He left Ivy and the dogs in a quiet niche around the corner from the hotel and retrieved his greatcoat and a blanket from his rooms. He threw the coat over Ivy and gave her the smallest dog to hold while he wrapped the other two in the blanket and bid them keep absolutely still. Ivy proved adept at moving quietly, and they passed through the lobby without attracting more than an indifferent glance from the night clerk.
Sir Reginald greeted them at the door to Donal’s rooms. He stiffened when he smelled the strange dogs and retreated to a safe place under the sitting-room sofa. Ivy set down the terrier, gazing about the room in silent appraisal as Donal released the other dogs from the blanket. He crouched near the sofa and coaxed Sir Reginald into his arms.
“Sir Reginald,” he said, “this is our guest, Ivy. Ivy, Sir Reginald.”
The spaniel wagged his tail but continued to regard the canine interlopers with suspicion. The three street dogs were on their best behavior, as if they recognized that they had been granted a privilege they must not abuse.
Ivy sat down on the carpet beside them and sniffed loudly. “It’s flash enough,” she conceded. “You said we could ’ave some food?”
Donal set Sir Reginald on the sofa and brought out the basket of bread and fruit he had bought before he left for the Zoological Gardens. “I’ll purchase more when the market opens in the morning,” he said, “and I’ll find you a dress.” He surveyed her slight form, reflecting on how little he knew of women’s garments. Surely anything would be an improvement on her current wardrobe. “I think it best that you remain here when I go out.”
Ivy snatched the bread from the basket and broke it in half, dividing one part among the dogs and sinking strong, surprisingly white teeth into the other. “You ashamed o’ me?” she asked with studied indifference.
“Not in the least. But you will have to take a bath—”
Ivy shot to her feet, crumbs showering from her patched bodice. “I ain’t takin’ off me clothes!”
“I’ll have them send up a hip bath and hot water while you hide behind the bed,” he said patiently. “Then I’ll leave you alone. Only the dogs will see you.”
She thumped back down and reached for an apple. “I scarcely remember what it feels like to be clean.”
Donal glanced at her sharply, aware of a sudden change in her voice. Gone was the thick rookery accent; she had pronounced every word with the perfect diction of the educated class.
“Who were your parents, Ivy?” he asked.
She noticed his intent look and hunched protectively around the basket. “Oi don’t remember nuffin’.”
“Nothing at all?”
“You sayin’ Oi’m a liar?”
Donal sighed and sat on the nearest chair. “You’ve had a difficult day. I suggest you try to get some sleep.”
She glanced toward the door that separated the two rooms. “Only if you stay in there.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have the bed?”
“Ain’t used to ’em.” She grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. The dogs snuggled close. “Go on.”
Donal picked up Sir Reginald and started for the bedchamber. “You will still be here in the morning?”
“’Course Oi will. You promised me a new dress.”
There was nothing else to be done but obey the girl’s command. Donal entered the bedchamber and closed the door, sending a last request to Ivy’s canine friends. If the girl attempted to leave, the dogs would warn him. In any case, he had no intention of sleeping until he and Ivy were safely on the train to York.
He stretched out on the bed fully-clothed, Sir Reginald tucked in the crook of his arm, and let the intoxicating scents and shrouded mysteries of the jungle close in around him. He stalked with the tigress, his ears twitching as he caught the movement of deer in the bush. She paused to meet his gaze, inviting him to join in the hunt, and her golden eyes turned the somber gray of a winter-bound lake.
“Can it be, sir,” she purred, “that in spite of your intimate acquaintance with tigers, you have never observed a female of the species Homo sapiens?”
Donal snapped awake to the sound of scratching on the door. Daylight streamed through the window. In an instant he was on his feet, his head ringing with the dogs’ sorrowful apologies. He flung open the door.
Ivy was gone. She had left the blanket neatly folded on the sofa beside the empty basket.
Sir Reginald trotted up behind him and pawed at the leg of his trousers. The mongrels tucked their tails and whined. They were as disconcerted as Donal, for somehow the girl had got past them in spite of their vigilance. Not one of them remembered the moment of her departure.
