Tommy’s voice still had a certain tremolo quality when she spoke.
“Sally, this is . . . er . . . Mr. Friend. He is a good man and I trust him and he’s here because he wants to help you. He will never hurt you. There is no need to scream.”
“Mr. Friend would very much like to hurt you right about now,” Jonathan muttered blackly to Tommy, through clenched teeth.
Tommy ignored him.
Sally was looking at him with wide-eyed equanimity. She had the sort of eyes possessed by puppies and fawns. Glossy and enormous and liquid with innocence. The better to disguise evil, Jonathan thought darkly.
“Cook said I’d get the collywobbles if I talked to strange men. And that I ought to scream if I see one, sudden like.”
Jonathan snarled, “What the bloody hell are collywob—OW!”
Tommy kicked him in the shin.
He glowered poisonously at her.
She hiked her eyebrows to her hairline.
He sucked in a long breath, a symbolic attempt to siphon patience from the air of what had clearly become a rolling madhouse. He exhaled to steady himself.
He had only himself to blame. He knew it. He possessed a sixth sense for this sort of thing because he wanted none of it, none of the nerve-taxing complications that women like Tommy represented. It was bleak satisfaction to know that he’d been right, oh so right.
“The cook is wise to tell you not to speak to strange men, Sally. Fortunately I had the collywobbles when I was very young, a long time ago, and recovered nicely, so you can’t get them from me.”
Tommy coughed a laugh.
“Oh.” This satisfied Sally, apparently.
He stared across at the little girl from beneath beetled brows. She was certainly a little thing, very pale, her white cap askew. Dark curls bounced like springs from beneath it. She was a servant, clearly. A scullery maid, mostly likely. And couldn’t be more than seven years old. Possibly younger, given her size.
She stared back at him shyly, curious now. And then she smiled. He almost rolled his eyes. A little flirt, this one, as capricious as the big one against whom she snuggled. He refused to be charmed.
And that’s when he saw the white bandage on her forehead, beneath her cap. There was a dark spot on it, not a small one.
And he suspected it was blood.
“What happened to your head, Sally?”
“Master William coshed me,” she said softly. She was young enough to lisp. “And when ’e did, I fell and broke me crown.”
“Master Willi . . .”
Master William was Lord Feckwith, the younger.
Who was Jonathan’s age.
And easily three times the size of Sally.
Could this be true?
Tommy’s eyes were on Jonathan. She seemed to be holding her breath.
“Why?” he asked Sally finally. The word was a bit choked.
Though he suspected the answer was “because he could.” Because big men who would hit a little female child . . . let alone hard enough to knock her down . . .
“Shhh, Sally, love, there’s a good girl,” Tommy interjected firmly. “All is well now. We don’t need to talk about that now.”
All was well?
All was well?
Jonathan aimed a look of such sizzling disbelief at her, their hackney driver must have felt it through the ceiling on his bum, and might have been grateful for the heat.
But Tommy refused to meet his gaze. She promptly either forgot or pretended to forget he was even there. She softly sang some nursery song to Sally, who leaned back against her, comfortable and utterly at home despite the bizarre circumstances, her eyelids lowering.
Tommy had likely shushed Sally here because the more Jonathan knew, the more enmeshed he became in . . . whatever this was.
His head was a writhing tangle of questions.
And he’d have his answers. Oh, he’d have them.
For now, he shrugged out of his coat and thrust it at Tommy.
She stared at it blankly. Then looked up at him, clearly preparing a look of defiance.
But the abruptness of his gesture and the black quality of his silence warned her not to refuse it.
She took it from him and settled it over her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she whispered regally.
He snorted. Softly, so as not to wake the little beast.
“I’ve something for you, too,” she whispered.
She shifted the child on her lap and then he watched in some fascination as she fished about for a time in her bodice.
She emerged with a flask and handed it over.
