I Kissed a Rogue (Covent Garden Cubs)

by Shana Galen

  “She has gone back to bed, sir,” Crawford said. “I am to inform Edwards if you require her ladyship’s attention.”

  “Very good, Crawford. Leave us.”

  When the butler had closed the door and Lennox and Brook were alone, Brook crossed to the mantel and leaned one arm negligently against it. The action caused his shirt, open at the throat, to gape slightly. He hadn’t taken a comb or brush to his hair and, though it was short, he hoped it looked rumpled.

  “This is a surprise,” Brook said. “How kind of you to grace our lowly home.”

  The duke said nothing, simply stared at his tea. He was obviously distraught, and Brook almost felt sorry for him.

  Almost.

  Finally, the duke looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face looked haggard. The dark hair streaked with gray that he always wore combed back from his high forehead fell in unkempt waves over his brow.

  “I didn’t know where else to turn. I know you must hate me—”

  “Hate is far too strong a word. It implies an emotion, and you inspire no emotions in me, Duke. I care not whether you live or die.”

  The teacup rattled and liquid sloshed over the rim as Lennox set it roughly on a table. “This isn’t about me.” He stood, rising to his full height, which was very nearly equal to Brook’s. “I came because I thought you might be able to put aside the past, and because I hear you are the best.”

  “The best?”

  “You found the missing Flynn boy and the daughter of the Marquess of Lyndon. If you won’t do it for me, do it for Lila.”

  “What has she to do with any of this?”

  “She was abducted earlier this evening, just after midnight. My coachman and one outrider are dead. Another is hanging on to life by a thread.”

  Everything in Brook went very still then—the crackle of the fire behind him, the clip-clop of the horses pulling carts to market, the chime of the tall case clock in the corridor faded into the distance.

  Lila had been taken. She might be injured, raped, dead. He hadn’t seen her for seven years, and still the knowledge that something might have happened to her ripped through him. Brook tamped down the fear fiercely and clenched one hand behind his back. He must be calm, rational, precise.

  “Tell me the details.”

  For the first time that night, the duke’s shoulders squared. “Then you will help?”

  “I’ll find her. Where is this outrider?”

  “At my house. I’ll take you to him.”

  “On the way, you can tell me the events of the night as you know them.” Brook started for the door, but the duke’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

  “I cannot say how much I appreciate this, Derring. I’ll pay you whatever you ask.”

  Brook blew out a disgusted breath. “You have nothing I want.”

  By an hour after daybreak, Brook stood in the place the coach and four had been waylaid. The spot was just a few streets from Seven Dials and the thieves and criminals there had wasted no time stripping the conveyance of every adornment. Even the door with the ducal crest had been pried away. The horses were gone. The injured outrider had taken one to make his way back to Lennox House, but the other three had either run off or been stolen.

  The coroner had come to examine the bodies and several constables milled around, watching Brook circle the wreck of what had once been a fine coach and four. The attack had been planned, and planned well. The fact that it had happened here certainly pointed to one of the gangs inhabiting Seven Dials as the likely culprit. The rooks might have been brave, but they weren’t known for abducting grown women in protected conveyances.

  If it was a woman they wanted, the rookeries teemed with them. Blunt had to be the motive. So why hadn’t a ransom note been sent?

  “It’s cold enough to freeze my balls off,” a man said, approaching the carriage. His hands were shoved in his greatcoat and a hat rode low over his temple, concealing a scar.

  “Dorrington,” Brook said with a nod. “You going soft?”

  “Say that again and you’ll see just how soft my fist feels when it connects with your teeth.”

  Brook smiled. The other inspector had been working with him for almost two years now, and he hadn’t changed a bit. He was still foulmouthed, cunning, and sharp as a blade. But he knew this area better than anyone else Brook could think of, probably because he had once lived here under another name.

  “Hunt gave you the particulars?”