Ivy was clearly no ordinary child. Donal had severely underestimated her, and miscalculated her trust in him. He had made entirely too many errors in judgment since coming to London. This world left him as addled as a sheep with scrapie, and he would begin to question his sanity unless he were quit of it soon. Quit of men and all their troublesome works.
But he had made a commitment to Ivy. Even if she had chosen not to trust him after all, he wasn’t prepared to surrender her to the streets.
“We will find her,” he assured the dogs firmly. “One of you will come with me.”
The little terrier gave a piercing bark and leaped straight up in the air. Donal set out a bowl of water for the dogs and made a hasty change of drawers and shirt, leaving his jaw unshaven and covering the tangle of his hair with his black top hat.
A few minutes later he squared his shoulders and plunged into the forbidding wilderness of Covent Garden.
MIDMORNING IN LONDON’S biggest market was a riot of color, sound and utter confusion. Theodora took in the sights with the same wide-eyed fascination that she had viewed the Zoological Gardens, the Tower of London and Buckingham Palace, while Cordelia thought of home and Inglesham kept himself busy shielding his charges from jostling or any other annoyance. Here costermongers and fishwives rubbed elbows with ladies in extravagant layers of petticoats and gentlemen in velvet-collared frock coats and tight woollen trousers, all of them shopping for bargains in a place where nearly anything could be had for the right price.
Theodora caught sight of a flower stall overflowing with bouquets of every variety of flower and stared at it wistfully until Inglesham recognized her longing and steered her through the crowd. Cordelia lagged behind, her senses strangely on the alert, and so she was perfectly positioned to observe the next sequence of events.
She saw Theodora cradling a spray of primroses, absorbed in their scent as the flower-seller haggled with Inglesham over the price. Inglesham half turned toward Cordelia, an indulgent smile on his handsome face. And just as he turned, a figure in the remnants of a faded dress darted from between a pair of chattering kitchen maids, slipped behind the viscount and dipped her hand inside his coat.
The thief had no sooner relieved Inglesham of his purse than he spun about and caught her wrist, nearly jerking her off her feet. Theodora dropped the flowers, her mouth opening in shock. Cordelia glimpsed the pickpocket’s face—a piquant visage that might once have been pretty—and pushed her way to the viscount’s side.
“You little mongrel,” Inglesham was saying, shaking the girl from side to side. “Thought I’d be easy prey, did you? Once I have you up before a magistrate—” He noticed Cordelia’s approach and set the girl back on her feet. “Mrs. Hardcastle,” he said formally, “perhaps you should escort Miss Shipp to a place of safety while I deal with this cutpurse. I shall summon a constable—”
“Wait,” Cordelia said. She studied the girl’s face more carefully. She appeared to be no more than eleven or twelve years of age, and her eyes—when they flashed defiantly up at Cordelia—were a surprisingly fetching bright blue. But her hair hung in matted hanks about her shoulders, its color indistinguishable, and her feet were bound in rags instead of shoes.
“What is your name, child?” Cordelia asked gently.
“Her name is of no consequence,” Inglesha
m said. “She is a thief and must be punished.”
“But you have recovered your purse, Lord Inglesham,” she said, matching his cool tone. “The child is obviously poor and desperate, or she would not be driven to such extremes. Where is the harm in letting her go?”
“The harm lies in permitting her to continue her thieving ways. Surely you, of all people, do not approve of flouting the law.”
“Surely the law can occasionally err on the side of mercy.”
“I agree,” Theodora said. “I should hate to think—”
Inglesham shook his head. “Forgive me, ladies, but you know nothing of these things. I—”
“May I be of assistance?”
Cordelia turned to face the speaker and started in surprise. There, dressed in the same rather shabby coat and bristling with a day’s growth of beard, stood Lord Enkidu. His green eyes moved quickly from Cordelia’s face to Inglesham and then to the girl, assessing the situation in an instant.
“We require no assistance,” Inglesham said gruffly, “unless you would be so good as to fetch a constable.”
