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A Kiss in the Dark

Page 7

by Kimberly Logan


  "I've been wanting to thank you for those dresses you brought me the last time you came to visit," Lilah was saying as she closed the door behind them. "They're right fine. Too fine for the likes of me."

  "Nonsense. Nothing is too fine for the likes of you."

  The prostitute beamed, then turned to Tristan, her eyes lighting with curiosity and definite feminine in­terest as they roamed over his muscular form. "Who 'ave we 'ere?"

  The scowl that marred Tristan's face told Deirdre he didn't much care for being sized up like a prime stal­lion on the block at TattersaU's, so she swiftly inter­vened. "This is Tristan." She was surprised at how easily his name fell from her lips. In fact, the familiar­ity with which she spoke it made her feel a bit unset­tled. "I've hired him to accompany me on my. . . errands here in the Fields."

  "Well, I can't say I'm not glad to 'ear it. I've been telling you for months you needed more protection when you come down 'ere. Someone besides Cullen—" Lilah came to an abrupt halt, looking quite suddenly aggrieved. "You 'aven't replaced Cullen, 'ave you?"

  "I wouldn't dream of it. He's outside with the car­riage."

  The prostitute rushed to the window and flung open the casement. Waving wildly, she leaned far out over the sill, her ample charms in the low-cut dressing gown well displayed to anyone who might be below on the street. "Oh, Cullen! Cullen! Yoo 'oo! Up 'ere!"

  Deirdre, who had followed Lilah across the room, peered over her shoulder just in time to see the coach­man duck his head, his square-jawed face reddening.

  At his less than enthusiastic reaction, Lilah sighed and straightened away from the window ledge. "I've done everything but stand on me 'ead in front of that man," she grumbled, tugging at the belt on her wrap­per. "For all the good it does me."

  One corner of Deirdre's mouth tilted upward in amusement. She'd known of her friend's interest in Cullen for some time. Secretly, she was certain he re­turned those feelings but was just too shy to respond to the woman's overtures. "You might be surprised."

  The prostitute sniffed, then eyed Deirdre askance. "You know, luv, you never did say why you're 'ere."

  "Actually, we . . . I am looking for someone."

  Deirdre turned to Tristan, who had been quiet all this time, observing their conversation with an un­readable expression. She couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking as she held out her hand to him. "Tristan. The miniature, if you please?"

  He reached into his pocket and withdrew the small, oval-framed portrait of his sister, a brief spark of pain flashing in the depths of his eyes as he glanced down at it before handing it over.

  Deirdre, herself, felt the same sharp pang she'd felt earlier, when Tristan had first showed it to her. Lady Emily was, indeed, a younger version of her mother, beautiful and angelic, with long, golden curls and eyes the same shade of violet as Tristan's.

  She was unable to keep the hope from rising within her as she showed the portrait to Lilah, but those hopes were immediately dashed when the woman shook her head. "I can't say I've seen 'er."

  "And you haven't heard anything? Maybe someone bragging about locating a new girl for their stables?"

  Deirdre knew Tristan had caught on to what she was asking, for she felt him stiffen behind her, his tension almost palpable. She couldn't blame him. The thought of the innocent Lady Emily being forced into prostitu­tion was horrible to contemplate, but it was an avenue that had to be explored. Things like that happened far too often to young girls in the rookery.

  But once again, Lilah shook her head. "No. I 'aven't 'eard a thing. But I'll keep me ear to the ground and let you know if I do."

  Deirdre sighed and handed the miniature back to Tristan. "Thank you."

  Lilah tilted her head, studying Deirdre curiously. "She's a pretty little thing. Who is she?"

  "Oh, just. . . a friend of a friend."

  "Run away, 'as she? And 'ighborn to boot, from the looks of 'er. Well, she's not the first one of those to think life is easier on the streets, and she won't be the last. But I'd say she's in for a 'arsh lesson."

  Deirdre nodded, very much afraid Lilah was right.

  The prostitute's next words, however, momentarily distracted her from her worry over Tristan's sister. "And 'ere I thought you'd come because you'd 'eard about Mr. Baldwin."

  "Baldwin? The pawnbroker?"

