by Ruth Owen
A brief glimmer of hope flashed through her mind, but it quickly died. The wooden frame of the window was nailed shut. And even if it hadn’t been, she was on the second floor, with nothing to stop a straight fall to the brick alley below. A drop like that could break an arm or a leg. A sensible woman would never consider such a risky undertaking.
You’re a gambler’s daughter, Rina-lass. Take a chance.
Rina started. The words were so clear in her mind, she felt as if her father was standing beside her. The notion was ridiculous, of course, but nevertheless, the words gave her hope. She was a gambler’s daughter, and it was time she started acting like one.
Breathing a lusty oath, she reached down and hastily tore a length of fabric from her skirt, and wrapped it securely around her fisted hand. She paused, making sure the hallway was silent, then she deftly broke the window glass and climbed through the frame onto the outside ledge. Her dress tore on the glass, but she ignored it, keeping her attention squarely on her goal. Then, muttering a quick prayer to Lady Luck, she let of the window frame and dropped to the alley below.
Someone was pounding on Michael Quinn’s door.
He sat up in bed, savagely rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Christ, it was practically the middle of the bloomin’ night! “I’m paid up proper through evening. Clear off!”
He dove back under his covers. The pounding continued.
Cursing, he stomped to the door, and found himself staring into the bushy black mustache of the Green Dragon’s squeeze-penny landlord.
“Another one,” the man stated simply.
“Another what—oh, you mean another lady. At this hour?”
“Didn’t know the time mattered.” The landlord shrugged, “You want to see her?”
No, Quinn thought empathically. He was in no mood to interview yet another lady who “was guaranteed to fit his bill to a tee.” Besides, his sources had assured him that he’d already seen the best talent London had to offer. Still…
“Is she young? Is she well-spoken?”
“Can’t say and didn’t ask,” the landlord replied unhelpfully. “But she got red ‘air. Yards of it.”
Well, that was something. Quinn stroked his chin, trying not to get his hopes up. Red hair was essential to his plans, but it was only one of the cards he was looking for. So far, not one of the ladies he’d seen had come close to having the makings of a winning hand. One had been too fat, another too short, another too common, another too untrustworthy. At the end of a wearisome week he was no better off than when he’d first arrived in London. Years of plotting and planning threatened to fall to ruin around his ears. He wasn’t in a position to pass up any possibilities. “Best put the lady in the sitting room next door. I’ll be there directly.”
In short order Quinn shaved and dressed, working with efficiency he’d learned during his tenure as a day laborer and the nattiness he’d acquired at his stint as a nobleman’s valet. Unbidden, his mind stretched back to a day long past, to a sun-drenched room on a Tuscany hillside, where a smiling young woman with butternut hair was lovingly adjusting his collar. Pain stabbed through his heart. You’ll pay, Trevelyan. If I have to scour the empire for a red-haired lassie to help me, I’ll bloody well do it.
Resolved, he gave the hem of his waistcoat a final straightening tug, then opened the door that led to the suite’s sitting room. The front room was larger, but the cracked plaster walls and musty furniture made it look even more dismal than the room he’d just left. The gloomy atmosphere was cheered somewhat by the substantial fire that the landlord had laid in the iron grate. And in a chair near the quickening blaze, warming herself as if she were frozen to the bone, sat the lady.
As the landlord reported, she had a profusion of red hair. Her face was turned away from him toward the fire, but her slim build suggested that she was young enough to suit his purposes. His hopes rose—but were dashed back to earth as he noticed that her dark dress was torn and stained past the point of repair, and her hair was streaked with soot and dirt.
A mudlark, he thought bleakly. Even if the lassie looked the part, she wouldn’t have the breeding he needed to pull off the charade. Sighing, he approached her, reaching in his pocket for a shilling to give the poor creature before he sent her on her way. “I’m sorry, lass. You’re not—”
She rose from the chair and took a wavering step toward him. The girl was on the ragged edge of exhaustion. He moved closer to assist her, but froze as he recognized the strong Celtic nose, and the canny emerald eyes she’d inherited from her father. “Miss Murphy? Whatever has happened—”
“Oh, Mr. Quinn. I’m in such dreadful trouble,” she confessed shakily, then gave way to weariness and collapsed into his arms.
