Night Storm (Bones & Gemstones Book 1)

by Tracey Devlyn

  “I’ve had to make many adjustments in the last five years in order to survive until the next day. One rather important alteration I made was to no longer live and breathe by the whim of a man.”

  The skin around his cheeks tightened; his eyes grew hard, fathomless. “Interesting to hear that you think you ever did.”

  All of the heartache, loneliness, and self-doubt came rushing back with such force and devastating effect that her eyes welled with betraying tears. Dammit.

  “Charley—”

  She shook her head and turned away. The gentleness in his voice made matters worse. She wiped away the moisture, unable to believe she’d allowed this man to break through her defenses. It wasn’t fair. Dear God, she’d suffered enough.

  “Cam, do not come near me again.”

  When he said nothing, she peered at him over her shoulder. Something indefinable had taken hold of his features, something dangerous. Something she needed to get away from. Now. But first… “Promise me.”

  He swallowed hard before answering. “I can’t make that promise.” He shook his head, as if freeing himself from an unpleasant emotion. “As a matter of fact, I’ll be calling on you tomorrow afternoon. No more delays, Charley. Make sure the boy’s with you.”

  Acid churned in her stomach. “We’ve discussed this. Felix would tell me if he’d seen something.”

  “I’m not as trusting as you.”

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “You made that sentiment painfully clear years ago.”

  Lifting a hand, he indicated the door. “Piper’s waiting.”

  Charlotte paused next to him, lifting her chin so she could look him in the eye. “Felix has been through enough. I won’t let you do him more harm.” She did not wait for him to comment before marching away. As parting salvos went, hers had been weak, but no less heartfelt.

  She knew the destruction Cameron could inflict with nothing more than a look and a whispered good-bye. No telling what he could do if he set his mind to stopping a murderer.

  Chapter Eight

  “I have the Scotts’ address.”

  Adair lowered his newspaper and motioned for Trigger to sit. “Well done. Have you had lunch?”

  “No, sir.”

  After signaling to one of the Mirador’s waitstaff, Adair allowed his attention to wander to the outside while Trig ordered. A rare sunny day had visited the city, making the barely above freezing temperatures feel much warmer than they really were. As a result, the area bustled with activity. Fancy carriages and overflowing vendor carts vied for space on the narrow street. Idle shoppers and frantic businessmen strode down the pavement at great odds with one another.

  Ever since taking rooms at the Mirador Hotel a year ago, he’d claimed this particular window table as his own. He dined here regularly, though far more often he simply sat, sipped tea or coffee, and resolved whatever issue of the day was bothering him.

  Today, he contemplated Charley and her odd behavior yesterday. Why had she been in the costume room, sniffing the red shirt? What else had she been doing in there before his arrival? He would bet his building fortune that her reasons had to do with the possible connection of that whelp Felix and Lady Winthrop’s murder.

  “Thank you, George,” Trig said, after the waiter took their orders.

  Once the waiter was out of hearing distance, Adair asked, “You’re sure you followed the right boy?”

  “He arrived at the apothecary shop with an older girl. The descriptions you gave me for both Scotts matched.” Trigger wiggled his eyebrows. “His sister is even prettier in person.”

  “Get on with your story, you rogue.”

  Trig smiled. “Like you said he would, within five minutes of arriving, Felix left the shop. Well, more like he stormed out.”

  Knowing how protective Charley was of the boy, he’d suspected she would send Felix away as soon as he arrived for work in order to keep him out of sight. “Did he go home?”

  “No, he visited a few of the shops along Long Acre. Each stop took about fifteen or twenty minutes. One lasted a half hour.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “It was a little hard to see from my position across the street. If I had to guess, I’d say he was doing odd jobs for the shopkeepers. At one point, I saw him standing on a ladder with a hammer in his hand.”

  “Interesting. It would seem Mrs. Fielding isn’t his only employer.”

  “Why is that interesting, sir?”