  "That's the one. It's all over the Fields that they found 'is body in an alleyway this morning. 'E'd been stabbed."

  "How awful."

  Lilah shrugged. "It's 'is own fault for doing business wiv the likes of Barnaby Flynt."

  Deirdre froze, her heart skipping a beat. "Barnaby Flynt?"

  "Mmmm." Though even Lilah didn't know every­thing that had occurred, most especially the incident with Tristan's mother, she'd been around when Deirdre had been part of Barnaby's gang and was well aware of her aversion to the man. It was an aversion the prostitute shared, as Flynt had once tried to force her into his own private stable of doxies, an attempt she had fought tooth and nail. "I suppose you know 'e's back."

  Deirdre slid a sidelong glance at Tristan, whose eye­brows had lowered in a frown, before taking a step closer to her friend. "What does he have to do with this?"

  "Everyone knows Baldwin was acting as Flynt's re­ceiver. If the man 'imself didn't do it, one of 'is boys did, sure enough."

  "What does the law have to say about it?"

  "The law?" Lilah snorted. "The law don't care what goes on in 'ere unless it's worth their while. You know that. They've made sure the body was removed, and that'll be the end of it as far as they're concerned. 'E's just another poor blighter what no one cares about. 'E'd 'ave to be a titled gent before they'd lower them­selves to try and catch 'is killer."

  It was true. Deirdre knew better than anyone that Bow Street tended to turn a blind eye to the rookeries unless they were compelled by either money or per­sonal gain to do so.

  Barnaby Flynt. Already the man was leaving a trail of mayhem in his wake.

  As if reading her mind, Lilah reached out to pat her shoulder sympathetically. "It's a good thing you went and married that fine gent of yours and you're not around 'ere so much anymore, luv. It looks like we're right back where we left off eight years ago."

  "Who's Barnaby Flynt?"

  Tristan's question was so unexpected that for a mo­ment Deirdre was stunned. Knowing him, she sup­posed she should have realized that it was too much to hope he would remain silent the entire time. He was far too accustomed to taking the lead. After all, it was his sister who was missing, and he must be champing at the bit to be a more active participant in the search. But the question he'd chosen to ask came far too close to the one subject Deirdre wanted most to avoid.

  "Someone we'd do well to stay away from," she fi­nally answered, then turned back to Lilah, hoping to forestall any further queries. "I suppose we'd best be on our way. But before we go, I couldn't help noticing your . . . guest." She paused, trying to think of a way to phrase her next inquiry delicately. "Are you short on funds, Lilah? Do you need anything?"

  The prostitute gave her head a firm, negative shake. "Oh, I couldn't take anything more from you, luv. You've done enough for me already, what wiv giving me them dresses and talking 'any into letting me 'ave a room 'ere at the tavern. 'E pays me what 'e can for 'elping out downstairs, and the rest. . ." She reddened. "Well, I make out all right."

  "But you don't have to—"

  "I know I don't. But it's me job, Deirdre. It's all I know 'ow to do and do well. I earn me own way."

  Deirdre sighed and reached out to hug her friend. "You are so stubborn."

  Lilah gave her a gentle squeeze in return. "I've just got me pride. Something you should understand."

  "That's the trouble. I do." Deirdre took a step back and smiled at the woman. "I don't suppose you have any suggestions as to where to continue my search?"

  " 'Ave you tried Mouse yet?"

  "Mouse? No. Do you think he might know some­thing?"

  "Mouse k
nows everything. It's the getting it out of 'im that's the problem. 'Course, 'e's fond of you, so you might not 'ave any trouble at all."

  Deirdre nodded. "It might be worth a try." She leaned forward to give her friend a swift peck on the cheek. "Thank you, Lilah."

  "Ah, go on wiv you." The prostitute brushed aside the show of affection with a sweep of her hand, but she couldn't hide her delighted smile. "And be careful. I don't know what 'appened between you and Barnaby all those years ago, but I do know 'e was wild to find you at the time, and 'e never forgets a slight against 'im."

  With a speculative look, she turned to Tristan, flut­tering her eyelashes in a coy manner. "And it was a definite pleasure to meet you, luv." She held out a hand to him expectantly.

  Deirdre stopped dead, certain he was about to snub the prostitute's friendly gesture. But to her surprise, the frown vanished from his face, to be replaced by a charming smile as he bent over the woman's work-roughened fingers. "And it was a pleasure to meet you, Mistress Lilah."

  Lilah gave an amused laugh. "Cor! Ain't you got manners? You feel free to come visit me anytime, luv."

  With one last hug for Deirdre, she showed them out of the room.

  After the door closed behind them, Deirdre looked up at Tristan, positive her bemusement showed on her face. "Thank you," she said softly.

  "For what?"

  "For being kind to her."

  Their eyes locked for a long moment, and Deirdre felt her heart pick up speed and her breath lodge in her throat at the intensity of his gaze. Finally, forcibly tear­ing herself away, she turned and started toward the stairs without another word.

  The two of them returned to the carriage in silence, and it wasn't until Deirdre had given Cullen directions as to their next destination and they were once more on their way that Tristan spoke again.

  But when he opened his mouth, it wasn't the words she had expected to hear that came out.

  "Who is Barnaby Flynt?"

  Chapter 8

  At first, Tristan was certain Deirdre wasn't going to answer him. Her expression closed up and a wary light entered her eyes. The same light that had sparked to life earlier when Lilah had first brought up Barnaby Flynt.

  What was it about this man, that the mere mention of his name could cause such a reaction?

  Just when he thought he would have to ask the ques­tion again, Deirdre gave a sigh and finally spoke. "Barn-aby Flynt is a monster. A cruel, heartless man who likes to believe he rules Tothill Fields and every­one in it."

  "And he's responsible for the death of this Baldwin fellow?"

  "He and his gang are responsible for more than half the criminal activities that take place here. He's vicious, and he tends to deal harshly with those who make the mistake of crossing him."

  Tristan felt a chill at the thought of his sister at the mercy of such a person. "What about the law?"

  "You heard what Lilah said. She's right. For the most part they don't concern themselves with what goes on in the rookeries."

  His jaw set. "They bloody well will concern them­selves if I find out my sister's life is at stake because of their negligence." Memories of the way the Bow Street officers had put him off last evening roused his temper, and his mind drifted back to the conversation between Deirdre and Lilah. It wasn't that he hadn't been aware of the dangers Emily faced, but having them discussed in such a candid manner right in front of him had been horrifying, to say the least.

  "I should have gone back the moment my footman found Emily's portmanteau and demanded they take action," he said grimly.

  The sudden look of alarm that suffused Deirdre's features caught his attention, and he watched as she made a visible effort to rein in her composure. "First you would have to prove to them she was even here, and that wouldn't be easy. No, you did the right thing. We'll find her. I'm certain of it."

  Not a hint of her agitation betrayed itself in her voice, which was confident and full of resolve. But Tris­tan noticed the rigidity with which she held herself, the way her gloved hands gripped each other tensely in her lap.

  Hmm. Now, why would the idea of his going to the law fill her with such obvious distress? For that matter, how could it be that a viscountess was so knowledge­able about someone of Barnaby Flynt's reputation? Why, Lilah had spoken as if Deirdre knew the man personally.

  There could be no denying that Lady Rotherby was an intriguing woman, and Tristan was swiftly becom­ing determined to get to the bottom of her mystery. De­spite his anger over her refusal to help him at first, he had to admit he'd doubted the validity of the stories about her from the moment they'd met. Now that he'd spent a little time with her, they were even more im­possible to believe. However, he'd learned over the years to trust his instincts, and his instincts were telling him there was more to her than met the eye. If only for that reason, he had to remain on his guard.

  Needing to take his mind off his worry over Emily, he decided now was as good a time as any to do a little probing. "Forgive me if I seem unduly curious, my lady, but I can't help but wonder how it is you've man­aged to cultivate friendships with such an . . . interest­ing assortment of people."

  To his surprise, Deirdre stiffened and her eyes turned glacial. "Surely you must have a theory about that, my lord? It seems everyone else in society does."