Chapter Three
Something smelled wonderful.
Sabrina’s eyelids fluttered open. Her gaze skimmed over the small sitting room before lighting on a rasher of plump kippers, a rack of golden toast, and a cup of rich, steaming hot chocolate. Her mouth began to water. If this is a dream, I hope I don’t wake up until after breakfast….
“Welcome back, lassie.”
Casting her gaze to the side, she caught sight of Mr. Quinn winking at her from the other side of the breakfast table. He was humming tunelessly, and spreading what appeared to be an entire pot of marmalade on a muffin. Sabrina pressed her hand to her forehead and tried to gather up the scattered bits of her consciousness. She recalled the inn’s glowering mustachioed landlord, recalled the fugitive journey through the back streets to Greygallows Lane, recalled the drop to the freezing snowbank in the back alley, recalled the cluttered storeroom, the Runner—
Rina sucked in her breath, memory returning to her in a giddying rush. She glanced at Mr. Quinn, who’d just taken a hearty bite out of his muffin. She doubted he’d be so calm once he learned he was sharing his table with a murderess. “Mr. Quinn, I will not deceive you. I have come here because—”
“Have a kipper,” Quinn said, his words slurred by a mouthful of muffin.
She shook her head, waving aside the offered plate. “Thank you for your kindness, but I can’t accept your hospitality, not until I tell you why I had to leave—”
“You can tell me once you’ve had a kipper, lass,” he interrupted, his cheerfulness undaunted. “And do try some of the toast and this right tolerable jam. Now, how about a bit o’ this lovely hot chocolate?”
Rina’s resolve could stand firm against a bakeryful of muffins and a sea of marmalade—but against hot chocolate? Never. She lifted the cup and took a sip, savoring the sweet taste and the way the warmth curled comfortably in her empty middle. Considering the harrowing events of the night before, she ought not to have much of an appetite for this meal. Instead, she found herself laying into the meat and muffins as if she hadn’t eaten in a month.
It appears risk agrees with me, she thought with a self-deprecating smile as she liberally buttered a square of golden toast. She downed two kippers and half a pot of hot chocolate in a snap, but as her appetite diminished, her guilt returned. She laid down the remains of her toast and cleared her throat. “Mr. Quinn, you are all kindness, but I must tell you that—”
“That you took a candlestick to your stepbrother’s thick skull,” the man finished calmly as he selected another muffin.
“But how did you—? How could you—?”
“Now don’t be frettin’ so,” Quinn said as he patter her hand comfortingly. “When you arrived in such an agitated state, I asked the innkeeper to send his boy to make some ‘discreet inquiries.’ He’s fair bit of wizard at ‘inquiries,’ that boy is. Part of the reason a bloke chooses to stay at the Green Dragon. In any event, he ran back fair bursting with a story of Runners and ‘pothecaries and all manner of mayhem.”
She stared down at the tablecloth, and asked hoarsely, “What about Albert?”
Quinn’s smile faded. “I won’t lie to you, lass. From what the boy heard, he ain’t doing well.”
In the warmth and well-fed comfort of
the little sitting room, she’d been able to put aside the harrowing trauma of the night before. Now once again the spiders of fear began to creep into her heart as she remembered the fate that awaited her—her, and for anyone who aided her.
“I shouldn’t have come,” she said, abruptly rising from the chair. “I’ve put you in danger by coming here. Made you an accomplice…”
“Missy, you’re not going anywhere till you’ve got your strength back,” he ordered. “And as for being an accomplice—well, it ain’t as if I was in the law’s good graces.”
“But I’m a murderer,“ she cried softly.
