A Kiss in the Dark

by Kimberly Logan

  She couldn't ignore a child in need.

  And she couldn't continue to stand here on the side­walk like some lack-wit, either. Passersby were starting to stare at her curiously, and a maid sweeping the steps of the town house next door kept casting her suspi­cious glances.

  Taking a deep breath, she marched up the stairs and rang the bell in a decisive movement.

  After a second or two, the door was swung open by a stoop-shouldered butler with thinning silver hair and a wizened, yet kind, face.

  "Can I help you, my lady?"

  "Yes. I am here to see Lord Ellington."

  "1 do apologize, my lady, but I'm afraid he's not re­ceiving visitors at the moment. If you would care to leave your card. . ."

  Deirdre shook her head vehemently. He couldn't turn her away! Not when it had taken all her courage to come here in the first place. "You don't understand. This is urgent. I am Lady Rotherby, and I'm here to of­fer the earl my assistance."

  "You're Lady Rotherby?" The servant's eyebrows rose.

  "Yes, and I—"

  "It's all right, Archer. You can let the lady in."

  The familiar voice drifted from beyond the door­way, deep and velvety, and Deirdre felt her pulse speed up in response.

  "Very well, my lord. Won't you come in, my lady?"

  At the butler's invitation, she stepped past him into the entry hall, barely noticing as he shut the door be­hind her and then discreetly faded away into the back­ground. Her stomach fluttering, she took a quick visual survey of her surroundings before focusing on the man who stood at the foot of the town house's steep staircase. Early morning sunlight streamed through the stained glass window set high above the front door, sending shards of color glinting in his wavy black hair and bathing his muscular form in a rainbow hue of light.

  He spoke before she could even manage a greeting. "What are you doing here?"

  So, that was the way it was going to be. She sup­posed she couldn't blame him entirely, but the least he could do was hear her out.

  She cleared her throat. "Have you had word of your sister, my lord?"

  "Do you care, Lady Rotherby?"

  "Of course I care. I wouldn't be here otherwise."

  The earl stared at her for a moment, his eyes hooded and unreadable. "No, I haven't."

  "Then I am here to help."

  He took a step closer to her, and as he drew near, Deirdre almost gasped at the lines of exhaustion carved into his handsome face, the dark circles beneath those remarkable violet eyes. Her heart gave a tug of sympathy.

  "What changed your mind?" he asked.

  She shook her head. "I can't explain. Suffice it to say I realized my refusal might have been too hasty, so here I am."

  Lord Ellington crossed his arms over his broad chest and glared down at her from his impressive height, making her suddenly feel very small. "I thank you for your . . . benevolence, Lady Rotherby, but your ser­vices are no longer required."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I said I don't need your help." Deirdre blinked. It had never occurred to her that he might decline her offer. Surely this should free her from any further obligation, should soothe her trou­bled conscience.

  But before she could breathe a sigh of relief, his next words struck horror into her soul. "I'm on my way to Bow Street right now, and this time I'm not backing down until they've agreed to send out every available man to scour Tothill Fields."

  "No!"

  It was the earl's turn to blink. "No?"

  This was exactly what Deirdre had wanted to avoid. An influx of the law into the Fields. By the time they were through, there was no telling how many of her charges would suffer.

  "Please," she began, reaching out to lay a supplicat­ing hand on his arm. At the contact, however, a sudden surge of heat singed her fingers and she drew back in shock. Her heart thudding, she stood staring up at him, unable to say a word.

  The touch affected Tristan just as powerfully. Ever since he'd descended the stairs to be greeted by the sound of Lady Rotherby's voice as she'd conversed with Archer, he'd been struggling against his un­wanted reaction to her. It hadn't been easy after a night spent worrying about Emily and with very little sleep, but he'd been managing adequately.

  Until she touched him.

