A Kiss in the Dark

by Kimberly Logan

  "Then I don't see the problem. Tell 'im 'ow you feel."

  "I've tried. He doesn't listen. He would much rather spend his time looking for a governess to take me off his hands. Never mind that I don't need one, that I've never needed one."

  She told him about the string of governesses her brother had hired in the past few months and her vari­ous methods of ridding herself of them. Peter listened attentively, but as she spoke, Emily found herself re­calling her actions with a surprising surge of guilt. Per­haps in some cases she had gone too far, she conceded, picturing Mrs. Petersham's terrified face at finding the snake in her bed. She hadn't meant to frighten the woman so badly, and she supposed Tristan had every right to his anger, but she hadn't been able to think of any other way to get through to him. The only time he ever seemed to see her was when she was getting into trouble. He was always so distant, so unapproachable.

  "Needless to say, my brother is not very happy with me," she concluded. "After the incident with Mrs. Petersham, he lost his temper and ordered me to my room like a child. He wouldn't even listen to my explanations."

  She shook her head and stared down at her hands. "I thought if I left home, even for just a few days, it would prove to him that I'm capable of so much more than he thinks. But apparently all I'm capable of is get­ting myself in trouble. And the worst part is, it might all be for naught. Tristan is most likely glad I'm gone. It's not as if my absence ever meant all that much to him before. All I am is an obligation."

  "You're angry with 'im for leaving you."

  Peter's astuteness was rather unnerving, and Emily felt a sharp stab of pain as she flashed back to the way she'd felt on the day she'd watched her brother walk away, leaving his past—and her—behind.

  She shook it off, however. "Yes, I was. I am. But it's too late for him to make up for it now. I don't need him anymore." She glanced around at her surroundings. "Although I suppose if he could see the trouble I'm in now, he might disagree."

  "Oh, I don't know. I don't think you've done 'alf bad. For a girl, that is."

  Her ire aroused, Emily looked up with a gasp of outrage, ready to do battle on behalf of her gender. One look at the twinkle in Peter's eyes, however, and her temper instantly deflated as she realized he'd only been teasing her.

  "Like I said," he continued, grinning at her, "you're welcome to stay 'ere as long as you like. We've never 'ad a girl in the gang before."

  She offered him a tentative smile in return. He'd been so kind to her. He could have easily turned her away, kicked her back out into the filth of the streets and left her to her own devices. But he hadn't. And he had listened to her troubles without passing judgment, even though they must have sounded small and rather petty compared to the hunger and poverty he and the other boys faced every day.

  "What about you, Peter?" she asked.

  "What about me?"

  "You haven't said much about yourself. Do you have a home? A family?"

  His brow lowered and his expression suddenly closed up as he looked away, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "This is my 'ome, and the Rag-Tags are my family. I don't need anything or anyone else. Never 'ave."

  Obviously, his past wasn't something he was will­ing to discuss with her, Emily mused, her gaze tracing his rigid profile. Unwilling to pry any further into an area that caused him pain, she changed the subject. "And how did you learn to . . . ?"

  "Pick pockets? When you're alone on the streets, you learn pretty fast that's the one sure way to survive. And if you're 'ungry enough, you get good at it right quick."

  "And you're . . . good at it?"

  He glanced up at her, his eyes looking shadowed in the dimness. "I'd say so," he murmured, leaning in to­ward her. His very closeness affected her pulse in a strangely erratic fashion. "Wouldn't you?"

  He lifted a hand, and she was so entranced by his compelling gaze that it took her a moment to realize that something rested in his outstretched palm.

  A lavender ribbon. Her lavender ribbon.

  A startled squeak escaped her lips, and she immedi­ately reached for the inside pocket of her cloak, where she had tucked the ribbon upon discovering earlier that she had somehow managed to lose the matching one during the melee last night. "How did you? . . . I didn't feel a thing!"

  One corner of his mouth quirked upward. "That's the most important part. You can't just be quick. It takes light fingers and the brains to judge just the right time to make the lift, or you get nabbed. Most people don't realize that picking pockets is an art."