  “Another piece of the puzzle, Trig. Some of the pieces are more important than others.”

  Trig frowned, scratching the back of his head. “If you say so, sir.”

  “Where did he go when he left Long Acre?”

  “He sat on a doorstep. Strangest thing.” Trig leaned back while the waiter placed a steaming bowl of soup and a heaping roasted beef sandwich in front of him. “Smells good, George.”

  “I’ll tell the chef you said so. Enjoy, Master Trigger.”

  When they were alone again, Adair said, “Continue, please.”

  “There’s not much more to tell. He plopped down on a doorstep and stared at the building across the way. Just sat there for over an hour.” Trig spooned soup into his mouth. “I started to feel bad for the kid.”

  Adair held back a smile. Felix Scott was likely a year or two older than Trig. But Trig had spent years on the streets, forcing him to mature faster than lads who had others to protect them. “Why is that?”

  “I don’t know. He looked like he wanted to go inside, but couldn’t bring himself to go across the street.”

  “What building was he watching?”

  “A theater.”

  “The Augusta?”

  Another spoonful. “Sounds right.”

  Adair’s attention once again returned to the street, though he focused on nothing. What connection was he missing?

  “Need anything else, sir?”

  The cup and saucer holding his coffee began to clatter. Adair’s gaze flicked to Trig’s arms resting on the table, then to his vibrating torso. Beneath the table, Trig’s knee was no doubt running in place, causing the table to shake against the onslaught of his pent-up energy. Observing Felix Scott idle outside the theater for so long must have been agonizing for him. Trigger rarely ever sat for more than ten minutes at a time. Adair always knew when the boy was ready to move on to the next project.

  Adair dug a few pennies from his coin purse. “A round or two of dice might be in order.”

  “Should I ask the boys anything in particular?”

  “See what’s being said about the murder at the Augusta and keep your ear open for news about my attack.”

  “Will do, sir.” Trig stood, accepting the coins. “Do you want me to show you where Felix Scott lives?”

  Like Adair at his age, Trig was happiest when he was doing something. Inactivity preyed on the boy’s nerves and disposition. The more he did, the happier his temperament. Adair had learned awhile ago how to harness the constant pulse of energy flowing from Trig and how to utilize his complex web of friends.

  “No. Leave the address with me and you can get started on the other.”

  Trig rattled off an address located on the northwest edge of Seven Dials. He wrapped his napkin around his sandwich, then stuffed it into a bag he kept draped across his shoulder. When he saw Adair’s raised brow, he said, “I might not make it back in time for dinner. Don’t worry, I’ll return the napkin to Jules.”

  “Take care with your friends, Trig. Do more listening than talking.”

  Saluting Adair, Trig meandered his way through the dining area; his bag bouncing against his hip in time with each step.

  Jules entered Adair’s line of vision. The manager glanced between him and Trig, one dark brow sliced high into his forehead.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be teaching Master Trigger how to recover stolen objects, rather than how to steal them?”

  “Spying on your patrons again, Julius?”

  “Of course, how else am I to
know who’s a threat to the silver?”

  “If Trig is to become a thief-taker, he must first learn the art of thievery. Understanding your opponent’s mind is half the battle.” Adair smiled. “Do not worry, he’s promised to return your linen.”

  “I never doubted it. For someone who’s lived off his wits for several years, he has a high moral threshold.”

  “‘High moral threshold’?” Adair mimicked. “Jules, me friend, you’ve been hangin’ around toffs too long.”

  “For which you should be eminently grateful. Those ‘toffs’ have been a wonderful source of information for you as well as me.”

  “Touché.” Adair took one last drink of cold tea before standing. “Anything from the reverend?”

  “He’s still in Bath. However, being the thoughtful friend I am, I sent the list to him. With any luck, we’ll have an answer—one way or another—by the end of the week.”

  “Thank you.” Adair squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “I’ll make sure Trig washes the napkin before he returns it.”

