by Bold, Diana
A short silence fell between them, but then, Adrian stood and crossed the room, staring out the window at the street below. “I have some other news,” he said at last.
Picking up on the tension in his twin’s shoulders, Morgan found himself leaning forward again. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“I’m not sure how accurate this information is, and I haven’t had a chance to talk to Lucien yet, but I still keep some informants, and this morning, the one at the docks told me he thinks he saw Roger arriving in town a week or so ago.”
“Roger?” Rage surged within Morgan as he pushed to his feet, crossing the room to join his brother at the window. “Do you think it’s true?”
“I don’t know,” Adrian said, his voice rough with anger. “I’ve dispatched men to some of his old haunts, but none of them have returned yet.”
“I can’t believe that bastard would even think about returning after everything he did,” Morgan said, trying to control the fury that just the mention of his stepbrother’s name still caused. “What do you think he’s up to?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s nothing good.” Adrian turned away from the window with a shrug. “My man may be wrong, but I think it would be wise to keep up your guard.”
Morgan nodded, his emotions still rioting within him. “I have a few leads to follow, but please, let me know what you find out.”
“I will,” Adrian promised.
As Morgan turned to leave, Adrian caught his arm. “If he’s back, I’m going to kill him. I won’t let him get away with what he’s done to us.”
“I know,” Morgan said quietly, feeling no need to talk his brother out of such a course of action, not after all the bastard had done. “Thank you.”
AFTER A LONG MORNING of dead ends and wrong turns, Morgan finally tracked down the driver of the hack that he believed had transported Prometheus and Ginny to Brookhaven. The driver had just finished his day and was having a pint in a small, ancient tavern, sitting all alone in the corner. As described, he was a portly man in his forties with a shock of dark hair and a bushy mustache.
“Are you Tucker?” Morgan asked, approaching him warily. He’d spent a fortune paying for the information that had brought him here, but he didn’t really trust that he’d been given the truth. Also, he knew his clothing and posh accent stuck out like a sore thumb in this establishment.
The man frowned and took a deep swig of his gin. “Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Morgan Strathmore,” Morgan said. “Do you mind if I sit and have a pint with you?”
“Only if you’re buying,” the man replied grudgingly.
Morgan sat down in the cracked leather seat and gestured for the serving girl. He waited until she’d brought him a pint of the swill they served here and had given Tucker another before he tried to talk to the man.
“Did you pick up a fare in the East End last night and take him and a child to Brookhaven orphanage?” he finally asked.
The man swished his gin around in his cup, refusing to look at him. “I figured someone would come asking about that. It’s not every day I pick up the famous Prometheus.”
Morgan caught his breath, trying to cover his sudden excitement by taking another drink. “Can you tell me anything about him? Anything at all that might help me uncover his identity?”
The man sat back, playing with one corner of his magnificent mustache. “No, I don’t think I will.”
“So, you’re saying you do know something, but you just won’t tell me?” Morgan asked with a frown.
“I see a lot of ugliness in these streets,” Tucker replied. “It’s pretty rare I see someone actually trying to make a difference. And when I do, I don’t have no interest in stopping them.”
For a moment, Morgan considered bribing the man, but that suddenly didn’t seem fair. He’d done the right thing by holding Prometheus’s secrets, and he didn’t want him to have to choose between his morals and the promise of a little extra food on the table.
With a sigh, he threw a pound note on the table and stood.
“What’s this for?” Tucker asked.
“It’s for being a decent human being,” Morgan replied, realizing he’d have to find Prometheus some other way.
AFTER HIS MEETING WITH Tucker, Morgan made his way down to Scotland Yard, requesting a meeting with Inspector Quinn O’Brien. He waited in a drafty hallway for nearly half an hour before he was finally shown into a minuscule office cluttered with paperwork.
O’Brien looked up from his desk, an irritated expression on his handsome face. “To what do I owe this honor?” he asked, his tone inferring he didn’t have time to speak to a society swell when he was hard at work.
The inspector was young for his position, not yet thirty, Morgan guessed, with burnished golden hair and sharp green eyes. Lucien had put a lot of faith in him, sending him to the Continent after Allison, and the man had also helped to tidy things up after Adrian had killed Winters’ henchmen. Though Morgan was almost certain O’Brien had discovered Adrian was Prometheus, he’d never caused any trouble for him. Despite his profession, he obviously thought the work Adrian had been doing was needed.
Now that Morgan was here, however, he suddenly feared giving too much away in his quest to find answers. He’d been in such a hurry to follow up on the leads from last night that he’d rushed over here without really thinking too much about what he would say. He couldn’t simply ask what O’Brien knew about Prometheus.
Or could he?
Deciding to put his faith in O’Brien’s innate goodness, he decided to just be honest. “Have you heard that Prometheus is prowling the streets of the East End again?”
O’Brien’s gaze narrowed. “Why are you asking me? Wouldn’t you know better than I?”
“No,” Morgan answered truthfully. “In this case, neither my brothers nor I have any information about it whatsoever.”
O’Brien frowned and finally gave Morgan his full attention. “That’s odd.”
