She put a hand to her hat and peered up at the tall, cream townhouse. He glanced up too. Though not in the fashionable part of London, Grovesnor Street was still respectful enough with clean pavements and access to a small green over the road.
“I hope she still lives here.”
He did too. And that she could lead him to her Uncle Albert, and he could return to doing what he did best—kidnapping women and making money—and not being far too wrapped up in some knife-wielding, freckled woman’s life.
He also hoped she didn’t live here, fool that he was.
Russell pulled the bell and stepped back, motioning for Rosamunde to move in front of him while the ring of the bell echoed throughout the house. “You look less threatening than I do.”
“I would not say you look threatening,” she murmured. “More...intimidating.”
“And that’s better?”
“Maybe.”
The door eased open slowly and a man with bushy white brows, a thick white beard, and a few strands of hair clinging to his head appeared in the gap. He narrowed tired eyes at them while remaining stooped low.
“Certainly not Mary,” he muttered under his breath.
“Yes?” he barked, the volume of his voice making Rosamunde jump.
“Forgive the disturbance but does, um, Mary live here?” Rosamunde asked.
The man frowned. “Wary? Why do I have to be wary?” he bellowed.
“Mary.” Rosamunde raised her voice. “I’m looking for Mary.”
The door inched farther open and an attractive woman with a sizeable bosom and faded pale hair smiled at them. “I’m Mary. Can I help?”
“Oh wonderful.” Rosamunde’s eyes lit up. “We are looking for Sir Albert Wood. We thought you might know him.”
“Sir Albert Wood?” she repeated softly, glancing at the old man.
“Yes.” Rosamunde laced her hands together. “He’s my uncle,” she explained.
“Perhaps we had better take a little walk.” Mary tapped the old man’s arm. “Go inside, I’m going to just talk to this lady.”
“A baby? Who’s having a baby?” the man asked.
Mary smiled softly and shook her head. “You need to stop losing your hearing tube. Especially when you do it on purpose.”
“I do not do it on purpose,” he muttered, “but I would lose it less if you would cease your rabbiting.”
Mary folded her arms. “Oh, so you heard that perfectly.”
“Yes, I’d like some lemon curd.” He shuffled around and winked at Rosamunde before retreating into the house.
“Forgive him,” Mary said. “He likes to play games with me. It keeps him amused.”
Rosamunde winced. “We didn’t realize you were married.”
Mary laughed. “Oh, that’s my father. He came to live with me after my mother passed. He’s good company most of the time.” She snatched a shawl from behind the door, looped it over her shoulders, and shut the door behind her.” She glanced Rosamunde over. “So you are Albert’s niece?”
Rosamunde nodded.
“I can see the family resemblance.” Mary looked to Russell. “And is this your husband?”
“No,” Russell replied swiftly.
Her brows lifted. “If I were you, I would change that,” she said to Russell. “You won’t get a prettier girl and if she’s anything like Albert, well...let’s just say you won’t ever be bored.”
Good God were all the women associated with Rosamunde’s family so bold? He glanced at his feet and avoided her inquisitive gaze.
“Come,” Mary ordered. “I have little desire to talk about my lover here. Knowing Father, he’s found his hearing tube and is holding it up against the door.”
They obediently followed Mary over to the small green. Despite the fine weather, few people occupied it, most likely preferring to head to Hyde Park where they could be seen.
“So you are my uncle’s lover?” Rosamunde asked.
Mary peered at Rosamunde. “You are quite young. I am not certain you should be hearing this.”
Rosamunde lifted her chin. “I’m a widow.”
Mary made a noise. “Married women rarely know anything about what it is like to have an affair. God knows, their husbands are useless. That is why I never married.” She sighed. “Though I might have married your uncle had he asked.”
“When did you last see him?” Rosamunde pressed.
“Oh goodness.” She furrowed her brows. “It must have been a good fifteen years ago or so.”
“Oh.”
“Why? What has happened?” Mary asked. “Is he in trouble? And, I must ask, however did you find me?” She looked to Russell. “Are you some sort of investigator? You have the clever look of one.”
ROSAMUND COULD NOT help but smile as Russell eyed Mary. The man didn’t know how to take her compliment at all.
“Uh...”
“Mr. Russell is helping me find Uncle Albert,” Rosamunde said. “He has been missing for some months now.”
Mary wrinkled her nose. “He did have a tendency to vanish for a while.”
Rosamunde nodded. “But never for this long, and he always wrote to me. I haven’t had a single letter this time.”
“Which niece are you?” Mary paused to peer at her.
“Lady Rosamunde Stanley.”
“Rosamunde,” she repeated. “Oh yes, the little girl with the big imagination. I recall him doting upon you.” Mary sighed. “Albert was quite the man.” A soft smile lingered on her lips. “He knew how to make a woman feel, well, divine.”
Rosamunde eyed the attractive older woman and tried to picture her uncle as some suave rake-type character and failed. Uncle Albert was not without his charm and his big personality drew people to him, but he had a large nose, a rounded belly, and a sore knee.
“So you haven’t seen him recently?” Russell pressed.