  The sharp jolt of lust that shot through him had his body reacting in a predictable fashion, and he shifted his stance, praying she wouldn't notice. Bloody hell! How could he be so attracted to a woman of her sort? A woman whose every action became instant fodder for the gossip of the ton? A woman who had wed a man more than twice her age and who obviously had inti­mate knowledge of a place like Tothill Fields?

  "Please?" he prompted, hoping to distract himself from images of her slender body intimately entwined with his beneath the covers on his big four-poster bed.

  The viscountess seemed at a loss. As he watched her straighten her shoulders and visibly force the words, he couldn't help but wonder if she, too, was aware of the strong undercurrent between them.

  "Please don't do that. If you send in Bow Street, you run the risk of alienating every citizen in the district. They'll never help you then."

  As much as he hated to admit it, he supposed she had a point. If they closed ranks against him, there was no telling how they'd react to having the law confront them. "Then what do you suggest?"

  "Let me help. As you said, they trust me. I can ques­tion them much more discreetly, and I'm certain if they know anything about your sister's whereabouts they won't hesitate to share it with me."

  "And if you're wrong?"

  She took a step closer, her green eyes beseeching. "Please, let me try. I realize you're angry with me for refusing you yesterday, but I'm here now and I believe I can be of great service to you if you would only al­low it."

  Her nearness started Tristan's pulse pounding in his temples, and his mouth went dry with the sudden urge to reach out and cup her cheek in his palm, to find out if that pale, smooth skin was as soft and silky as it looked. Standing this close to her, he could see the faint spray of freckles that dusted the bridge of her delicate nose like fairy dust, the sweep of her long golden lashes. She was taller than average for a woman, the top of her head just reaching his chin, and he was certain if he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her to him, their bodies would align almost perfectly. . . .

  Damnation! He sucked in a steadying breath and closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to rein in his wayward thoughts. It would be foolish to allow him­self to become any more involved with this woman than he already was. She was dangerous. But if it meant finding Emily, it was a risk he was willing to take.

  "All right," he conceded, his tone gruff. "You have until noon to produce results. But if you haven't come up with anything by then, I'm going straight to Bow Street."

  "Noon? But that's only—" She halted midprotest as he glared at her. "Very well. I shall return to my town house and fetch my coach and driver, then I'll—"

  "I'm coming with you."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I said I'm coming with you."

  Tristan almost laughed at the disgruntled expres­sion on Lady Rotherby's face. "But you can't!"

  "I can and I will," he assured her, narrowing his eyes at her, daring her to disagree. "This is my sister we're discussing."

  "I'm aware of that, Lord Ellington. But the people of Tothill wouldn't answer your questions when you asked them directly. What makes you think they'll be any more willing to comply with you looming over my shoulder?"

  "They shall have to, because I have no intention of sitting here doing nothing while Emily is in danger."

  Tristan felt her shiver-inducing gaze trail over him in a look that was as palpable as a touch, and he once again mentally cursed her ability to arouse him with so little effort. Perhaps it was a mistake to spend any more time in this woman's company than was neces­sary, but if she intended to look for his sister, he was going to be by her side every step of the way.

&nbs
p; God help them both.

  Some of his determination must have shown on his face, for she gave a resigned sigh before relenting. "All right. But you must know you can't go looking like that."

  "Looking like what?"

  "Like an aristocrat." Her eyes suddenly lit with a hint of what he could have sworn was mischief. "But I have an idea. . . ."

  "This is utterly ridiculous!"

  Back at her town house, Deirdre watched as Lord Ellington studied his reflection in the mirror in her foyer, his forehead creased in displeasure. Despite the fact that this entire situation was fraught with the po­tential for disaster, she couldn't help but be amused. Dressed in clothes borrowed from her coachman, Cullen, he looked decidedly uncomfortable and ill at ease.

  "Oh, I don't know." She tilted her head and pre­tended to examine him in a considering manner. "I think it suits you rather well."

  He grunted in reply, and Deirdre had to hide a smile. Cullen was by no means of small stature, but even the servant's clothing was stretched to the limit by the earl's powerful frame.