The girl stared at Lord Enkidu and suddenly dropped her gaze. “Oi’m sorry,” she muttered.
Lord Enkidu doffed his hat and offered a slight bow. “Forgive me for my presumption,” he said to Cordelia, “but it occurs to me that we have not been introduced. I am Donal Fleming.”
Inglesham stiffened at Fleming’s impertinence, but Cordelia spoke before the viscount could issue a scathing set-down. “I am Cordelia Hardcastle,” she said. “My companions are Viscount Inglesham and my cousin, Miss Shipp.”
Mr. Fleming bowed again and met Inglesham’s eyes. “I would be happy to take the child in custody, sir, if you wish to escort the ladies to a more congenial location.”
Inglesham’s immaculately shaven chin shot up. Cordelia again intervened. “As you see, Mr. Fleming, Lord Inglesham is of the opinion that the girl should be given over to the police. Would that also be your intention?”
Fleming held her gaze, and Cordelia lost herself in it just long enough to make the silence uncomfortable.
“I should not like to contradict the viscount,” he said softly, “but it seems that this child has suffered more than enough to atone for any small transgressions she may have committed.”
“Fortunately for the welfare and property of honest English citizens,” Inglesham said, “the matter is not in your hands.” He glanced around and fixed his eyes on some point beyond the opposite stall. “If you ladies will go on to St. Paul’s Church, I shall meet you there when this business is concluded.”
Fleming followed Inglesham’s stare. His eyes narrowed. Without another word to Cordelia he withdrew, neatly losing himself in the crowd. Cordelia was about to argue with Inglesham when a small, scruffy terrier trotted up to the viscount, lifted his hind leg, and relieved himself on Inglesham’s spotless black ankle boot.
Inglesham jumped, kicking out at the dog with a curse. The terrier evaded his foot. The little thief wrenched her arm free of the viscount’s hold. He snatched at her sleeve, and as she struggled a silver pendant at the end of a frayed cord swung out from beneath her torn collar. She shoved it back under her bodice, writhing wildly, and her sleeve gave way in Inglesham’s hand. She was off like a fox before the hounds.
“Oh!” Theodora exclaimed. “Are your boots quite ruined, Lord Inglesham?” But her eyes met Cordelia’s in a flash of almost mischievous satisfaction.
Inglesham took himself in hand, dropped the filthy scrap of cloth and straightened his hat. “I beg your pardon, ladies,” he said. “I have obviously failed in my duty to protect you from such unpleasantness. Perhaps it would be best if I return you to the house.”
“Of course,” Cordelia said. “I believe Theodora has had her fill of the market…haven’t you, cousin?”
Theodora paid the flower seller for the blossoms she had dropped. “Indeed. It has been a most trying day.”
“Then let us put this incident behind us,” Cordelia suggested. “We shall be on our way home tomorrow, and the country air will soon put us to rights.”
Inglesham smiled, offering an arm to each of the women. “A very sensible suggestion, my dear Mrs. Hardcastle,” he said. “What would we do without you?”
His words were light, dismissing their recent quarrel. It seemed impossible for Bennet to hold a grudge; he could be quick to anger, and just as quick to forgive. His sincerity was beyond question.
And yet, as Inglesham hailed a hackney cab to take them back to Russell Street, Cordelia found herself watching for Mr. Donal Fleming, wondering why he had come and gone with such mysterious haste. She thought of the little dog who had appeared so fortuitously after Fleming vanished into the crowd. A very peculiar coincidence indeed. And what an exceedingly trying and vexatious gentleman, with those unwavering green eyes that seemed to judge and challenge her at one and the same time….
As the cab rattled away, Cordelia could have sworn that she saw Fleming with the girl, deep in conversation while the little terrier trotted happily at their heels.
She resolved then and there that Donal Fleming would not remain a mystery much longer.
THE GIRL WAS ALIVE.
