Mrs. McLean looked stricken, and Deirdre quickly moved forward, reaching out to touch the woman's arm. "Rachel, is there anything I can do? Do you need money, food—"
"No, my lady. You do too much for us already. I don't know what the people of Tothill would do without you. But could you excuse us for a moment? I need to speak to my daughter."
"Go right ahead, and take all the time you need."
The woman drew Jenna to a shadowed corner and began to speak in vehement tones, and Tristan turned to Deirdre, studying her with interest as the light dawned.
"That's what you do here in the Fields, isn't it?"
She surveyed him out of the corner of her eye, her expression unreadable in the dimness. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you help people here in the rookery. Like my mother did." Somehow, the revelation didn't seem to surprise him. He supposed a part of him had suspected ever since their visit to Lilah that morning.
She shrugged, her gloved fingers toying with the strings of her reticule. "I hope you aren't too disappointed, my lord. I know you thought I was a rather notorious sort."
"No, my lady." He tilted his head, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. "No, I'm not disappointed at all."
There was silence for a long moment as they stood close together, their eyes locked. The only sound in the room was the murmur of Rachel McLean's voice as she continued to admonish her daughter. The air between the two of them thrummed with a sensual awareness that had Tristan feeling a sudden overwhelming urge to pull her close and take her lips with his own. In fact, he found himself tightening his hands into fists at his sides in an effort to keep himself from reaching for her.
That delectable-looking mouth, the soft glow in her green eyes, the sweet perfume of her skin—all were an invitation he was having a difficult time ignoring.
With a glance in the direction of the two females in the corner, he took a deliberate step away and cleared his throat, breaking the spell. "I am curious about something, however."
Taking a deep breath, Deirdre swallowed visibly, and he felt a surge of satisfaction that he obviously affected her as powerfully as she did him. "And what would that be, my lord?"
"Why not just come clean with society, announce to all what you do and be done with all of this ridiculous gossip?"
She stiffened. "I shouldn't have to. I owe them no explanations. They will believe what they want to believe, regardless of what I say. To be truthful, their opinion has never really mattered all that much to me."
Tristan didn't think that she was being entirely honest with herself. He could still recall with vivid clarity the wounded look on her face in the carriage earlier when she had first brought up the stories being bandied about regarding her and her activities.
But before he could call her on it, a soft brush against his hand drew his attention. Looking down, he found that Jenna's little sister had ventured out of her corner and now stood next to him, staring up at him with wide eyes.
Moving slowly so as not to startle her, he bent over and gave her an encouraging smile. "Hello, little one. Is your name Grade?"
She gave a small nod.
Noticing the bedraggled doll she carried in the crook of one arm, he inclined his head at it. "Is that your doll?"
She nodded again.
"Does she have a name?"
For a second he thought she wouldn't answer, but after studying him with a solemn countenance, she finally removed her thumb from her mouth and replied shyly, "Dolly."
Tristan couldn't hold back a chuckle. "What a remarkably inventive name." Reaching out, he gave the doll's hand a firm shake. "Hello, Dolly. What a pleasure to meet you."
Gracie giggled, and the sound arrested him with its simple, childish joy. As he stared down at her, he was struck by a sudden vision from the past. Six-year-old Emily, laughing with carefree abandon as he picked her up and swung her around and around.
At that moment, the little girl reminded him so much of his sibling at that age that he felt it like a blow to his chest. True, she was dark where Emily was fair, but there was a trust, an innocence in her eyes that his sister had once possessed, before it had been so cruelly shattered.
As Gracie skipped away, his smile faded and he straightened, to find Deirdre watching him with a strange expression.
He quirked an eyebrow in an inquiring manner. "What?"
Blushing as if embarrassed to be caught studying him with such intentness, she shook her head and looked away. "It's nothing. Just. . ."
"Just what?"
"Thank you for being so gentle with her. She hasn't had much male attention, so she's a bit wary whenever she's around a man. But she was different with you."
He peered over at Gracie, who had seated herself on the floor next to the fireplace and was rocking her doll in her thin little arms; then he let his gaze travel around the cottage again. This time he noticed the small touches someone had added in an attempt to make things more cheerful, despite the dreary surroundings. The colorful, quilted curtains at the windows, the chipped vase of wildflowers that sat in the center of the dining table, the patterned cushions decorating the wooden chairs. But despite the valiant effort, nothing could disguise the unmistakable signs of poverty.
"Where is their father?" he asked, discovering with surprise that he was truly interested.
Deirdre raised her chin, her jaw tightening. "He's in Newgate. One of those people you just can't turn your back on, according to you."
Her gaze narrowed on him before going back to Mrs. McLean and Jenna. "From what I understand, he had a job in one of the local factories up until last year. The pay wasn't all that much, but it was enough to get by. When it closed down without any warning, Mr. McLean had trouble finding other employment, and he finally had to resort to thievery in order to take care of his family. The watch caught him one night stealing a loaf of bread and arrested him. Never mind that he was only trying to feed his starving children."
Tristan examined the overlarge, threadbare boy's clothing shrouding Jenna's slim form, the faded, much-mended rag doll Gracie played with, and he felt an unexpected tug of sympathy. For the first time, he had no trouble understanding why his mother had been so touched by the plight of people in the rookeries. But for the whim of fate, he and Emily could have been born into a life much like this one. It made his own travails in dealing with his disapproving father seem small by comparison.
Unaware of his thoughts, Deirdre continued to speak. "I wish I had known them then. There might have been something I could have done. But I only met them a few months ago, when I caught Jenna trying to lift my reticule." She sighed. "Apparently, she's picked up a few of her father's talents."
Tristan looked over at her. "And you decided to take them under your wing, of course."
"Of course. I've done what I can, but there are so many here who need my help. . . ." Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head. "Sometimes it's hard to make sure they all have everything they need, and I simply don't have the time to check in with all my charges every day. Rachel does what she can to make ends meet by taking in mending from some of the locals. But as you can imagine, there are few who can afford to pay her for it."
At that moment, Mrs. McLean came toward them, one arm wrapped around her daughter's shoulders. "Jenna told me what you did, my lady. About you paying that stall owner for the apples and dissuading him from having her arrested. I can't tell you how grateful I am."
"It's all right, Rachel. I would have done the same for anyone. Now, tell me what else I can do to help."
The woman flushed and let go of her daughter to wring her hands together in the material of her apron. "Oh, nothing, my lady As I said before, you've done enough."
"Nonsense. It's obvious you're having some sort of difficulty, and that's nothing to be ashamed of." Deirdre smiled at the woman and ducked her hand into her reticule, withdrawing a small drawstring bag from its depths with a jingle. "Now, tell me how much yo
u need. I insist."
Mrs. McLean shook her head, her eyes welling with tears. "Oh, no, my lady! I can't—"
"If you won't tell me, then I shall simply give you the whole thing." Deirdre reached out and caught the woman's hand, pressing the bag firmly into her palm. "Come now. You must accept it or you shall hurt my feelings."
A lone tear spilled free and ran down the woman's plump cheek as her fingers closed around the bag. "I don't know what to say, my lady. Things have been hard since they took my Angus." She bowed her head for a moment, then looked back up, her expression determined. "You must tell me what I can do to repay you."
Deirdre tilted her head in a considering manner, then her face lit up, as if with sudden inspiration. "As a matter of fact, there is something you can do for me." She turned to Tristan. "The portrait, please."
He didn't question her; he merely retrieved the picture and handed it over without a word. Mrs. McLean's stare passed over him with curiosity before focusing on the miniature Deirdre held out to her.
"She's pretty," the woman commented. "Who is she?"
"A friend," Deirdre replied, "and I was wondering if you might have seen her."
Mrs. McLean brushed aside her tears and scrutinized the portrait more closely before shaking her head. "I'm sorry, my lady, but I don't believe so."
Jenna, who was studying the picture over her mother's shoulder, let out a low whistle. "She looks like the girl Mr. Flynt is looking for."
At the familiar name, Tristan's breath seized in his lungs, and the mere mention of it was enough to have Deirdre paling. She focused in on Jenna with fierce intent. "What do you mean?"
The girl shrugged. "Word's out on the street that Mr. Flynt is looking for a girl wiv golden curls and purple eyes. Don't know why, but 'e's offering a reward for anyone who brings 'er to 'im."
"Flynt?" Tristan spoke up, his voice hoarse with shock. "Barnaby Flynt, the gang leader?"
Jenna nodded.
Without a word, he turned on his heel and strode toward the door with long, furious strides.
Deirdre hurried after him. "Tristan, what are you doing?"
Overwhelmed with fear and anger, he whirled on her. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm going back to Bow Street, and this time I'm not leaving until they agree to send every available man out looking for Emily."
"Tristan, no!"
"Yes, Deirdre!" Her name escaped his lips before he could call it back, but he ignored the slip and plunged on. "What else am I to do? It's well past noon and we've gotten nowhere. There's a murderer after my sister and I certainly don't intend to continue running uselessly about the Fields when she could be captured by that monster at any moment."
"You don't understand." She sent a glance in the McLean family's direction before lowering her voice and gazing up at him pleadingly. "If you do that, you'll send everyone who might have any useful information into hiding. Not to mention that a man like Barnaby Flynt hasn't survived around here this long without paying for the privilege."
His heart skipped a beat. "What are you saying?"
"I've always suspected that Barnaby is giving money to the law to turn a blind eye to his activities, and without knowing which officers are honest and which ones are in his pocket, going to them could be dangerous."
"And you didn't think to share this with me before?"
"I had hoped it wouldn't be necessary." She bit her lip. "But don't worry, my lord. I have another idea."
He watched as she looked back over her shoulder. "Jenna, does Dodger Dan have a match planned tonight?"
"Yes, m'lady. At nine o'clock, like always." Deirdre's eyes lit with determination. "My lord, how do you feel about attending a boxing match?"
Chapter 11
Emily sat with her back against the wall in a shadowed corner of the Rag-Tag Bunch's hideout, her mind awhirl with everything that had happened to her since last night.