  Emily took the ribbon from his hand and wrapped it around a finger as she contemplated his words. It was true, when she'd first learned the boys were thieves, she'd been appalled. But she had to admit that some small part of her was intrigued by it all. Dare she . . . ?

  "Do you think," she began hesitantly, nibbling at her lower lip, "that you could teach me?"

  "Teach you?"

  "How to pick pockets."

  Peter seemed stunned. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

  "Why not?"

  "I wouldn't want to corrupt your lily white mind."

  "Lily white?" She let out a peal of laughter that had the other boys glancing in their direction. "I'm not quite as lily white as you think." Lowering her lashes, she laid a hand on his arm in a beseeching gesture. "Please, Peter? If I'm going to stay here, I would like to earn my keep. I don't want to be a burden."

  A slight flush colored the high ridges of his cheek­bones as he stared down at her hand encircling his forearm. "You're not a burden," he said quietly.

  "I thank you for saying that, but we both know I'm another mouth to feed, and who knows how long I'll be here. You say it's an art, and I can appreciate art as much as the next person. So show me."

  He studied her for a long moment, then gave an abrupt nod. "All right. It's probably best to find some­thing to keep you occupied until. . . well, I'll take you out wiv me tomorrow morning. But we'll 'ave to find you some different clothes. You and Nat are about the same size. 'E might 'ave something you can borrow "

  "You mean, dress as a boy?"

  "Mmm. Do you 'ave a problem wiv that?"

  Emily raised her chin at his challenging tone. "Not at all."

  "Good. Now, we'd best get to sleep. We'll 'ave to be up early if we want to get a good start in the morning."

  Her stomach fluttered in response to his words. She was actually going to do this! She was going to learn to pick pockets! She knew she should be aghast at her brashness and scared to death at the tangle she found herself in, but all she felt was a keen sense of anticipation. Perhaps it was the allure of the forbidden, or the satisfac­tion it gave her to imagine Tristan's reaction if he ever found out, but the thought of finally having an adven­ture all her own gave her a secret little thrill deep inside.

  As she watched, Peter got to his feet and placed his hands on his hips, studying the group around the fire. "All right, boyos," he called out in an authoritative voice. "Time for bed."

  There were a few groans, but no one protested too strenuously, and they all rose and began to head for their pallets.

  Emily had just tucked her cloak about her and started to lie down when a small voice whispered in her ear. "Miss Angel, could you read me a story? Just one before we go to bed?"

  She looked up to find Benji standing beside her, clutching a book to his chest and watching her with pleading eyes.

  She glanced over at Peter, who gave a slight shrug as if to say it was entirely her decision. The little boy looked so hopeful that there was no way she could be heartless enough to deny him.

  "Of course, Benji," she said. "Bring your book and come sit with me."

  A joyful smile wreathed his face, and he immedi­ately settled himself on the pallet next to her. Taking the book and opening to the first page, she barely no­ticed as Nat came forward with a candle to light the shadowed corner where she sat, and the other boys drifted over and found places on the floor around her. The filth of her surroundings, the s
houts coming from the darkness beyond the boarded window, the serious­ness of her situation all faded away as Benji nestled against her and she began to read.

  Chapter 12

  Night had just started to lower its velvety curtain over the rooftops of the rookery when the Rotherby coach once again rumbled through the streets of Tothill Fields.

  Ensconced in a shadowed corner of the carriage, Deirdre regarded her companion from under lowered lashes. Ever since they had left the McLean home earlier that afternoon, Tristan had been distant and brooding, and she supposed he had every right to be. After all, it wasn't every day that one discovered one's runaway sis­ter was being pursued by a murderous madman.

  It had taken every bit of Deirdre's persuasive abili­ties to convince him that going to the law wasn't a good idea. Only the possibility that it might end up putting Emily in more danger had finally dissuaded him, but it was apparent he wasn't happy with the decision. And, though Deirdre had assured him she had an alternate plan, she was beginning to have doubts herself. Dodger Dan was fond of her in his own gruff way, but that was no guarantee that he would agree to lend them his aid.

