle. Colin noted the title: Pride and Prejudice. The other table also contained a book, one that appeared more of a tablet similar to what students used. He picked it up and flipped through the pages of carefully copied letters and numbers made in a childish scrawl. After replacing the book, he glanced toward the cat who’d awakened and was treating him to a suspicious glare.

  “Good afternoon,” Colin murmured, taking a slow step toward the animal. In a flash, the cat darted under the bed.

  Not wishing to frighten the beast, Colin moved on, crossing the handmade rug to look over the kitchen area. Oranges were stacked in a pyramid shape, the top one missing. A slight sound caught his attention, and his head whipped around to look at the blue velvet curtain. The cat? Moving silently, cautiously, he approached the curtain, then with lightning speed, whipped it back. To reveal a small area empty except for a stack of rolled-up pallets in the corner.

  And a child attempting to escape down a trapdoor opened in the floor.

  Their gazes met, and, for an instant, pure terror flashed in the child’s eyes. Colin ran forward and grabbed the door before it closed, then plucked up the youngster by the back of the collar.

  “Let me go, ye bloody bastard,” came a voice that throbbed with outrage and unmistakable fear. Scrawny arms encased in a filthy coat swung wildly while thin legs in ragged pants and deplorable, hole-filled shoes tried to connect with anything. “Let me go, or I’ll slice open yer bloody gut I will.”

  In spite of the brave words, Colin could see that the child, who appeared to be a boy of perhaps five or six, although it was difficult to tell, was terrified. “No need to slice me open,” Colin said mildly, setting the boy on his feet. The child tried mightily to get away from him, but Colin held him firmly by the shoulders. The boy went still and glared up at him with narrowed eyes in a dirty face. The area surrounding Colin’s heart went hollow, then his jaw clenched when he saw the bruises under the dirt. Bloody hell, someone had beaten this boy.