  Dorrington nodded, then crouched down to study the blood-spattered ground. “Duke’s daughter on the way home from a ball with a coachman and two outriders. Coach is waylaid. She’s taken and two of the men were shot dead. One was stabbed multiple times. Probably won’t make it.” He looked up at Brook. “Did you talk to the survivor?”

  “He wasn’t much help. Said there were four men, couldn’t describe any of them. Two of them had pistols, and the others, knives that they used on him. The lady was dragged from the carriage and taken that way.” Brook pointed toward Seven Dials, where a sickly yellow fog had rolled in. “He thinks. He was on this side of the coach, bleeding all over, and he says she wasn’t carried off past him.”

  “So this is his blood?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Dorrington crossed to the other side of the vehicle. When he didn’t return right away, Brook joined him. Dorrington stared in the direction of Seven Dials, now shadowed in mist. “Not much hope of finding her if they took her in there. No one will snitch, and there are a thousand places to hide her or dispose of the body. We can’t narrow it down, unless…”

  “We know who took her.” Brook stuffed his icy hands in his pockets. His face was frozen, but he ignored the burn of his chafed skin. “If they are in Seven Dials, your old cronies are the most likely suspects. They run Covent Garden, and Beezle’s just ambitious enough to try something like this.”

  Dorrington lowered his head, shielding his face in what was probably an entirely unconscious attempt to hide his features. “He’s done it before.”

  “We don’t have proof of that.”

  “The cove he took described him right down to the freckle on his arse. That’s all the proof I need.”

  Brook didn’t argue. He’d thought of the case last year as well. The son of a viscount had been slumming in the rookeries one evening when his friends lost track of him. His parents hadn’t been too concerned. The father figured his boy was holed up enjoying himself in a brothel. But when the ransom note had come, they’d called for Brook.

  Unfortunately, they’d already paid the ransom, and the boy was delivered home—unhurt but for a few scrapes and bruises—before Brook could do much of anything. He and Dorrington had interviewed the lad, but he’d been hooded and tied, and hadn’t seen anything except for the face of the man who’d taken him.

  His description of a tall, skinny man with dark hair and a hawk-like nose was a far cry from the detailed description Dorrington made it seem.

  “But if Beezle did it, where’s the ransom note?” Dorrington asked.

  “That’s my question.”

  “Suppose we sit back and wait until it turns up.”

  Brook shook his head. “No, we go in and start searching.”

  “If Beezle’s involved, I’m out. He recognizes me as”—Dorrington lowered his voice—“Gideon Harrow, and it’s more than my arse hanging in the wind. There’s Susanna to think of.”

  “We’ve risked it before. You’ve never been recognized.” Sometimes Brook didn’t even recognize the man for the thief he’d once been—not with his hair neatly trimmed, his clothes pressed, and a few more pounds on his lanky frame.

  Dorrington stared at him. “Why the risk? Who is this Lennox mort? She mean something to you?”

  “She did. Once.”

  “And now?”

  Brook pulled the collar of his coat up to shield his neck from the cold. “And now I need someone to show me all of Beezle’s hidey-holes. You’re the man for the job.” And he started for S
even Dials, trusting Dorrington to follow.

  “You’ll get us both killed,” Dorrington called after him.

  “You have something better to do today?”

  Dorrington grumbled, but a moment later he caught up and, with a curse, pulled Brook down a dark alley and into hell.

  Two

  Lila could hear the men talking. They would kill her. They were probably plotting how to do it right now. She didn’t understand why they hadn’t killed her yet. When the man who’d slit the gentleman’s throat had caught her, she had thought that was the end.

  But instead of slitting her throat, he’d dragged her back down to the dark cellar and left her. He hadn’t bothered to tie her hands this time, but she’d heard something that sounded heavy scrape across the floor above. She imagined an enormous obstacle blocked the door. She’d never escape.

  Perhaps that was the idea all along.

  She was so thirsty. Perhaps they’d leave her down here to die of starvation.

  She’d never thought she’d die this way. She hadn’t wanted to die like her mother, delirious with pain and coughing blood. But at least her mother had died in bed with her family around her.