  Just in case, she planned on keeping their options open. They had spent the rest of the afternoon continu­ing to question the shopkeepers in the area, this time about Barnaby Flynt's interest in finding a young, blond-haired girl with violet eyes. Not surprisingly, most had seemed reluctant to talk about it, and though several had been aware Flynt was offering a reward, none had seemed to know why he was looking for her in the first place.

  With each negative response, Tristan had grown more and more withdrawn, and by the time they'd re­turned to Deirdre's town house in order to steal a quick bite and freshen up, he had retreated into chilling si­lence. His mood had only deteriorated further when the servant Deirdre had dispatched to Berkeley Square in order to check in with the Ellington staff had returned with the message that there was still no word of Emily.

  She glanced at him once again. Pale moonlight spilled through the window of the carriage, illuminat­ing the rigid set of his features, and she felt her heart squeeze in sympathy.

  He tried so hard to put up a wall, to hide his feelings behind a stone exterior, but she was beginning to real­ize exactly how misleading that facade was. At first glance, he might appear aloof, but underneath he was a man who could be tender and caring. She'd caught glimpses of that man when they'd visited with Lilah, and then again when he'd been so kind to little Gracie

  McLean. It made her wonder what it would take to bring that facet of his character out into the open more often.

  Not that she'd given him much reason to show that side to her, she thought. Her face heated with shame as she recalled the way she had acted toward him earlier that morning. There had been no excuse for her behav­ior, but Tristan's anger toward the people of the Fields had put her back up, and she had responded by be­coming cool and snappish. Good heavens, she'd even threatened to knock him on his bloody bum, two words she hadn't strung together since coming to live with Nigel!

  "Where are we going?"

  It was the first full sentence Tristan had spoken in several hours, and Deirdre was so startled that it took her a moment before she could reply. "Dodger Dan owns a . . . club of sorts here in Tothill. He used to be a boxer, and he likes to keep his hand in by arranging weekly matches between willing participants for the benefit of the wagering public."

  "You mean he takes bets."

  "For lack of a better word, yes."

  "Explain to me again how this gentleman can be of use to us?"

  "Dan has several people in his employ who are ex­tremely talented at ferreting out information when given the right incentive. If there is anyone who can find out why Flynt is after Emily, it will be one of Dan's men."

  "And just how much will the 'proper incentive' cost me?"

  Deirdre narrowed her eyes at Tristan's sardonic tone. "I'm not certain, but surely any price is worth it if it will help you find your sister?"

  It was a valid point, and he fell silent.

  With an inward sigh, Deirdre turned to stare out the window as the coach drew closer to their destination. She was well aware that if Dan made up his mind not to help them, no amount of money would be enough to make him change it. In fact, he was quite likely to re­fuse. His very livelihood depended upon his avoiding Barnaby Flynt's notice, and he would be tempting fate to set his own men to tracking the gang leader. She could only hope his long acquaintance with her would be a point in their favor.

  At that moment, Cullen drew the carriage to a halt in front of a low, nondescript building sandwiched be­tween a row of abandoned warehouses. He hopped down from the driver's seat to open the door. As Tris­tan started to rise, Deirdre quickly laid a staying hand on his arm.

  "I'm sorry, but it might be best if you wait here."

  Looking incredulous, he lowered himself back into his seat. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Dan tends to be rather distrustful of people he doesn't know. If you go in with me, he might turn us away without even considering our request."

  "You are not going in there alone."

  She couldn't restrain a slight shiver at his thunder­ous expression. "Of course not. Cullen shall accom­pany me. Dan has seen him before and will think nothing of his presence." Accepting the coachman's hand, she stepped down from the carriage before turn­ing back to look at Tristan. "Please. I promise I won't be long, and I'll be quite safe with Cullen."

  Without giving him a chance to protest again, she whirled and started toward the building, feeling Tris­tan's eyes boring into her back the whole way.