  “You’re too generous. The use of a flat iron would not go unnoticed.”

  “Don’t press your luck. I would not let Trig within seven leagues of a hot iron.”

  With the sun still shining, Adair set off for Long Acre Street on foot. The crisp air kept him moving at a brisk pace, which wasn’t saying much with his wounded leg. Once he reached Charley’s shop, he tried to enter and nearly cracked his forehead against the locked door. He stepped back and noticed the lopsided sign swaying back and forth.

  Closed.

  His lips thinned in irritation and maybe a little admiration. Her message was clear—stay away from Felix and don’t ever think to demand anything of me again. His Charley had changed. When they were younger, her strength had come in the form of her intelligence and a deep understanding and acceptance that her contribution to mankind would be by healing others.

  But when it came to male authoritative figures, her natural instinct had been to give in, make way, and keep the peace. Not once in their eight years of friendship had he ever heard her voice an opposing opinion to her often-domineering father. He knew she had wanted to, many times, though, to his knowledge, she’d never crossed that line.

  He stared at the Closed sign, a wry smile cutting away his annoyance. Even though she’d complicated his day, a bolt of excitement sizzled in his veins. How long had it been since he’d felt even a simmer from another woman? Too, too long.

  A small rotund woman with a grimy face, clumpy hair, and tattered clothing, stepped up beside him. She glanced between him and the door. “What’re ye smiling at, guvn’r?’

  Adair cleared his expression. “None of your concern, old woman.”

  She cackled when he began to turn away. “I recognize the look of a pining man. Especially yours.” The cadence of her voice shifted; her words lengthened, smoothed out, became less garbled.

  Narrowing his eyes, he asked, “Do I know you?”

  Her chapped lips curled upward. “Miss Charlotte was always your one weakness. About time you cooked up enough courage to step out of the shadows, Cam-my-man.”

  Cam-my-man.

  Memories spiraled backward in time until one long-forgotten face appeared through the fog. Matilda Hardwick, or Tilly Hardwick, to most. The last five years had not been kind to the baker’s wife.

  “Tilly?”

  She winked, displaying teeth in need of a good brushing—or pulling.

  Unable to stop himself, his gaze roamed over her form again. “What happened? Where’s Emmett?”

  “Gone.” Her lighthearted grin faded. “Died of an apoplexy not long after Miss Charlotte lost her mother.”

  Adair glanced over her shoulder, at the shop next door with its boarded-up windows. “You closed the bakery?”

  She shook her head. “Lost it not long after Emmett died. Same thing would have happened to Fielding’s apothecary if Miss Charlotte hadn’t returned when she did. Poor thing worked day and night to restore her father’s business.”

  He’d hated seeing Tilly close the bakery. At the time, he had assumed she no longer wished to operate the shop without her beloved husband at her side. Hearing the real reason she took down her shingle sent a pang of regret through his chest.

  As for Charley, word of her skill as an apothecary-surgeon had traveled as far as Sydney Hunt’s agency in the heart of London. Even so, he was still surprised by how quickly the community accepted her taking over her father’s shop.

  “A female apothecary-surgeon is unheard of.” Adair flicked two fingers around the area. “Yet, from what I’ve heard, everyone seems to accept her in the role as if it’s commonplace.”

  A huge grin split across Tilly’s face, revealing her decaying teeth. “We might have helped that along.”

  “‘We’?”

  “Once Miss Charlotte set the shop to rights again, her father approached several of the local shopkeepers he trusted and asked us to put in a good word for his daughter with our customers. He said that she had helped him in the shop for years and that she was handpicked by a renowned apothecary-surgeon in Scotland to apprentice beneath him.” Her eyes twinkled. “As you can imagine, Miss Charlotte’s popularity increased tenfold. Many were curious. Many were not surprised.”

  “None were skeptical?”

  Tilly barked out a laugh. “Of course, but George Fielding pulled out his trump card to win those people over.”

  “Which was?”