“I thought so as well,” Morgan replied. “But I just wanted you to know that if... you know anything about it, I’d be more than happy to lend a hand.”
Laughing, O’Brien shook his head. “Are you asking me if I’m donning a disguise and terrorizing London’s brothels? And if so, you’d like to... what? Be my assistant?”
Too late, Morgan realized how laughable it did sound. “I suppose you do enough in your current role. You don’t have to put on a mask. Unfortunately, my own life has been rather sheltered, and I’ve only recently realized how many children need help. I suppose I’m just looking for a way to make a difference.”
“Sometimes it feels like I’m just putting my finger in the dyke,” O’Brien said quietly, suddenly serious. “Atrocities happen every day, and I’m usually only there to clean up the aftermath. Of course, I’d like to do more. I never seriously pursued Prometheus’s identity for that exact reason.” He gave Morgan a meaningful look that left no doubt whatsoever that he knew Adrian had been Prometheus.
“Sorry to have disturbed you,” Morgan said, knowing he’d already pushed his luck a little too far. “I’ll see myself out.”
“Thank you for the information,” O’Brien told him, getting up and shaking his hand. “If I hear anything I think might be pertinent, I’ll send word to you.”
Morgan nodded. He was halfway out the door when O’Brien cleared his throat, making him turn and look back.
“Did you and your brothers know that the Earl of Winters has returned to London?” O’Brien asked.
“Yes,” Morgan admitted cautiously. “We just found out.”
“I’d stay clear of him, if you can,” O’Brien advised.
“He’d do well to stay clear of us.”
Chapter Eight
Fiona spent the morning attending to several pressing matters having to do with some of the food vendors. Mrs. Thompson, the cook, had been sending her odd looks all day, and Fiona greatly feared she’d peeked into the sitting room this mo
rning and seen her in Morgan’s arms.
She sighed and scrubbed a hand over her face as she climbed the stairs toward the room she’d assigned to Ginny. There was nothing she could do about it now. Mrs. Thompson was her employee, not the other way around, so she doubted the woman would actually say anything about it. Still, she hated to think she’d lost the woman’s esteem. She’d always done her best to keep her personal life, what little she had of one, strictly separated from Brookhaven. A woman with a past like hers could not afford the slightest hint of impropriety.
As she passed the room that Morgan had painted, she couldn’t resist ducking inside for a moment. Christina and Bridget were excitedly showing the beautiful murals to a few of the other girls, and the beaming smiles on their faces melted Fiona’s heart. These children had such little joy in their lives, and the fact that Morgan had seen their need for beauty and had fulfilled it made her appreciate him on a soul-deep level. She couldn’t wait to see what he created next.
Her earlier malaise somewhat abated, she left the room and continued down the hall to find Ginny. Tapping lightly on the correct door, she entered the room to find the girl still sleeping. Fiona wasn’t surprised, since Ginny had been heavily sedated last night.
With a sigh, she sank down on the edge of the mattress and brushed a lock of dark hair out of the girl’s eyes. She was little more than a baby, though her thin face hinted at too many missed meals. She’d hoped that perhaps the girl might tell her if she had a family to return to, but it was doubtful that she did. She’d probably been sold into prostitution by her own family, or she was one of the countless orphans who filled the streets of the East End.
“Oh, Ginny,” she murmured. “What am I going to do with you?”
“She’s still not awake?” Morgan asked hoarsely from behind her.
She spun around to find him standing in the doorway, a concerned frown on his handsome face. The memory of his hands on her shoulders, the sweet kiss he’d given her before he’d left, nearly overwhelmed her, but she stubbornly pushed such thoughts aside. Despite his kindness, he was still miles above her, and she must remember that.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, suddenly suspicious. “Were you going to try and talk to her?”
He shook his head. “No. I told you I wouldn’t, and I meant it. I was just looking for you, and Mrs. Thompson told me I could find you here.”
The tension in her shoulders eased somewhat. “I’m sorry. I suppose I’m just still exhausted from last night.”
“It’s all right,” he assured her, and she noticed that his own eyes were hooded with exhaustion. “I’m barely remaining upright myself.” He gave her a wan smile, then gestured to the large wicker basket she hadn’t noticed he was carrying. “I brought the children a gift, but I wanted to clear it with you first.”
He crossed the room to her side and set the basket down on the bed next to her. As he did so, the basket... whined?
“What on earth?” she murmured, lifting the lid to see two small tan puppies wriggling around inside.
“I was on my way here, and a boy was trying to sell a half-dozen puppies—”
“You paid for these mutts?” she interrupted incredulously.
“He obviously needed the money,” he replied with a wan smile. “Anyway, I remembered how much happiness my own dog gave me when I was a child, and I thought it might make the children here happy to have a few dogs around. I understand that dogs involve a lot of work, and if you don’t want them, I’ll take them home with me...” He paused and tilted her face up to his. “Why are you crying?”
“Oh, Morgan,” she whispered, dashing helplessly at the tears streaming down her cheeks, furious with herself for yet another show of emotion. She’d managed to keep her feelings locked away for so long, she’d almost convinced herself she didn’t have any, and she didn’t know why they were all rising to the surface now. “It’s beautiful. You’re so beautiful.”
