A Kiss in the Dark

by Kimberly Logan

  Her assailant's fingers gripped her arm painfully, and he reached up with his other hand to drag the hood of her cloak down. A slow, approving smile spread over his flushed features before he glanced back at his friends. "You're right, Morris. It is a woman. A pretty one."

  Deirdre gazed down at the hand on her arm, deter­mined not to let him see her apprehension. She had grown up around men like this one, and she was well aware that any sign of fear on her part would be like waving a red flag in front of a bull. When she spoke, she was proud to note that her voice held not the slightest quaver. "Kindly unhand me, sir."

  The man gave a loud guffaw. "Did ye 'ear that, blokes? 'Kindly un'and me,' she says. It seems we got a right little lady 'ere."

  "Ain't no ladies in a place like this, Farley," the man blocking Cullen snorted.

  "Damned me if ye ain't right." Farley looked back at her, and she flinched away from the overpowering smell of alcohol that laced his breath. "Ain't no ladies in a place like this, darlin'. So, why don't you get rid of the 'igh and mighty attitude and tell me 'ow much blunt it'll take for me to toss up them skirts of yours? I ain't never 'ad me a red'ead before."

  Deirdre cast a warning glance in Cullen's direction. From the look on his face, she knew her coachman was champing at the bit to come out swinging, but it would be best if they could handle this quietly, without call­ing any further attention to themselves.

  "I can assure you, sir, that no amount of 'blunt' would be enough to convince me to lift my skirts or anything else for the likes of you. I am not a prostitute, so if that is the kind of sport you wish to indulge in, I suggest you find a woman who is willing."

  "And if I want you?"

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, strug­gling for restraint. "Then I'm afraid you're wasting your time. Now, I shall ask you once more to unhand me."

  Her frosty tone had Farley raising his brows in amusement. "And what will you do if I don't?"

  All right. So much for dealing with things without causing a scene. She had tried the civilized approach. Now, it was time to resort to street tactics.

  With a nod to Cullen, she abruptly raised her knee, jamming it between Farley's legs as hard as she could. The man moaned in agony and lurched backwards. At the same time, her coachman gave a growl, grabbed Morris by the collar of his shirt, and threw him aside. A table splintered under the fellow's weight.

  Farley's other companion roared in outrage and charged Cullen. As if that were the signal for chaos to rein supreme, several others who had been observing the confrontation quickly joined the fray.

  Intent on aiding her servant, Deirdre started for­ward, but before she'd taken more than a step, she was jerked to a halt by a hand twining itself in the thick­ness of her hair.

  "No, you don't." It was Farley. His breathing shal­low and his face red with fury, he clutched at himself with one hand while he held her with the other. "You'll pay for that one, Miss 'igh and Mighty!"

  Deirdre gave a cry of pain as his grip tightened on her curls, tugging ruthlessly at her scalp. With closed fists she pounded at his chest, but the blows were mostly ineffectual and served only to irritate him fur­ther. When one of them caught him on the end of his nose, his mouth curled in an angry snarl.

  "Stop that, you little bitch, or I promise I'll—"

  He never finished his threat. Suddenly, his fingers relinquished their hold on her hair and she stumbled free, turning to discover him in the grasp of an aveng­ing angel with blazing violet eyes.

  Tristan!

  "I don't believe she wants your attention," her champion gritted out from between clenched teeth. "Perhaps you could use a few lessons in how to treat a lady."

  "A lady? More like a whore—"

  A powerful fist plowed into Farley's face and he dropped like a stone, dead to the world.

  Tristan glanced briefly in Deirdre's direction. "Are you all right?"

  She nodded. Dear heavens, she didn't think she'd ever been so glad to see anyone in her entire life! "Yes, but Cullen—"

  He didn't wait for her to finish, simply stepped over Farley's prone form and waded into the pack sur­rounding her coachman, his large frame easily cutting a swath through the mass of writhing humanity.

  Leaning against the bar, Deirdre raked back the loosened curls falling into her eyes and watched in dazed wonder as he dispatched two of the men on the fringes by picking them up by the scruff of their necks and tossing them aside like so much flotsam. His mus­cles flexed with a smooth economy of movement, and one glance at his fierce expression was enough to re­mind her of the first time she'd seen him.

  Here he was. The brave warrior, the knight in shin­ing armor she'd dreamed of for so long. Only this time it was his attackers who didn't stand a chance.

  At that moment, a shot rang out.

  Abruptly, there was dead silence. All eyes went to the man who stood at the edge of the crowd, surveying the scene with obvious displeasure. Lean and wiry, with bushy salt-and-pepper hair and a large beak of a nose that looked to have been broken a time or two, he was flanked by two behemoths, one of whom held a smoking pistol pointed at the ceiling.

  Dodger Dan.

  Tristan immediately moved forward to place him­self in front of Deirdre. Curiously warmed by his pro­tective attitude, she clutched the back of his shirt and went up on tiptoe to peer over his shoulder.

  "No one fights in me club but who I say," Dan an­nounced in a gravel-tinged voice, his piercing blue eyes narrowed on the offenders. He jerked his head at the guards. "Escort 'em outside and see 'em on their way. And make sure they don't come back."

  He turned to walk away, but Deirdre pushed past Tristan, avoiding his restraining hand, and called out, "Dodger!"

  As she moved forward, one of Dan's guards blocked her path, but before the man could touch her, