A Kiss in the Dark

by Kimberly Logan

  For a long moment, no one said a word. Emily was certain the pounding of her heart must have been audi­ble in the sudden stillness as the boys who were grouped around the fireplace became aware of what was going on and turned to watch.

  Then, from out of nowhere, a voice spoke up with quiet authority. " 'E won't 'ave to, Jack. I will."

  Emily's pulse gave a leap, and all eyes in the room went to the alley doorway, where Peter stood, arms crossed as he took in the scene in front of him. Another lad a few years younger hovered at his elbow, straining to see over his shoulder.

  For what seemed like an eternity, the two older boys eyed each other; Jack with belligerence, Peter with a calm steadiness that belied the tension of the moment. Emily bit her lip and stared up at them both anxiously.

  Then Peter spoke again, his words possessing the impact of a whip crack. "Leave 'er alone, Jack. Now."

  With a growl, the dark-haired boy finally com­plied, sending a fulminating glare around the room at large. Emily couldn't restrain a sigh of relief as he backed away, putting some much-needed distance be­tween them.

  Taking a step into the room, Peter nudged the bag on the floor with his foot, raising a brow at Jack. "What's this?"

  "Nothing."

  "It doesn't look like nothing. We promised Lady R—"

  "You promised Lady R. I didn't agree to anything."

  Peter's eyes narrowed. "You know the rules, Jack."

  Instead of answering, Jack bared his teeth in a snarl and hefted the bag back to his shoulder before moving off to the far corner of the room.

  With his retreat, the tension in the air seemed to dis­sipate, and the other boys went back to their previous activities.

  Peter approached Emily, his expression concerned. "Are you all right?"

  She nodded and offered him a tentative smile. "Yes. Thank you. And I need to thank you for last night, as well. I don't know what I would have done without your help."

  He shrugged, then turned to Nat. "Nat, those sausages Lady R brought us smell like they're almost done. Why don't you fetch one for our guest? She's likely starving."

  It wasn't until that moment that Emily realized just how hungry she was, and her stomach rumbled in re­sponse. She watched as Nat gave a crisp salute and headed toward the group around the fireplace.

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, Peter leaned back against the wall and studied her shrewdly, his intense blue eyes making her feel oddly vulnerable. "You've stirred up a 'ornet's nest, miss, and no mistake. Flynt's got 'is men out searching the streets for you."

  Emily shivered as images of Barnaby Flynt's cruel face flashed across her mind's eye. That man was truly evil, and the thought of him finding her filled her with terror.

  The freckle-faced boy who had entered with Peter grinned at her. "Don't worry, miss. Flynt'll never find our 'ideout." It was said with a great deal of confi­dence, and Emily could only pray he was right.

  "You know, miss," Peter said, pulling her attention back to him, "you never did tell me why Flynt is so 'ot to find you in the first place."

  She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Benji hopped up from the pallet and reached out to grasp Peter's sleeve, giving it an insistent tug. "Is she an angel, Peter?" he whispered, sounding almost reverent.

  The freckled boy snorted. "Course she ain't! She's just a girl."

  "But she looks like the picture in my book. If she isn't an angel, who is she?"

  Peter cocked his head in a considering manner. "That's a good question, Benji. I can't say. She 'asn't in­troduced 'erself yet."

  Emily felt a blush heat her cheeks. He was right. To be truthful, she hadn't told him much of anything. "Emily. My name is Emily."

  "Well, Miss Emily." Peter held out a hand to her, his mouth curving in a lazy grin. "Would you care to 'company us to breakfast?"

  Despite the gravity of her situation, the fear and un­certainty that had dictated her actions since last night, Emily couldn't restrain a giggle as she took his hand, al­lowing him to assist her to her feet. "I'd be delighted."

  He led her over to a plank table in the center of the room, where the boys had already started to gather. Seating herself, she gave Nat a grateful look as he set a chipped plate of steaming sausage before her.

  Peter quickly introduced the other lads, and Emily nodded to each one in turn. Aside from Nat and little Benji, there was Miles, the freckle-faced boy who had accompanied Peter, and so many others she knew she'd never remember them all.