  “He told them it was his wife’s dying wish that her daughter take over the shop.” Tilly’s face softened. “Like my Emmett, everyone loved Jane Fielding. She gave everything and asked for nothing in return. No one could have denied her such a wish.”

  “Did Charley know about her father’s backdoor scheming?”

  “She had her suspicions, but he never let on. Nor did anyone else.” She leveled her gaze on him; her eyes no longer glinted with mischief. “There were times when I suspected George acted out of guilt than fatherly dedication.”

  “Guilt for what?”

  “I’m not completely sure. Though several months after Charlotte left for Scotland, her mother let it slip about how concerned they was for their daughter.”

  The muscles in Adair’s neck pulled tight. “Concerned about what?”

  “Her happiness. Miss Charlotte did well at her studies, but according to her mother, who was in constant contact with the Scottish mentor, she kept to herself during her off-hours and could be heard crying in her room on several occasions.” Tilly shook her head. “Jane worried they had been wrong to insist that Charlotte study in Scotland. Can you imagine the turmoil they put themselves through? I wish Jane knew how their decision saved her daughter’s life. What would Charlotte have done after her mother died and her father retired to the country?”

  Adair’s head throbbed with conflicting emotions. Had Charley not gone to Scotland, they would have likely wed and begun building a family. But what would their situation be like right now, had Charley followed her heart and not her parents’ wishes?

  Five years ago, he had been bouncing from one odd job to another, much like what Felix Scott was doing with the shopkeepers. Only Adair hadn’t limited himself to minor repairs. He had accepted anything and everything—some of it legal, some not—to earn a few extra coins.

  After Charley left him, he had shoved his humanity aside and all else that made him consider others’ needs before his own. For well over a year, he had survived off his raw emotions, allowing them to push him toward greater risks and dishonorable acts.

  Though his anger and pain never disappeared, they finally receded to a safer place, a controllable place. But the damage had been done. A hard, ruthless opportunist had replaced the young, hopeful optimist. Through the dark times, he had managed to preserve one essential element—his word. He always did what he said he would do. Because of this, people respected him, though he knew they feared him in equal parts.

  About the time he’d stopped viewing the worl
d through a haze of bitterness and rage, an old friend of his father’s reentered his life. A cunning, successful gentleman whom Adair had liked and admired when growing up. A patient man, he had never balked at answering all of Cameron’s many questions about his line of work—thief-taker.

  When the man reappeared years later, at first Adair had wanted nothing to do with his father’s friend. He had avoided any reminders of his former life for nearly two years. In addition, the thief-taker’s work placed him on the law-abiding side of society, a position Adair had not occupied after focusing his energy on obtaining more lucrative means of survival.

  But his father’s friend had continued to plague him with unexpected visits, taking each opportunity to share the details of his most recent case. Despite Adair’s best attempts to remain aloof, he could not close his mind to the old thief-taker’s stories and began to look forward to his next appearance.

  Not surprisingly, he learned the thief-taker wanted more from him than a willing ear. But the “what” had surprised him. With the onset of debilitating arthritis in both knees and no offspring to follow in his footsteps, the thief-taker had offered Adair the opportunity to take over his business.

  Seeing the man’s offer for the rare gift it was, he had accepted and spent the following six months learning all he could from him before his death.

  Realizing he’d been lost in his own thoughts for some time, Adair focused on Tilly’s grimy upturned face. “I’m sorry about the bakery, Tilly.”

  Her eyes widened at his change of topic, and the deep lines of sadness around her eyes cleared. “Don’t be. I don’t miss rising at three in the morning and toiling near the ovens all day.” She glanced down at the rusted perambulator carrying her meager possessions. “There’s freedom in poverty. I don’t have to answer to no one and can rise—or not rise—when I want.”

  Adair’s teeth clenched. “There’s also disease, infestation, rape, murder, and hunger. The streets are no place for someone with your talent, Tilly.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a card. “When you’re finished running from life, come see me.”