Béfind paced across the silver floor of her crystal palace, her slippered feet beating a muted tattoo that shattered the morning’s perfect stillness. It had been many long years since she had felt such blinding rage. Life in Tir-na-Nog provided little cause for the primitive emotions that so consumed the lives of mortalkind; Fane might quarrel over a pretty trinket, or play spiteful tricks upon each other for the sake of an hour’s amusement, but such minor conflicts were as quickly forgotten as one’s latest love affair.
No, Béfind had not felt so since she had left the human world forty mortal years ago. She had never had any desire to return. The passions that ruled mankind—love and hate, joy and sorrow—were like some foul disease, defiling everything they touched.
Even a great lady of the Fane who had lived three thousand years.
With a whispered curse, Béfind went to stand between the fluted columns that framed a flawless view of the emerald lawn. The sun shone like a vast jewel in a cloudless sky, reigning over unblemished meadow and forest, lake and stream. Deer and horses of every hue grazed among the flowers. A sweet, warm wind ruffled the grass with playful fingers.
A female halfling, great with child, wandered among trees heavy with fruit and blossoms. She strolled beside a dark-haired Fane, laughing at his jests as if she enjoyed her pitiful condition. A mortal visitor to Tir-na-Nog might never realize that the girl was little more than a broodmare…an exotic, captive creature pampered and petted for one reason only: to save the Fane race from extinction.
Humankind had but one advantage over the Fane: their blood was strong and hearty while that of the Fair Folk grew thin and weak. Few pure Fane matings produced children, but the spawn of Fane and human were extremely fertile. For as long as Béfind could remember, it had been the duty of each and every Fane to seek a mate among the humans and return to Tir-na-Nog with a halfling child whose own offspring would buy the Fane another few centuries of existence.
Béfind had done her duty. She had forced her body to endure months of ugly thickening, sacrificing her beauty to the thing growing in her belly. Idath had been beside her on the day she delivered the half-human brat. High Lord Idath, who had been her lover for a hundred years and more, had informed her with seeming regret that her babe had died upon its birth.
How the gossips had enjoyed telling her, all these years later, that Idath had lied.
Béfind hissed between her teeth and watched Fane men and women ride ivory steeds in a hunt for the stags of the golden forest. The hunters’ arrows would bring no suffering to the beasts when they died, only a swift and gentle sleep. Pain was banished from Tir-na-Nog. Regret had no place here. But there was still room for vengeance.
Béfind lifted her hands and called, summoning the hobs and sprites and lesser Fane who served her in her splend
id isolation.
“No matter how long it takes,” she told them, “you will find her. Find the girl and report to me.”
The hobs and sprites knew better than to utter cries of dismay at the task she had set them. They scattered and vanished, flying swiftly for one of the last remaining Gates that connected Tir-na-Nog and earth.
Béfind turned away from the window with a smile and idly changed the color of her gown from glossy amber to flaming scarlet. Tonight she would summon young Connla to her bed and see how well he pleased her. Tomorrow she would choose another. Let Idath enjoy his victory now; he would soon see who played the cleverest game.
Sooner or later, the girl would be hers.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE ROLLING HILLS and peaceful fields of Yorkshire should have filled Donal’s heart with welcome relief after his sojourn in London. Perched on the seat of old Benjamin’s farm wagon, he could see the outbuildings of Stenwater Farm as the road curved into the dale. Flocks of sheep grazed on the fells, and the beck tumbled cheerfully between limestone outcroppings thick with wildflowers.
One would never believe, looking at such a peaceful scene, that a mad place like London could exist, or that a belching, roaring locomotive had carried Donal and his new charges all the way from the world’s greatest metropolis to the equally ancient but far less pretentious city of York.
And yet, for all the sense of unreality that had accompanied Donal on the journey home, he could not deny that his life had already undergone a profound alteration.
He had almost been able to forget how much had changed while he and a cleanly-washed, cleanly-dressed Ivy shared the small, private world of the railway car. During the long hours rattling through the countryside of the Midlands, he and the girl had come to a kind of understanding, and Ivy had expressed regret for the mistrust that had led her to flee the hotel and resume her previous occupation as a purse snatcher.
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