He did note it was still warm from being nestled against her breasts. For a moment thought was obliterated in favor of sensation and imagination. He was male, first and foremost, after all.
She’s infinitely too much trouble, Redmond.
And then he silently raised it in a sardonic toast to her and bolted half.
A FEW MINUTES later she thumped the roof of the carriage, and Sally, who’d been sleeping, stirred against her.
“I can get down on my own, but will you hand her to me?” she said quietly. “Mr. Friend will help you, Sally, all right?” To Jonathan she whispered, “Right, Mr. Friend?”
What could he reply? He could hardly nudge the child out of the carriage with the toe of his boot as if she were a sack of flour.
He gave a short nod.
Sally sleepily stretched her arms up. Jonathan ducked awkwardly between them and she looped them around his neck, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, something she did all the time.
He hoisted her up. Ironically, she weighed about as much as a bag of flour.
A man his own size had coshed her in the head, but someone she trusted told her to trust him, and so she had. He knew a brief sudden sweep of vertigo, near terror, as if he were walking a wire strung between buildings. God, what a perilous thing it was to be a child. To go from screaming looby to unquestioning trusting innocent in the space of a single hackney ride. And this, he suspected, was perfectly typical child behavior.
“Thank you, Mr. Friend,” she mumbled sleepily.
“You’re welcome, Sally,” he said stiffly.
She was either nuzzling into his shoulder or wiping her runny nose on his coat right now. He very much suspected the latter. Mad disgusting creatures.
Not entirely without charm. But only just.
“I’ll have the pearls sent over to your town house tomorrow morning.” Tommy whispered it.
It was tomorrow morning already, but neither of them pointed that out. A wan light was pushing through London’s haze of coal smut, and drunks all over were stirring awake from the light, if not warmth, in Covent Garden.
“I’ll need answers,” he said in a tone that really was more of a threat.
“You don’t want them, believe me.”
She hadn’t phrased it as such, but Jonathan heard it like an accusation.
And she was likely right. He’d been utterly right about her, that was certain. That she was likely a labyrinth of a woman, and God only knew her true past or predilections. He’d be better off snatching her pearls and forgetting the night had ever happened.
“I’ll have them.” Each word was a dire promise.
They stared a stalemate at each other.
“How on earth did I help matters tonight, by the way?” he whispered.
“It went better this time,” Tommy said. “No one was shot.”
Christ. “Were you—?”
Sally stirred and muttered something against Tommy’s leg, which gave Tommy an excuse to look down.
Her head snapped up again immediately, and she was clearly distressed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Redmond, but she has a toy, a tiny doll . . . it’s really her only possession, and I think we’ve left it inside the carriage. Could you have a look? On our seat? Can I trouble you to do that for us?”
This minor inconvenience she begged prettily about?
Jonathan hopped
aboard the hack again, patting his fingers along the seat, feeling along the floor with the heel of his boot. He found nothing. “I’m afraid I don’t see—”
Tommy gave the side of the carriage a hard thump with her fist, the driver cracked the ribbons, and when the team lurched forward, the door of the hack swung shut and Jonathan toppled backward onto the seat.
He might have imagined the laughter behind him, but he doubted it.
Chapter 11
THREE SHORT RAPS. A pause. Two short raps. Pause. Four short raps.
Tommy dashed for the entrance, slid the bolt, and The Doctor slipped in swiftly and followed her briskly down the stairs and through the dark corridor.
She didn’t know The Doctor by any other name, which suggested his occupation was just as dubious as everyone else’s in her building, though no one knew precisely where he lived. Rumor had it he did a brisk business as a resurrectionist. Judging from his pallor, his work did take place primarily at night. She unfortunately had no trouble picturing The Doctor selling corpses, but he seemed competent enough about patching up the living. Rutherford had found him for her—it was a case of knowing someone who knew someone who knew The Doctor. She was hardly in a position to critique his pedigree, particularly since he worked on account, and her resources were thin indeed.