  Turning away from the mirror, he propped his large hands on his hips, the movement of his broad shoulders straining the seams of the simple broad­cloth shirt. "I still don't understand what this is going to accomplish."

  "I've already told you. If you go into the rookery looking like an arrogant lord, no one is going to cooper­ate with us. But if you go in dressed as my servant, they won't give you a second glance. They'll be more likely to offer information if they don't know who you are."

  "Your coachman doesn't appear to be too happy about the situation. He's been glowering at me ever since I arrived."

  At his words, Deirdre followed his line of vision to where Cullen stood in the far corner of the foyer, his brawny arms crossed over his chest and his forehead knitted in a menacing frown.

  "That glower has nothing to do with the clothes," she said. "Cullen is simply . . . overly protective where I'm concerned."

  Lord Ellington met the servant's disapproving stare. "Well, my good man, you can rest assured that I have no wicked designs upon your mistress."

  Deirdre was surprised at the niggle of disappoint­ment she felt at his remark. She'd made up her mind a long time ago that there was no room in her life for a true romantic relationship. She held far too many se­crets. But from the moment she'd touched him earlier, she'd been fighting against an undeniable desire. What was it about him that so tested her long-held resolve?

  When Cullen didn't answer, the earl turned back to her, one eyebrow cocked. "Not very talkative, is he?"

  As always, Deirdre felt an overwhelming sense of sadness when reminded of her coachman's plight. "He can't talk," she said softly, keeping her voice low so Cullen wouldn't overhear. "He has no tongue."

  Lord Ellington's countenance reflected his shock, but she wasn't about to go into the details. He didn't need to know that the appendage had been cut out long ago by Barnaby Flynt when Cullen, once one of his reluctant minions, had dared to speak out against the gang leader's cruelty. Deirdre had found him a year ago, wandering the streets of the Fields, and a friend­ship had developed between them, strengthened by their common hatred of Flynt. Amazed by the big man's ability to make himself understood without words, she'd realized his potential when no one else had. She'd given him a home and a job, and in return he'd given her his utter devotion and loyalty.

  Aware that now wasn't the time for reminiscing, however, she brushed aside the memories and crossed the foyer to retrieve her cloak from its hook. "I suppose we'd best be on our way."

  Ellington gave a mocking bow. "Of course, my lady."

  Deirdre frowned at him, then glanced at her coach­man. "Cullen, why don't you go ahead and bring the carriage around front? We'll be there in a moment."

  She waited until the servant had departed before turning back to face the earl, studying him from under lowered lashes. "It occurs to me, my lord, that I really should know your first name."

  "May I ask why?"

  "Because if you're to be my servant, I can't go around calling you Lord Ellington, now, can I?" She shrugged with deliberate carelessness. "I suppose I could make one up, like Edwin or Frances. But my per­sonal favorite is—"

  "Tristan."

  "Excuse me?"

  "My name is Tristan."

  Tristan. It suited him, she thought. It brought to mind images of the noble knight she'd once pictured him to be all those years ago, fighting against overwhelming odds to save his mother's life. She supposed that was part of her fascination with him. Ever since that day, he'd lived in her mind as a perfect prince, the sort of storybook hero she'd always dreamed of as a little girl but had known was never meant for the likes of her.

  She could only hope she hadn't made a mistake by agreeing to allow him to accompany her. And not just for the obvious reason. After the incident back at his town house, when she'd been practically struck speechless just by touching his arm, she couldn't help but be wary of the hunger this man stirred in her.

  "Are you going to return the favor?"

  His question brought her out of her musings and drew her attention back to him. "What do you mean?"

  "Well, it seems only fair that if you know my first name, I should know yours, as well."

  "Really, I don't see why—"

  "Come now, Lady Rotherby." In a few long strides, he'd crossed the foyer to stand beside her, so close she felt dwarfed by his nearness. Bending down, he met her eyes for a long, drawn-out moment, his lips just a breath away from hers. "What can it hurt?"

  She felt her head spin. "Deirdre," she whispered. "My name is Deirdre."