For much of the day, she'd remained in this spot, watching the boys as they'd gone about their normal activities. For the most part, they'd kept their distance, appearing to realize she needed time alone to sort out her tangled emotions. Only Benji had ventured near once or twice to stare down at her with wide, curious eyes.
She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so confused. Only she would have the abominable luck to wind up seeking refuge from a murderer with a band of thieves! One moment she was tempted to slip out and take her chances back on the streets, the next she was convinced the best course of action was to stay right where she was.
Now that night had finally fallen, she was no closer to making a decision. As a matter of fact, she was more befuddled than ever. With a sigh, she brushed a wispy curl back behind her ear and looked up—only to find Peter's blue gaze locked on her from across the room.
It wasn't the first time she'd caught him watching her. Slouched in a chair at the edge of the circle of firelight, he sat with his arms crossed in a casual posture, seeming relaxed and at ease with his surroundings. Only the most astute observer would have noticed the alert tilt of his head, the almost tangible aura of watchfulness that hovered about him as he examined her.
She bit her lip and deliberately looked away. She supposed she couldn't blame him for being on his guard with her, especially after her horrified reaction to the revelation that the boys were thieves and her subsequent withdrawal from them. She certainly hadn't meant to seem ungrateful. After all, he had saved her life. But nothing in her background had prepared her for dealing with this sort of situation, and she had to admit she was at a loss. Not to mention terrified.
What would Tristan think if he could see her now? she wondered. Was he worried about her? Did he miss her? Did he even care that she was gone?
"Are you all right?"
At the sound of the voice coming from so nearby, Emily gave a cry of surprise and jerked her head up to discover Peter standing next to her, looking down at her with an unreadable expression. Somehow he had managed to rise and cross the room so silently that she hadn't heard his approach.
He paused, then lowered himself to the pallet next to her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you."
She placed one hand against her chest in an effort to calm her racing heart. "How do you do that?" When he raised a quizzical brow, she explained further. "Move so quietly. I never hear you coming."
He gave a shrug. "It's part of being a thief. You 'ave to learn to move fast and quiet when you're nipping from someone's pocket, else you wind up getting caught."
At this reminder of the boys' chosen profession, Emily quickly ducked her head. Peter, seeming to sense her discomfort, scooted a bit closer to her.
"You really are safe 'ere," he assured her, his tone serious. "We've been 'ere three months now, and Flynt and 'is gang 'ave yet to find us."
"I hope you're right," she murmured, unable to quell the slight flutter of anxiety she felt in the pit of her stomach.
As she turned to observe the boys grouped around the fireplace, talking and laughing, Peter found himself taking the opportunity her inattention afforded him to study her delicate profile. He couldn't help but wonder what she was thinking. Something about this girl had a very strange effect upon him. The truth was, his first impression of her when she'd rounded that corner and collided with him last night had been much the same as Benji's. With her long golden hair and fair skin, she looked just like an angel. It had taken his breath away. Dainty and fragile, she seemed much too fine to ever be exposed to the sort of life he lived.
He grimaced and tore his gaze away. As much as he hated to admit it, Jack was right about her. She didn't belong here. Whatever it was that had sent her running from her home, sooner or later she would get tired of being cold, hungry, and afraid, and she would go back to the family he knew must be searching for her. Things would go back to normal for the Rag-Tag Bunch, and it would be as if she'd never even been here.
To his surprise, he felt a sharp jolt of regret at the thought.
"
I'm sorry."
The hesitant statement pulled Peter from his musings, and he looked up to find Emily watching him shyly.
"Sorry for what?"
"For the way I behaved earlier, when I found out you and the rest of the Rag-Tags were thieves. I had no right to react the way I did when you've been so kind to me."
He sent her a wry smile. "It's all right. I don't s'pose you've run into many thieves where you come from."
"No, I can't say that I have."
" 'Ave you run away from 'ome, then?"
"In a manner of speaking. Though it certainly hasn't felt much like a home of late."
"Why?"
Peter's query startled Emily. It was the first time he'd asked her directly about her background, and she was uncertain how much to tell him. She was very much afraid that if she revealed everything—like the fact that she was an earl's daughter—he would treat her differently. But at the same time, it was tempting to share her burdens, to finally have someone to confide in.
Straightening her shoulders, she turned to face him. "My father was killed several months ago in a carriage accident, and my brother just recently returned home from abroad in order to see to things."
"And?"
"And we don't precisely see eye to eye. He's much older than I, and he left home right after our mother died. I was only six at the time and I hadn't seen him since. Now he's back and everything is changing."
Peter tilted his head and studied her with genuine interest. "Changing 'ow?"
"My father mostly tended to ignore me when he was alive. He wasn't around much, and I got used to being on my own, fending for myself. Now all of a sudden I have Tristan telling me what to do and how to do it, thinking he knows what's best for me when he doesn't know me at all anymore. It's infuriating."
"Is 'e cruel? Does 'e beat you?"
She was shocked at Peter's question and was certain her expression must convey her astonishment. "Of course not! He would never raise a hand to me."
A Kiss in the Dark Page 10