  One boy, Davey, sported several nasty bruises on the side of his face that made Emily gasp in dismay. Seeing her reaction, Peter inclined his head in the boy's direction. "Our Davey 'ad a run-in wiv the same lads you met last night."

  Emily's heart flew into her throat. Toby and his boys? Good Lord, they were twice the size of Davey and they'd ganged up on him? How horrible!

  His eyes holding hers, Peter gave her a warm smile. "You don't 'ave to be afraid. You're safe 'ere. But I'd like to know why they're after you."

  Swallowing her fear, Emily told him and the other boys what had happened last night in the alleyway. When she had finished, Peter was quiet for a long mo­ment, his expression unreadable.

  Finally, just when Emily didn't think she could bear his silence any longer, he turned back to her and reached out to pat her on the shoulder in a reassuring gesture. "Well, you're welcome to stay 'ere as long as you like. We've got plenty of room, don't we, boyos?"

  A chorus of assent ran around the length of the table.

  "Are you all bloody mad?"

  Jack's sudden exclamation had heads whipping in his direction. He stood on the far side of the room, glowering at Peter. "Flynt's already got 'is men tearing up the Fields looking for our hideout, and you're going to let 'er stay 'ere and lead 'im right to us?"

  Peter's jaw set stubbornly. "She needs our 'elp."

  "She's a murder witness, is what she is! If Flynt doesn't find 'er, the law will. Look at 'er. Does she look like she belongs in the Fields?"

  Emily's fists clenched on the table at Jack's words. He was right. As much as the thought of going back out on the streets frightened her, she didn't want to cause any trouble for the Rag-Tag Bunch. But at this point, she wasn't certain where she would go or what she would do. A part of her longed to go running back to Tristan, but another part of her was determined to prove to her brother that she could make it on her own.

  She turned to Peter, biting her lip. "It's all right. Truly. As soon as I finish breakfast, I'll go. If one of you would just be kind enough to show me the way to the river . . . ?"

  Before Peter could even answer, a small sound came from the end of the table, and they turned their heads in time to see Benji go flying at Jack like a fury, his fists clenched and his face red with temper.

  "No!" he cried, flailing away at the older boy. "She's our guardian angel, and I won't let you make 'er leave!"

  Jack growled and started to raise his own fist, but in a move so swift it made Emily blink, Peter shot up from the table and lunged across the room, catching Jack's hand just inches from Benji's face.

  "You 'it 'im," he said, his voice dangerously soft, "and 'e'll be the last person you ever 'it."

  The air vibrated with an almost palpable magne­tism, and Emily waited with bated breath, certain the two older boys would come to blows. After a moment, however, Jack cursed and lowered his fist before turn­ing away with one last glare at Benji.

  Peter placed an arm around the little boy's shoul­ders and led him back to the table. "There. You see? Miss Emily isn't going anywhere. She's staying right 'ere wiv us. Isn't that right, Miss Emily?"

  She cast an apprehensive glance in Jack's direction. "If you're certain it's all right."

  "Course I'm certain. The more the merrier, I always say."

  A ripple of laughter came from the other lads, and Miles snickered. "Yep. We're one big 'appy family 'ere."

  Curious, Emily gazed up at Peter. "Is this some sort of orphanage, then?"
<
br />   It wasn't Peter who answered, however. From the far corner, where he'd retreated after the altercation with Benji, Jack gave a snort. "Why, didn't you know, Miss Emily? You've just agreed to join a den of thieves!"

  Chapter 7

  As the Rotherby carriage trundled its way through the streets of Westminster, Tristan stared out the window at the passing scenery, his mind preoccupied with the events of that morning.

  He still wasn't certain what had caused the viscount­ess to change her mind about helping him, or what had possessed him to so easily fall in with her ludicrous plot. He gave a rueful look down at the simple servant's clothing he wore. Obviously, the woman had some sort of spell on him. He only hoped he wasn't wasting his time while Emily could be badly hurt, or even—

  He quickly pushed away the possibility before he could finish the thought. He refused to believe that his sister might already be dead. It wasn't something he could deal with. Not at this point.

  A glance over at Lady Rotherby showed that she was just as lost in contemplation as he had been, and it occurred to Tristan that she'd been strangely silent ever since they'd left her town house. That was, aside from pooh-poohing his suggestion that he ride up on the box with Cullen, just for appearance sake.

  "Nonsense." She'd dismissed his concerns with a careless wave of her hand. "I think we'd both agree that my reputation has already been besmirched be­yond repair. Why be any more uncomfortable than you have to be for the sake of something that doesn't exist?"

  He'd had no argument for that, and she'd been quiet ever since.

  He studied her as she sat with her face turned to the opposite window, her hands folded primly in her lap. In a high-necked carriage dress of royal blue, with her patrician features framed by the lace ruff of her collar and her lustrous red curls swept up into an artful arrangement, she looked the perfect picture of a rich lord's wife. But Tristan knew that underneath that ele­gant facade burned a fiery spirit. He'd seen it flash in the depths of her bright green eyes last night and again this morning.

  At the memory, he couldn't hold back the smile that curved his lips. He supposed that was why he'd teased her about her name. Despite himself, he couldn't seem to help deliberately fanning the spark of awareness that flared between them. A dangerous proposition, to say the least.

  Deirdre, he mused, trying the name out in his mind as he let his gaze continue to travel over her. Now that some of his temper from the evening before had started to cool, he was finding it more difficult than ever to ignore the desire she stirred in him. He was very much afraid that no matter how important it was to keep a wall of formality between them, from now on it would be next to impossible to think of her as only Lady Rotherby.

  "You find something amusing, my lord?"

  At her query, Tristan looked up to find her watching him with a raised eyebrow. "Not at all, my lady. I wouldn't dare."

  She eyed him with suspicion, and he made an at­tempt to keep his expression solemn until she turned away with a sniff. He couldn't afford to offend her. Be­sides, he should be concentrating on Emily, not on an attraction that could ultimately go nowhere. His days of keeping company with inappropriate women—no matter how tempting—were long over, and if even a hint of his involvement with the viscountess got back to his aunt, there would be hell to pay.

  As the carriage continued along its route south to­ward the river, the palatial homes and quaint shops of Westminster soon gave way to the dark, narrow streets and ramshackle buildings of Tothill Fields. The change was abrupt and jarring, and Tristan felt a chill as he re­alized how easy it would have been for Emily to pass into the environs without even being aware of it until it was too late. It was true that Tothill wasn't quite as squalid as some of the rookeries on the east side of the city, but it was bad enough in its own right and could be just as dangerous.

  He knew that better than most.

  Before long, they pulled up in front of a tavern with a weathered, hand-painted sign hanging above the door. "The Jolly Roger" it declared in bold letters.

  It was Tristan's turn to look askance at his compan­ion. "This is our destination?"

  Avoiding his eyes, she gave a stiff nod before open­ing the carriage door and alighting.

  "Wait." Tristan climbed down behind her and reached out to place a restraining hand at her elbow. At the contact, however, a sharp jolt instantly shot up his arm and he pulled away, as if burned.

  Don't touch, he reminded himself, shoving the of­fending hand deep in his pocket. It's better if you don't touch her.

  He cast a brief glance up at Cullen, who was still perched up on the driver's box. The servant was glar­ing down at him in a menacing manner. Deciding it would be prudent not to antagonize the coachman where his protective instincts for his mistress were concerned, Tristan took a step away from her before continuing. "I was just going to suggest that if I'm sup­posed to be your servant, it might be better if you wait for me to assist you."

  Her face flushed a becoming shade of pink. "You're right, of course. I wasn't thinking. I'm so used to doing things for myself, I just—"

  She stopped, biting her lip. For a brief moment, Tris­tan found himself entranced by her charmingly befud­dled expression, but he managed to tear himself away and turned to open the tavern door, bowing her inside before him.

  The interior of the establishment was dark and dim, though cleaner than one might have guessed from its facade, with a scattering of scarred wooden tables and chairs. At this time of the morning, no one was about except for a burly, gray-haired man Tristan took to be the tavern-keeper, who was sweeping the scuffed plank floor, and a scruffy individual who lay slumped in the far corner, snoring loudly. "Good morning, Harry."