  Lila would die alone.

  She didn’t know how much time had passed. In the darkness, she could judge only by the violence of her hunger, but that came and went. Her thirst was a constant. She didn’t sleep, but she had nodded off a time or two, waking when she began to slide to the ground. She did not want to lie on the ground. Not yet.

  She rested her head on her knees and then lifted it again. Where were the voices? Had the men left her? Cautiously, she stood and strained to hear again. All was silence.

  No, wait. That wasn’t quite true. She heard the creak of a board, the thump of a footfall. Someone was still up there and moving about.

  She began to sink back down when a man grunted and something heavy slid across the floorboards.

  They were coming for her.

  Lila slunk away, into the deepest shadows of the cellar, and then clenched her fingers and moved back before the staircase. Was she so much a coward that she’d cower in a corner? It would buy her no more time.

  The door rattled, and she bit her already bloody and parched lips. She would not scream or cry or beg for mercy.

  The door opened and a weak shaft of light penetrated the gloom. In that light, she saw the form of a man. She knew instantly it wasn’t one of her captors. This man was solid, not bone thin.

  “Lady Lillian-Anne?” he whispered.

  Lila’s parched throat would not allow her to answer. She made a croak, and he stepped onto the first step. He held no lamp, not even a candle. She didn’t know whether to trust him—not that she had many other options.

  “Yes,” she finally managed. “I’m here.”

  “Come on, then.”

  She hesitated, uncertain whether to trust this man. His accent was not much better than that of the men who’d taken her. How did she know he didn’t have something worse planned for her?

  “Are you tied up?” he asked. “Can you walk?”

  “Yes, but—”

  He sighed with impatience. “Always introductions with you gentry morts,” he muttered. “I’m with Sir Brook Derring. We’re here to save you.”

  “Brook Derring?” That was a name she had not thought about for a long, long time.

  “He’s entertaining Beezle and the cubs with a Banbury story at the moment, but they’ll be back and nab us both if you don’t hurry.”

  If her muscles hadn’t been so cramped from hours of disuse, she would have run up the steps. As it was, she moved quickly and the man at the top took her elbow. He pulled her into the kitchen, then paused to shove the battered wardrobe in front of the door.

  He winked at her when he was done. “That might give us some time.”

  He took her elbow again and led her confidently through the building and out a door that led into a narrow alley. So narrow was it that she had to turn sideways to fit. The ground sloped inward and the smell was that of human and animal waste. Lila tried not to breathe as she followed the man along the wall. They’d gone perhaps twenty yards when he yanked on one of the doors that opened into the alley and disappeared inside. A moment later, he poked his head back out.

  “Coming?”

  She followed him through a twisting maze of back alleys, dark buildings, and even over rooftops. A thick fog shrouded everything, and she wasn’t certain if it was day or night. She was glad for the fog. It kept them hidden. Still, she jumped every time she heard voices, afraid they’d been found. Finally, her leader stopped in the middle of an alley that led onto a busier street. She could see men and women walking by where the alley opened, and the movement had dispersed some of the fog.

  “Stay here,” the man said to her. She couldn’t see his face. He wore his hat too low on his brow.

  “No!” Like a child, she grabbed hold of his arm. “Don’t leave me.”

  “I’ll be back, and I’ll bring Derring.”

  “Can’t we send someone else to fetch him? One of those women?” She gestured to three prostitutes leaning against the walls of the alley and watching them curiously.

  “Raise yer skirts and do the deed already!” one of them called. All three cackled.

  “I’ll be back in a moment. Stay here, and don’t talk to anyone.” He moved away, then came back. “Don’t even look at anyone.”

  Lila hugged herself and pressed her back against the wall.

  He’ll be right back.

  And if he wasn’t, she was free now. She could walk right out of here, hail a hackney, and go home. She might have no idea where she was, but she was still in London. She couldn’t be too far from home.