  With a savage oath, Tristan vaulted from the car­riage and shut the door with enough force to make the horses stir restively in their traces. Raking one hand back through his hair, he watched with narrowed eyes as Deirdre and Cullen disappeared into the club.

  Damnation, but this was beyond belief! His sister was the one missing, yet he'd been relegated to waiting with the carriage like some lackey while Deirdre sought the help they needed. Rarely could he remem­ber ever feeling this powerless.

  Pivoting on his heel, he began to pace the pavement with angry strides, struggling to keep a rein on his growing temper. He'd already lost ground with Deirdre once today by lighting into Mouse. Moreover, he knew that his brooding silence since discovering that Barnaby Flynt was looking for Emily only served to make Deirdre more uncomfortable, but he couldn't seem to help it. His fear for his sister was eating at him, slowly eroding all pretense at civility.

  Well, he might be dressed as a servant, but he was damned if he would wait here like some tame little lap-dog. He could understand Deirdre's logic, could even admit it made sense for him to stay out of sight as much as possible, but he had to do something or he would go out of his mind.

  Besides, he reasoned, as he eyed a group of rough, seafaring men who had just exited the establishment, pushing and jostling each other boisterously, Cullen most likely could use all the help he could get in guarding the headstrong Lady Rotherby, regardless of what she said. Especially in a place like this.

  His mind made up, he started toward the building.

  The moment Deirdre entered the crowded, dimly lit club, she found herself wondering if she hadn't just made a colossal error in judgment.

  The stench of unwashed male bodies immediately assaulted her nostrils, and the noise from the throng gathered around the boxing floor was deafening. There was barely space to breathe, let alone maneuver in the close-packed confines of the room.

  And apparently her timing was off, as well. She had hoped to arrive after the match was over, when things would be calmer and Dan would be alone in his cham­bers, but it seemed instead she'd managed to walk right into the thick of things.

  Above the heads of the raucous spectators, she could just make out the two figures circling each other in the middle of the room. The sound of a fist striking flesh had her grimacing, and as another roar went up from the onlookers, she glanced at Cullen. His e
xpres­sion grim, he hovered over her, his eyes darting here and there as he searched out any potential threats to her safety.

  Perhaps she should have relented and allowed Tris­tan to accompany them, she thought, biting her lip. The men who frequented Dan's club could be disrep­utable at the best of times, but in the midst of a match they could be truly dangerous. She doubted even Cullen, as large as he was, would be enough to dis­suade someone who was determined to start trouble.

  Well, it was too late to second-guess herself now. She would simply have to maintain a low profile until the fight was over and she could approach Dan.

  Going up on her toes, she strained to see over the shifting mass of people around her. On the far side of the room was an alcove with a bar area and several ta­bles and chairs grouped for drinking and playing cards. She felt gratified to notice that it appeared to be deserted right now, as most of the patrons were in­volved in watching the fight and placing their bets. Perhaps she could manage to wait there unobtrusively until it was all over.

  Pulling the hood of her cloak up to cover the gleam of her upswept red curls, she gestured to Cullen and began to weave her way through the crowd, being careful not to jostle anyone or call undue attention to herself.

  Another rousing and especially loud cheer filled the club just as she reached her destination. Taking up a position in the shadows, she watched as the mob stirred and began to move away from the arena. It seemed the bout had come to an end.

  "Should 'ave known better than to bet against any man of Dodger's," she heard one fellow grumble to another as they passed close by. " 'E's a real scrapper, that one."

  Good. Dan's boxer had won. That would be sure to put him in a better mood and perhaps make him more amenable to her request.

  At that moment, a heavy hand fell on her shoulder.

  "Well, what 'ave we 'ere?"

  With a gasp, she whirled and found herself face-to-face with a rather squat, beefy fellow with a bulldog-gish face and lank blond hair. He was quite obviously drunk, his beady eyes narrowed and bloodshot above puffy, red rims. He was also accompanied by two com­panions who were twice as big and just as inebriated as he was. As Cullen started forward, his face fixed in a menacing scowl, one of them stepped in front of him, barring his way.