“Thank you for coming. She’s in here.” She’d already told Sally that The Doctor, like Mr. Friend, had also had the collywobbles a long time ago, to ensure a peaceful examination, and Sally, who fortunately was fascinated by anything and anyone new, sat wide-eyed, silent, one finger in her mouth. She’d slept like a rock—or rather, like a child—the moment they’d arrived home the night before.
“Let’s have a look at your sore head, shall we?”
The Doctor peeled the bandage from Sally’s head with his long thin white fingers and took a peek beneath. “It ought to have been stitched,” he said. His voice was arid and sandy and scarcely inflected. He turned to her with a little smile. He looked, Tommy thought guiltily, like a fish. His watery blue eyes were small and round, his mouth was moist and pink and fleshy. “A bit late for that now, unfortunately. She’ll have a scar.”
Sally held onto Tommy’s hand and squeezed hard. “You are a very brave girl. You’ll have a grand scar. Scars are dashing. I’ve quite a number of them.”
“Does Mr. Friend have scars?”
“Doubtless many of them. All truly dashing people do.” Most likely in his eardrums this morning, Tommy thought.
Sally had mentioned Mr. Friend a good half-dozen times this morning. Jonathan Redmond had made another conquest. She felt a bit guilty about sending the truly dashing man off so ignominiously last night, but she’d fulfilled her part of the bargain—she’d sent the pearls over this morning.
Tommy held Sally’s hand while The Doctor cleaned Sally’s wound, bound up her head neatly and efficiently, and examined her vision and reflexes for any lasting damage.
“Does it hurt anywhere else, sweets?” Tommy asked her gently.
“Here.” She pointed to her shoulder. When she’d been struck, she’d knocked into the side of a wood stove. The Doctor had a look. “Just a bit bruised, and it will feel right again in a few days with a bit of rest.”
“Thank you,” Sally said sweetly. And glanced at Tommy, who winked approvingly at her good manners.
“You’re welcome,” The Doctor said flatly. “Now, Miss de Ballesteros, if you would be so kind as to escort me to the door?”
“I . . .” Tommy hesitated. She’d squared her account with The Doctor, who had been kind enough to wait for payment in the past. Something else must be on his mind. “Certainly. One moment.” She pulled from a shelf an aging but carefully tended picture book—colorful letters of the alphabet, accompanied by vivid illustrations.
“Will you be a good girl and wait for me? I won’t be long. Here is a picture book I loved when I was a girl.”
Sally took it in both hands with something like awe and settled down at the table with it, opening it with an instinctive care that squeezed Tommy’s heart.
“Shall we?” she said to The Doctor. They proceeded up the stairs and through the dimly lit corridor in an odd silence. When he stopped near the door rather than opening it, she was suddenly intensely uncomfortable with his closeness in such narrow confines. She took comfort in the proximity of the door, and put one hand on the doorknob, gave it a half turn.
He noticed.
And he smiled a little smile that made the back of her neck prickle uneasily.
“As you are aware, Miss de Ballesteros, we’ve enjoyed a certain arrangement for some time.”
“Enjoyed” was certainly an interesting way to put it. Tommy brought a number of patients to him or he came here to see them, he stitched them up or reset bones or administered powders as necessary, and departed. And though he had worked on account more than once, she’d recently paid him what she owed.
“Are you abandoning us, Doctor? I would regret it. I was pleased to settle our account recently,” she said lightly.
“Ah, yes. About that. I fear I must raise your fees, my dear, for I find my own expenses have risen over the past year. And given the clandestine nature of our arrangement, I believe my silence on the matter may warrant additional compensation.”
She went still. Her smile remained fixed and friendly. All the while she thought, That’s a whole bloody lot of words to use when one would have sufficed: extortion.
It occurred to her then that she’d never seen the man blink.
“Come now,” she cajoled faintly, trying to charm. “I thought you agreed that you were handsomely compensated for your work.”