Quinn’s expression softened, and he lifted his hand to brush her cheek. “Ah, lass, I’ve lived by my wits for too long not to know a pair of honest eyes when I sees ‘em. Them Runners could swear on the Good Book that you’d done in sixty men since last night’s supper, and I wou’na believe them. You’re Dan’l’s girl, with Dan’l’s blood in your veins. And if you’re a murderer, then I’m the bloody pope!”
For years, Rina’s stepmother had worn her down with insinuations about her wicked and brazen character, repeating lies so often that even she’d begin to believe them. She’d learned to live with the fact that people believed the worst of her, concealing her pain and loneliness behind a mask of indifference. But Quinn believed in her innocence, despite the accusations, and that simple trust meant more to Rina than words could say. Impulsively, she wrapped him in a huge hug.
“Here, here. None of that,” the scalawag said gruffly, his face beet-red as he pushed himself out of her embrace. Clearing his throat, he crisply pulled down the hem of his waistcoat, recovering at least the appearance of his stern demeanor. “We’ve no time for such foolishness. This situation with your brother is a pickle, and no mistake. The Green Dragon is safe for now, but that won’t last forever. You can’t stay in London. Where is it you’re bound for?”
Sabrina hadn’t a clue. The position at Hampton School was lost to her, along with any other respectable occupation. She had no prospects, no money, and no friends in the world except for Quinn. “I…don’t know. Truthfully, I have nowhere to go.”
Quinn scratched his chin. “That’s not altogether true. You’ve a flush hand in front of you, if’n you’re willin’ to pick it up. It’s the one we spoke of at your da’s grave a week past. Do ya recall it?”
Recall it? She’d thought about that snowy afternoon a dozen times, unable to get their conversation out of her mind. Now, more than ever, the prospect ignited her interest. But Quinn had made no secret of the fact that his plan wasn’t entirely legal. And Lord knew she was in enough trouble with the law as it was. “I remember, but I don’t think—”
“Hear me out, that’s all I ask.” He reached into his waistcoat and pulled out a locket. Inside was the faded miniature of a young, stiff-faced child with hair as red as Rina’s own. “This here’s a likeness of a bairn named Prudence Winthrope. She was going on seven when this portrait was painted, just before she and her folks was lost in a fire. Their house burned to the ground, and no bodies were ever found. That was thirteen years ago.”
Rina took the locket and cupped it in her hand, feeling a vague sorrow for the little girl who’d died so young. “That’s tragic, Mr. Quinn, but I don’t see what it has to do with me.”
“The girl was an heiress, born into a wealthy and powerful Cornwall family, the House of Trevelyan.”
“I still don’t —” Rina began, but stopped as she took a second to look at the child. Red hair. Died in a fire some thirteen years ago—no bodies found.
“Mr. Quinn, you aren’t suggesting I should pretend to be this girl?”
“Ah, you’re as quick as your da and that’s a fact!” Quinn whooped. “You’ve the hair and age for it, and the breeding that comes from your dear mother. With the proper coin in the right hands, I can get documents that’ll prove to God himself that you’re the long-lost girl. It’s years I’ve been looking for a lass suited to play the part of Prudence, but the minute I sees you I knows I’ve found the one. My Red Queen. My Queen of Diamonds.”
“Stop it!” Rina went to the fire and rested her head against the mantel. “Even if you could get the documents, I could not be a party to such a scheme. It is monstrously dishonest and I could never keep up the charade. The girl’s relatives would find me out.”