  "I should hope you would not judge me by their standards, Lady Rotherby. In truth, I am not overly fond of society, and I am well aware of how the gossip-mongers can twist the reality of a situation to suit their own purposes. I've been the subject of a few of their conjectures myself since my return home. If you don't mind, I should like to hear the real story from you."

  "Oh, but the tales of the ton are much more enter­raining." Her tone rang with a false lightheartedness, barely veiling the hurt that lay beneath. "I personally quite enjoy the one where I'm part owner of a high-stakes, underground gambling hall. It makes me sound rather bold and exciting, don't you think? But of course, after visiting with Lilah, it must have only lent credence to the whispers that I'm a madam in a lower-class brothel. After all, like attracts like. Isn't that what they've been saying about me?"

  "I would never presume to say any such thing."

  "And why not, my lord? I believe you made your low opinion of me more than clear last night. Why draw the line there?"

  Tristan felt a tug of shame as he remembered his words of the evening before. Regardless of his own feelings on the subject, he'd had no right to judge her when he knew nothing about her, and even less about her marriage to Lord Rotherby. After all, she was far from the first woman to wed a man old enough to be her grandfather.

  "I apologize," he said softly. "It was wrong of me to speak to you in such a manner. I was angry and frustrated, and I lashed out without thinking. It was unforgivable."

  That seemed to take some of the wind out of her sails. Slumping back against the velvet squabs, the ice in her eyes melted away, to be replaced by a look of such naked vulnerability that it brought a lump to his throat.

  The two of them stared at each other, the air be­tween them thick with an awareness so palpable it could have been cut with a knife.

  Finally, after a long, drawn-out moment, Deirdre cleared her throat and tore her gaze away from his to look down at her entwined fingers. "You say you've been the subject of a few of the ton's conjectures your­self," she ventured, her voice sounding a trifle breath­less. "What sort of conjectures?"

  He shrugged. "Just speculation about where I've been and what I've been doing in the years since I left London."

  She glanced back up at him, unable to hide her ob­vious interest. "And where have you been, my lord?"

  Talk of his past never failed to stir up the feelings of guilt that lurked just beneath the surface of his hard-won control, and since he had no intention of opening himself up for her scrutiny, he brushed aside her ques­tion with a deceptively careless gesture. "Here and there. But I can assure you that not a one of the rumors that has been bandied about has even
come close to the truth." He raised an eyebrow at her. "Of course, I'm certain you must have heard some of the whispers."

  "Only a very little." She bit her lip. "I'm afraid I don't go out and about in society much. Nigel and I were always content to stay at home, and since his death . . . well, I don't receive many invitations."

  Tristan leaned toward her, so close he could smell the subtle strawberry scent of her hair, hear the slight catch in her breathing at his nearness. Her reaction started his own pulse pounding in his ears. "Then that's something we have in common."

  Their eyes caught and held once more. Deirdre's cheeks were flushed with high color, and as Tristan watched, her tongue flicked out to wet her lips. The movement drew his attention to the delectable curve of her mouth, and he had to stifle a groan as he imagined pressing her back against the carriage seat and cover­ing that mouth hungrily with his own. So vivid was the image that he could almost taste the sweetness of the kiss, feel the creamy softness of her skin beneath his fingers as he molded her to him. . . .

  Damnation! Wrenching his gaze away from hers, he turned to the window, his heart racing as he tried to curb his body's predictable reaction to his wanton thoughts. He was the worst sort of reprobate, to be fan­tasizing about seducing this woman when his sister was missing. He had to stop, or by the time they fi­nally located Emily he would be stark, raving mad.

  "We're here."

  Deirdre's announcement signaled the halting of the carriage, and as he pushed away his wayward urgings and returned his attention to her, it occurred to him that she had very neatly managed to evade answering any of his questions.

  Well, he wouldn't be put off quite so easily as that. Sooner or later, he fully intended to continue their conversation.

  Climbing down from the carriage, he assisted Deirdre in alighting, then turned to study their sur­roundings. They had stepped out onto a sidewalk lined with run-down storefronts and shabby tenements, still shuttered and quiet at this early hour. Aside from an occasional passerby and one or two street vendors hawking their wares in loud, singsong voices, few peo­ple seemed to be about.

 

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