He ran his thumb beneath her eyes tenderly, catching some of her errant tears. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She shook her head. “I’m not upset. I’m happy. These are happy tears.”
He gave her a hesitant smile. “I don’t understand.”
“Lots of people want to help these children. They throw money at the problem, try to give their advice, but they don’t really understand what the children need. Yet somehow, you know exactly what to do.”
“The puppies are good, then?” he asked, his lovely eyes twinkling from her praise.
“The puppies are perfect.” Impulsively, she leaned forward and this time, she kissed him.
She’d meant it to just be a fleeting press of her lips to his, a gentle thank you for his kindness, but it exploded into something far more visceral, a clashing of teeth and tongues that went straight to her core, an avalanche of desire that she hadn’t expected but discovered she’d needed with every fiber of her being.
At last, they broke apart, gasping, and she realized he’d been just as stunned by the passion between them as she had.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, embarrassment setting her cheeks on fire. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“It’s all right,” he told her, but he backed away, unable to hold her gaze. “I’ll go get started on another room. I’ll let you give the puppies to the children.”
Then he whirled and strode away, leaving her more confused than ever.
MORGAN TOOK THE STAIRS to the third floor two at a time, not stopping until he got to the room shared by two of the older boys, who’d chosen Moby Dick for their mural. He shut the door and leaned against it, his heart still pounding in his chest from the passionate kiss he’d just shared with Fiona.
The warning he’d received this morning from his brother echoed in his mind, and he banged his head hard against the door to try and clear it. Fiona had been hurt in the past. The last thing she needed was a man who was still grieving his dead wife. A man with three children and no real purpose. She deserved far better. She deserved someone who would marry her, someone who could love her...
Morgan wasn’t certain he’d ever truly been in love. He didn’t know if he had the ability to love any woman the way his brothers loved their wives. He hadn’t loved Anne in that way. But what he felt for Fiona was so different that he couldn’t even put a name to it and perhaps that scared him most of all.
He sighed and sat down at the small desk in the corner, pulling out his sketchpad, determined to focus on his work and not his feelings for Fiona. It proved more difficult than he’d hoped, but at last, he was able to turn his mind to ships and whales. After he had a few preliminary drawings, he got up and stretched, then went and got his paints from the carriage. His driver seemed bored, so he instructed him to do a few of the other items on Fiona’s repair list, and then he headed back upstairs.
While he was trying to decide which of his ideas to go with, he looked up to find half a dozen curious faces peering in at him, his son Samuel among them. He managed a smile. “Can I help you, lads?”
One of the older ones, a handsome young man with a shock of shiny black hair, stepped into the room. “Is it true you’re gonna paint something in all the rooms?”
Morgan nodded, pushing the sketch forward across the boys’ desk where he’d been working. He’d envisioned a ship tossed at sea, the whale rising out of the waves behind it. “Do you think this is too scary? Whose room is this?”
The boy who’d stepped forward gave him an incredulous glance. “’Course it’s not too scary. I’m not a baby.”
“This is your room, then?” Morgan asked.
The boy nodded. “Mine and Jim’s.” He gestured to another, smaller redheaded boy at the back of the crowd. “He is the one who picked Moby Dick.”
Morgan locked eyes with Jim. “That was a really good choice, Jim. It gave me a lot to work with.” He glanced back at the first boy. “And what’s your name?”
“I’m Alex, sir. And we’re so excited to see what you d
o. We’ve all seen the girls’ room.”
“I’m glad to do it,” Morgan assured them, a little uncomfortable with the praise. He’d hidden his artwork for so long it was strange to get this sort of feedback and approval.
He met Samuel’s gaze, pleased to see that his son looked happier than he had since Anne’s death. Perhaps he had needed the company of other boys his age. He was old enough to go away to school, but Morgan hadn’t been able to bear the thought of sending him away after the boy had just lost his mother. “Have the rest of you given thought as to what you’d like in your own rooms?”
That induced a spirited discussion about their favorite books and arguments between roommates. As Morgan continued his sketches, he found that he, too, was happier than he’d been in quite some time.
“Does it have to be from a book?” one of the boys asked. “Couldn’t we do the Battle of Trafalgar or King Arthur’s knights?”
“You can do whatever you want,” Morgan assured them. “Just as long as I’m familiar enough with the work to be able to paint it.”
Another boy, a tow-headed blond, thrust a piece of paper at him. “Would somethin’ like this be all right?”
Morgan found himself holding an exquisitely drawn pencil sketch of a fire-breathing dragon. “This is fantastic work, young man. Absolutely beautiful! What’s your name?”
“My name’s Henry.” The boy seemed to grow an extra inch under Morgan’s praise, and he thought sadly of how easy it would have been for his stepfather to encourage him instead of mock him. If only his real father had lived...
“Well, Henry, if Mrs. Bohannan says it’s all right, would you like to be my assistant?”
The boy’s eyes widened with shock. “You couldn’t mean that, sir?”