She shook her head. “I wish I could say I had but, alas, neither of us were the marrying sort and our courtship ended when my mother died, and Father moved in. There isn’t a day that goes by when I do not think of him.” Mary wrung her hands together. “I do hope he is well.”
“So do I,” Rosamunde agreed.
“However did you find me anyway? We kept our tête-à-tête extremely quiet.”
“He kept letters from you,” Rosamunde explained.
“Goodness.” Mary cinched the shawl closer around her neck and smiled. “I forgot about those. How wonderful he still has them. I might not have his letters anymore, but I cannot deny, he is still close to my heart.”
Rosamunde smiled back. “You must have meant a lot to him. He kept them with other prized possessions.”
“That is nice to know.” Mary sighed. “I wish I could be of more help but, unfortunately, I have not seen him since our last time together.”
Rosamunde blew out a breath. She felt certain Mary would know something of her uncle. It seemed their one lead on his whereabouts had come to nothing and she could find no reason Mary would lie to them. She certainly did not seem the dishonest sort and as much as Rosamunde had a habit of seeing things that were not there, she could usually make out a liar.
“Will you let us know if you hear from him?” Russell asked.
Mary nodded. “Is the family still at Westham House?”
“Yes. You can write to me there.”
They stopped near the entrance gate to the green and Russell rubbed a hand along his jaw. “Can you think of anywhere he might be?”
“He went to so many places.” Mary shrugged. “Though he did like to frequent the Queen’s Head whilst visiting with me. They had some rather pleasant ales apparently, despite its location. I would hardly think he is there, though.”
Nor did Rosamunde. Uncle Albert rather considered himself a connoisseur of alcohol but was not the sort of man to get into some drunken stupor and disappear for months on end in a pub of all places.
“I know the place,” Russell said.
“I think we should at le
ast see if he has been there recently,” Rosamunde declared.
Russell stiffened. “We can talk about that in a moment.”
“I should be returning to my father.” Mary twisted on her heel and paused. “Do let me know once you find him. And maybe suggest he tries to find me again.” She gave a coy smile.
“I will, thank you.” Rosamunde watched the woman hasten back toward the house and shook her head. “I never thought of Uncle Albert as some sort of passionate lover.”
“We all have hidden depths.”
She eyed Russell and rubbed the end of her nose. “I’m not certain any of mine are hidden. I was never very good at being secretive and alluring.”
He lifted a shoulder. “I wouldn’t expect a woman like you to have a knife in her garter.” He leaned in. “Some might even find that fact alluring too.”
Her cheeks warmed as she recalled his hands splayed on her thighs, searching for the knife.
“I prefer my women unarmed, though,” he added swiftly.
The heat swiftly doused. Of course he did. No one was interested in a woman with a mind full of adventure. She often suspected it was because men feared they could not live up to her expectations. They were not wrong, if she was honest. Russell, however…
Well, he certainly lived up to some of them. Mysterious, handsome, rather reckless...
She shook her head. “Shall we go to the inn?”
“I will go to the inn.”
“Where is it?”
“Not far from the docks.”
“We could even walk from here.”
He shook his head. “I’ll see you home and then make inquiries.”
“But that makes no sense,” she protested. “We could walk there in half an hour.”
“Rosamunde, the docks are no place for a lady, and I doubt this establishment is either if it is based there.”
“I want to come.”
“Have you ever even set foot on the docks?”
She lifted her chin. “Once.”
“And a tavern?”
“I’ve been to plenty of traveler’s inns.”
“These sorts of places are vastly different from the posh traveler’s inns you likely frequent.”
She waved a hand. “I do not see how. They serve food and ale. How different can they be?”
He fixed her with a look. “Vastly different, as I just said.”
“If you do not take me, I shall go on my own.”
“You are not going, Rosamunde, and that’s final.”
Chapter Fourteen
She was going. Why Russell ever thought he could persuade Rosamunde to return home, he did not know. Had he learned nothing about the stubbornness of this woman yet?
He briefly debated flinging her over his shoulder and stuffing her in a hack, but he doubted Rosamunde would remain in it. The damned woman would likely fling herself from it again and he couldn’t have her injured because of him once more.
“Let’s get this over with,” he muttered.
It seemed unlikely Albert would be holed up in some inn for months on end, but it was worth seeing if anyone had seen him. If they could only figure out his last movements in London, it would make it a darn sight easier to find the man.
He shook his head. Why did Albert frequent such a rough area? Fine ale be damned, as soon as Russell could get out from the slums, he did, and he only set foot there if absolutely necessary.
He led the way down the busy streets, passing through the market. Rosamunde scurried to keep up and he offered out a hand. Mostly because he didn’t want to lose her in the crowds. Not because he enjoyed holding her hand or anything foolish like that. The stalls were crowded with sellers shouting their wares, making it impossible to communicate with Rosamunde until he ducked into one of the alleyways. He released her hand, flexing his fingers.
No chance he missed her fingers entwined with his. Not at all.
“Not everyone has long legs and can walk as fast as you,” she said breathlessly, keeping pace with him.
“We need to keep moving. If you look at all lost, you’ll draw attention.”