  At Deirdre's greeting, the gray-haired man looked over his shoulder, a surprised smile wreathing his ruddy face. A black patch covered one eye, giving him a piratical look. "Why, good morning, m'lady. You're out and about early this fine day."

  "Please, Harry. I've told you before you may still call me Deirdre. I'm the same person I've always been and I don't want you to treat me any differently."

  Harry scratched his head and set aside his broom. "I don't know, m'lady. It don't seem right some'ow."

  "I insist."

  Tristan frowned as he observed the two people in front of him. Their easy interaction had him mystified.

  Deirdre glanced over at the snorer, who twitched once in his sleep and shifted restlessly before settling down once more. "I see Tom didn't make it home again last night."

  "He's been propping up me wall since midnight," the tavern-keeper huffed. "Why, it reminds me of when your da used to—" He halted, his cheeks flood­ing with color. "I'm sorry, m'lady . . . er, Deirdre. I meant no disrespect."

  Sorry for what? Tristan wondered, noting Deirdre's apprehensive look in his direction. What about her da?

  But before he could question her, she'd changed the subject. "It's all right. I know you didn't mean anything by it. By the way, I'm here to see Lilah. Is she upstairs?"

  " 'Course. Where else would she be? That one don't crack an eye before noon."

  "I'll just go ahead up then, shall I? We won't be long."

  Deirdre started across the room toward the stairs and Tristan followed, glancing at Harry in passing. Though the old man examined him with a curious ex­pression, he said nothing; he merely retrieved his broom and went back to his sweeping.

  "What happened to his eye?" Tristan murmured to Deirdre as he mounted the steps behind her.

  She looked back at him over her shoulder, a genuine smile lighting her face. "It depends on which day of the week you ask him. I don't think I've ever heard the same story twice in all the years I've known him."

  Just how many years was that? Tristan asked himself as they reached the top of the stairs and continued along a dim hallway. And how was it that a tavern-keeper had come to know her father?

  In front of him, Deirdre halted before one of the doors at the end of the corridor. She raised her ha
nd to knock when it swung open to reveal a tall, thin gentle­man with bleary eyes and a pasty complexion. With an unintelligible mutter, he pushed past them into the hallway and moved off toward the stairs, his gait less than steady.

  A second later, a woman appeared in the doorway, her long fall of black hair tousled and her buxom figure clad in a garish dressing gown. Her heavily made-up face gave mute testimony to her chosen profession, and Tristan couldn't restrain a start of surprise.

  Good God! The woman had brought him to see a prostitute!

  * * *

  At the stunned look on Tristan's face, Deirdre felt a brief surge of satisfaction. After spending most of the journey here certain he was secretly laughing at her, she was happy to see the tables turned.

  The truth was, she'd been off balance ever since they'd departed her town house, and she didn't like that feeling at all, especially when Tristan seemed un­affected by anything that happened between them. She almost wished she'd agreed to his suggestion that he ride up on the box. At least she would have had a lit­tle private time to get her teetering emotions back un­der control. She'd been a ninny, however, determined to prove to herself and him that she could be in his presence without losing every bit of sense. An exercise in futility, of course, because the moment he'd touched her arm as they'd stepped down from the carriage, every sensible thought had flown right out of her head.

  "Deirdre, luv! What are you doing 'ere so early?"

  Lilah's exclamation brought her out of her rumina­tions, and she gave her friend a warm smile, aware all the while of Tristan's penetrating gaze. "Hello, Lilah. I hope you don't mind me showing up so unexpect­edly, but—"

  "Don't be daft! You know I'm always glad to see you."

  The dark-haired woman ushered them into the room, chattering away, as usual, and completely un­concerned with her state of dishabille. Deirdre had to stifle a laugh as she noticed Tristan's bemused counte­nance. She'd known Lilah for as long as she could re­member. Aside from Harry, the prostitute had been one of the few people who'd been there for her in the days after her father's abandonment, and she was quite fond of her. However, she knew the woman's ex­uberant manner could be a trifle disconcerting.