“I had another type of compensation in mind.”
He said it bluntly. Evenly. Without a moment’s hesitation.
His meaning was unmistakable.
Take this powder twice a day. Change the dressings once a day.
Spread your legs for me.
The tone was just that dry and officious.
Hot little worms of revulsion crawled over her skin. Breathing was suddenly more difficult.
“I see that I’ve surprised you. But I think you’ll agree that you and I undeniably share a special rapport. You have made clear your attraction for me.”
She blinked. Surely she was dreaming this conversation?
“Doctor,” she said gently, carefully, “if you have interpreted my politeness and appreciation as something more, I am truly sorry. It was meant only as good manners.”
“Nevertheless. I think you’ll find me a thorough and considerate lover, Miss de Ballesteros.”
She couldn’t decide which of those words horrified her the most.
She did shiver then.
“And surely you can find room in your social schedule to accommodate me. I shan’t be unreasonable. Once a week should suffice, beginning tomorrow?”
He closed his case. Gave a tight polite professional smile.
“Surely . . . Doctor, you can’t mean it?”
He was surprised. “I never jest.”
That she believed.
“But your wife . . .” Was he married?
“Will never know, now, will she? And for a woman like you, one more man should surely be no hardship.”
She drew herself up to her full height, rather like a spitting cobra. Such a wave of fury rippled out from her that The Doctor at last blinked.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean by a ‘woman like me,’ ” she said evenly. “And the fact that you would say such a thing is evidence that you don’t know me at all, let alone well enough to assume we share a special rapport.”
He just smiled ruefully, as if they both knew she was lying.
“The child will still be here tomorrow, as well, Doctor.”
“Well, I’m not an animal, Miss de Ballesteros. The door of her room has a lock on it. I shan’t be long. I expect it will go very quickly, as I’ve been imagining it for a good long while, and anticipation has rather a way of hasteni
ng the outcome of these things.”
This statement rather opened up a window on horror. She froze, helpless not to imagine him imagining it.
“I’ll return tomorrow to collect what I’m due, and as I suspect you’re a sensible woman, I expect you’ll be in. One way or another, Miss de Ballesteros, I’ll have my prerogative. I think, upon reflection, you’ll agree with me that bartering for services is a very fair arrangement, and rather relieves you of an unwanted financial burden.”
“Yes. You’re an absolute Samaritan, Doctor, looking out for my best interests.”
“Good day.”
He donned his hat and bowed, and when he was gone, she bolted the door and threw her body against it.
Imagine that.
Yet another way in which she was in over her head.
ALONG WITH THE suddenly sinister heaps of invitations, which his mother gestured to with a smile and a pair of raised eyebrows, the next morning Jonathan found a package wrapped in brown paper and tied in string, addressed to himself, from a certain “Thomas B.”
“The most astonishing looking man delivered this to our doorstep this morning, from what I understand,” his mother told him. “The footman quite took a fright.”
Rutherford, no doubt.
He hefted it in one hand. And he set his jaw.
He would be damned if that woman would get the better of him. He wanted to know just what he’d done last night.
“It’s a lovely day to ride in the row,” his mother said pointedly. “And I’ve heard from Lady Worthington that her daughter Grace seats a mare beautifully.”
“It is a lovely day,” he agreed. “I’ve made plans, however, and my day is full.”
Of selling pearls, cheering up a German, and following a marzipan trail, specifically.
HE KNEW OF a small jeweler, Exley & Morrow, who would be ecstatic to get the pearls at Jonathan’s price rather than a merchant’s.
The transaction was smooth and pleased both Jonathan and Mr. Exley, who asked no uncomfortable questions about their origins. Flush with a comfortable amount of money, and feeling like he could exhale again, Jonathan stopped by the solicitor’s to pay the arrears rent on Klaus’s print shop on Bond Street.
Julie Anne Long - [Pennyroyal Green 08] Page 9