  As a slow, triumphant smile spread over his face, she gave an inner shiver. Heaven help her, but this man was truly a threat to her peace of mind, and she could only hope that her decision to help him wouldn't prove to be fatal.

  Chapter 6

  Emily awoke to a pair of inquisitive brown eyes staring down at her from a few inches away. With a cry, she sat up and scooted back on the pallet she'd been sleeping on, her heart thumping wildly as memories from the evening before seeped back into her consciousness. She slowly calmed, however, as she realized that the eyes belonged to a cherub-faced little boy with blond curls and a shy smile.

  "Are you an angel?" he asked, his expression hopeful. Emily didn't know what to say. Drawing the thread­bare blanket up to her chin, she glanced around at her surroundings. Last night, when Quick had brought her back here after escaping from Toby and his boys, it had been too dark for her to make out much. But now, in the light that streamed in through the cracks in the boarded-up windows, she could see all too well.

  The room was large and drafty, with moldering walls and rickety furniture that had seen better days. The floor was lined with pallets like the one she'd been sleeping on, and at the other end of the chamber a group of young boys huddled around a small fire burn­ing in a crumbling hearth.

  As she watched, one of them, a lad of about twelve, turned and looked over his shoulder. Seeing that she was awake, he sent a glare at the little boy standing next to her and started toward them.

  "Bloody 'ell, Benji! Peter said to leave 'er alone and not to wake 'er! Boy, you're in for it now!"

  Benji's lower lip stuck out mutinously. "Didn't wake 'er. I was only watching 'er. She woke up on 'er own."

  The older boy glanced at Emily, his face reddening. "Sorry, miss."

  Emily attempted a smile, though she wasn't certain how successful it was. "That's all right. He really wasn't bothering me. I was just startled, that's all." She gave the room another cursory inspection. "Where am I?"

  "In the 'ideout of the Rag-Tag Bunch."

  "The Rag-Tag Bunch? But where is that?"

  "Why, Tot'ill Fields, of course."

  Emily was stunned. Tothill Fields? Good heavens! She'd heard horror stories about the Fields.

  Turning back to the lad next to her, she looked up at him quizzically. "Where are your parents? Will they be angry with your brother for le
tting me stay here?"

  He snorted and rocked back on his heels. "Peter ain't me brother. And we ain't got any parents."

  "No parents?" Emily gaped. "Who looks after you?"

  The little boy named Benji plopped down on the pallet next to her and began to bounce up and down. "Peter does."

  "Peter?"

  "Quick, miss," the older boy informed her. "The one who brought you back 'ere. I'm Nat. And you've met Benji."

  Ah. So Quick's first name was Peter. She glanced around her once again, searching for some sign of him.

  As if reading her thoughts, Nat spoke up. " 'E ain't 'ere now, miss. 'E went out to see if 'e could find out which way the wind is blowing. But 'e'll be back soon enough."

  At that moment, the sound of a door opening be­hind them drew their attention, and Emily turned in time to see a stocky, dark-haired boy of about her age step into the room from outside, a bag slung over one shoulder.

  Nat frowned at the newcomer. "Where 'ave you been?"

  "None of your business, brat."

  "Peter's been looking for you."

  "So?" The young man shut the door and lowered his pack to the ground, scowling at Nat. "I told you before. Peter ain't me boss, even if the rest of you let 'im tell you what to do and 'ow to do it."

  Suddenly, he swung his gaze in Emily's direction, and she felt the breath leave her body in a rush as she found herself pinned in place by a pair of frosty gray eyes that studied her with a calculating interest. His thin, cruel-looking mouth curved into a chilling smile that sent a shiver up her spine. "What 'ave we 'ere?"

  He stalked toward her. Coming to a halt only inches away, he began to circle her in a predatory fashion, his gaze surveying her from head to toe. "Since when did we start letting girls in the gang?"

  "Leave 'er alone, Jack," Nat said sharply.

  "Who's going to make me? You?"