“You certainly do not look lost.”
“I’m not.”
“How do you know this area of London so well anyway?”
He stilled briefly, glancing around at the filthy alleyway. Dirty rags of clothing hung from windows and the wail of several likely starving children echoed about the soot-blackened walls. “I’ve spent a lot of time here.”
“But why?”
He continued on, ignoring her question, and she scampered behind him.
“Is it to do with kidnapping?”
“No.”
“You work somewhere nearby perhaps?”
“No.”
“Ah, you volunteer at the workhouse and do not want me knowing you are soft and kind!”
“Certainly not.”
“I still think you are secretly soft and kind,” she muttered.
“I am damn well not.”
“Very well, then you must own some institution here or perhaps a ship.” She peered up at him. “I think you must have cocoa plantations somewhere or trade in coffee.”
He had many different ventures to his name, so she was not entirely wrong. However, he did as little owning of things as possible. Things meant planting down roots and making attachments. Life was far too fragile for that.
“Rosamunde,” he said in a warning tone.
“I could see you as a sea captain actually.”
“Rosamunde...”
“No, perhaps not. I think it more likely you work with orphaned children. You bring them gifts and sweetmeats but do not want anyone knowing, lest they think you have a heart.”
“Damnit, Rosamunde. I grew up here. In these dirty alleyways. And believe me, I have no heart. I think I lost it here, in these very streets.”
She stilled, forcing him to come to a stop.
He ground his teeth together. “Can we keep moving?”
“You cannot tell me such a thing and expect me not to wish to know more.”
“Rosamunde, for once in your life, can you not be curious?”
She shook her head vigorously. “I’m not sure I’m capable of that.”
Despite himself, his lips tilted a little. He shouldn’t like her curiosity. It was the exact opposite of what he needed from her. Could she not be one of these meek, mild women who were too scared to ask questions and let him get on with this job?
“Fine. You have three questions. That’s it.”
“Three questions?”
He held up three fingers. “One, two, three. And once you have asked those, you may never ask me a personal question ever again.”
She pressed a finger to her lips. “I do not see what is so harmful about personal questions. No one ever died from talking about themselves.”
“I’m certain there were a few prisoners in the tower who would have fared better by keeping their mouths shut.”
She waved a hand. “Those are exceptional circumstances and I’m certainly not keeping you prisoner.”
Wasn’t she? He could not help but feel the moment he’d grabbed her from the carriage, she’d caught him, and wrapped him up in her world where he most definitely did not belong. He was incapable of refusing her. He swore it was worse than torture in the Tower of London.
“Three. Take it or leave it.”
“Fine. I’ll take it.”
They continued along the alleyway until they came out onto the road that led toward the docks. A little mist seeped in off the water, swirling about their ankles, contrasting strangely with the warm day.
“Well?” he asked when she remained quiet.
“I’m thinking,” she said. “If I only have three, I must use them sensibly.”
He rolled his eyes. He shouldn’t have even offered three. No one wanted to hear the grim story of his life anyway and he did not much enjoy speaking of it. Guy Huntingdon, the Earl of Henleigh, knew a little of it, only because they�
��d met through a shared business interest and before offering him the job with The Kidnap Club, he’d asked of his past. Even Nash had no idea of his roots.
“What age were you orphaned?”
“Five.”
“Blast, that was a waste of a question.” She glanced up at him. “Can you not tell me more?”
“That’s question number two. And no, I cannot.”
“That was not a question and you know it. I still have another two.”
He looped an arm around her waist and drew her into him. “They will have to wait.” He nodded toward a building ahead where several men lounged in the streets outside, clearly deep into their cups. “We’re here.”
ROSAMUNDE EYED THE building. The once-white walls were grimy, marked with soot and dirt from the road. The front door had a boot print on it. She frowned. Why someone had put their foot so high up she could not fathom. There was no doubting this was unlike the clean traveler’s inns in which she sometimes stayed. Most of the time, if they went to the country, they found someone obliging who would put them up for a few days in one of the many elegant country homes.
The tavern looked rather like one of those ones she pictured by the coast, on some rugged cliff top with the wind howling, rather than tucked in between warehouses and tumbling down buildings. She anticipated someone bursting through the door at any moment, a pistol brandished or maybe some customs men barreling through the entrance and arresting smugglers.
No one left or entered and a man who lounged against the building let out a huge belch.
She looked to Russell who eyed her reaction. He expected her to be frightened. He expected her to be the privileged lady and balk at entering.
How little he knew her. She couldn’t wait to step through into this other world. It might only be in a different part of London and not an hour from her family home, but it was the unknown—and nothing excited her more.
Lifting her chin, she pushed open the door and stepped in, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the dull light. The grimy windows let in little of the daylight that seeped through the gaps in between the taller buildings that crowded around it. Her shoes stuck to the floor as she walked in and several heads whipped around at the sound of the door shutting. She inhaled deeply and drew up her shoulders. No, she did not belong here, but she’d be damned if she’d let anyone scare her away.
Stealing the Heiress (The Kidnap Club Book 2) Page 9