  The prostitutes at the end of the alley called out to the man as he walked past them. He answered back, jesting with them in the strange cant the lower classes used. She didn’t understand them, and she didn’t want to.

  Brook Derring. Sir Brook Derring. That honor had been bestowed after she’d known him. The king had given it to him for his service to the Crown. Lila wasn’t certain what the service had been, but she knew Brook was known now for finding people who had been abducted. She didn’t go out as much as she had when she’d known him, but she’d heard him spoken of at dinner parties now and then. He was nothing short of a national hero. He’d found the son of a baron or viscount. Poor man had been languishing in an opium den in Brighton, or had it been Bath? And Derring had found a woman too.

  That was why he was here. She was the one who had been abducted this time. Her father must have gone to him and asked for help. Lennox must have bruised his pride, going to Derring, especially after the way the duke had treated him.

  After the abominable way they’d both treated Sir Brook.

  She knew only moments had passed, but it seemed hours. Perhaps Sir Brook would leave her here. Was that his revenge? But if he’d wanted revenge, he could have left her in the cellar.

  And why would the other man lead her in circles if only to abandon her here?

  He’ll be right back.

  Now that she wasn’t moving, she was cold again. And thirsty, so thirsty. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry.

  “You just going to stand there all night?” one of the prostitutes called.

  The three of them had grown bored of calling out to passing men and turned their attentions on her.

  Lila didn’t answer. Derring’s man had told her not to speak. She wouldn’t speak.

  “Wot’s wrong?” one of them, dressed in a low-cut reddish blouse, asked. “Cat got yer tongue?”

  “She don’t know wot to do wit’ ’er tongue.” That was from the youngest of the three. Lila thought she looked little more than a child.

  The first, short and with thinning hair, approached her. “This ’ere is our place. Get out.”

  Lila looked up at her and immediately back down again. The woman had skin like leather, and the stench of her rotting teeth made Lila want to ga
g. The prostitute leaned down, her dark, greasy hair brushing against Lila’s sleeve.

  “I said, get out.”

  Lila shook her head. Oh, where was Derring’s man?

  “She wants to stay, Rosie.” That from the buxom girl in red. “If ye stay, dearie, ye have to earn yer keep.”

  Lila stared at her slippers, black with God knew what.

  “That’s right,” the young one chimed in. “Ye pay us a fee. I’ll take that fancy coat.”

  Lila tightened her arms, but it was no use when two of the women grabbed her and forced her pelisse from her back. She fought back, but it was three against one. She received a slap and a punch in the stomach for her pains.

  The girl in red snatched at the combs in her hair, and the short prostitute snapped the necklace from her neck. Lila blinked back the tears from the sting of the hair that had been ripped out, then pushed the women away.

  “Take them and leave me alone.”

  “Oh, now, listen to ’er,” said the short one, who Lila was beginning to think was the leader. “Don’t she sound all ’igh and mighty.”

  “Take ’em and leave me alone,” the youngest one mocked her, nose in the air, chest out. She strutted about, fluffing her new pelisse.

  “I know wot will bring ’er down a peg or two. A good rogering will show ’er wot’s wot.”

  The prostitutes grabbed her by the arms, and though Lila dug her heels in and tried to shake them off, she was dragged inexorably forward. She kicked and writhed until she was knocked in her already-sore lip. The sharp pain made her forget about the rest until the women had dragged her onto the street.

  “Boys, lookee ’ere. Fancy a tumble? You pay ol’ Rosie ’ere a ’alf crown, you can ’ave ’er the ’ole night.”

  “No!” Lila struggled, only to be knocked in the teeth with an elbow.

  “Want a poke? Try ’er out for a sixpence.”

  “Let go!” Lila finally pulled free, only to stumble on her skirts and fall to her knees. She looked up and into the gleam of a pair of shiny, black boots.

  The man held his hand down, offering it to her. The small gesture of kindness took her off guard and, before she could think the better of it, she took it. He pulled her to her feet, and when she looked into his face, she caught her breath.