“The girl’s relatives hardly knew her,” Quinn argued as he came up beside her. “She stayed with them a spell when she was six, but mostly she lived with her parents on the Continent. Her pa fancied the wine and women of Italy, while her ma—”
Quinn looked down, a lost, sad frown clouding his eager face. Sabrina had a curious desire to wrap her arms around him, but before she could, his sorrowful expression vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “I’ve got it all figured, I have. You’ll make ‘em believe you’re Prudence, but you don’t have to keep up the game for long. It’s not the inheritance we’re after, my girl. It’s the Dutchman’s Necklace.” Quinn dropped his voice and leaned closer, the flames playing across his face. “A diamond necklace, with stones plucked from the heart of an Africa mine. Big as goose eggs, they are, and bright enough to outshine the stars themselves. We get that necklace, and our fortunes is made. We can go anywhere, do anything, be anyone. Nab that necklace, my bonnie lass, and you’ll not have to worry about your sodding excuse of a stepbrother again!”
Rina could change her name, move to another country, travel the world, live all he dreams, and more. It would be a risk, of course, but if she played it right, she could—
She froze, appalled that at least a part of her mind was figuring out the odds of the illicit venture. She ran her thumb over the small portrait, again feeling the fierce, inexplicable sympathy for the long-dead Prudence. Stealing a fortune in gems was one thing, but to steal another person’s life…
“No, it isn’t right. The poor girl’s family might not have known her well, but I’m sure they felt her death as keenly…well, as I felt the deaths of my own parents. I cannot be so deceitful to a loving family.”
Quinn threw back his head and gave a whoop of laughter, ”Loving family, is it? Let me tell you a thing or two about her family. The Trevelyans have never loved anything but money. They made their fortune in tin, on the backs of the miners who risked their lives in dark and dangerous mine shafts. The dowager countess is a proper termagant, who rules the house with an unforgiving hand. Her granddaughter ain’t much better. Just out of the schoolroom, the girl spends most of her time posin’ and preenin’ in front of the mirror, and drives her poor maids to distraction over bows and patches and such. And as for the earl—”
The brightness left Quinn’s eyes, leaving them dull and gray as a storm-shrouded sea. “The Trevelyans have never been known for their character, but the present lord is the worst of a sorry lot. The miners call him the Black Earl, though whether they’re speaking of his hair or his heart is anyone’s guess. If there was ever a devil in a man’s body, ‘tis the Earl of Trevelyan.” Quinn shook himself roundly, as if to oust the image of the infernal nobleman from his mind. “He’s a bad ‘un, that’s sure. But there’s one blessing to him. He spends little time at his Cornwall home, Ravenshold. Likes the big cities, he does—the bright lights o’ London and Paris. They say he couldn’t even be bothered to rouse himself from his, er, pleasurable pursuits for his wife’s illness and passing, if’n you catch my meaning.”
Rina caught Quinn’s meaning all too well. She’d grown up stepping aside for posh carriages of the foppish, self-absorbed aristocrats who spent their days in fine houses in Mayfair—and their nights indulging in every kind of vile sin and debauchery. She’d seen such men wager a king’s ransom on the turn of a card, then beat a poor street beggar senseless for the crime of asking for a penny. She’d seen young women they used and tossed aside, discarding them with no more thought than they’d give to a wrinkled cravat or a soiled handkerchief.
No, Rina held no love for the gentry, and she was honest enough to admit s
he was sorely tempted by the chance to pay one of the blackguards back for the harm they’d done to the weak and destitute. But such a daring charade was not in her nature. She shook her head, and closed the locket with a sharp, defining snap. “I wish I could help you, Mr. Quinn, I truly do, But…it’s just not in me to do this. Perhaps you could find another red-haired lady.”
“Aye, perhaps,” Quinn agreed, but without much conviction. “Perhaps. But I’ll tell you true, lass. A Red Queen is hard to come by. You were my best hope. My last, I’m thinkin’.” He walked over to where his much-mended topcoat hung on a wall peg. Delving into the folds, he extracted a small purse from its voluminous pocket. “Whether you throw in with me or not, you’re Dan’l’s girl and I mean to see you safe. This money’ll take you to a friend of mine in Dublin. He’ll take you in, no questions asked. With a new name, he can set you up at a milliner’s, or a dressmaker’s. And there’s always a chance you might be able to square things with your grandfather.”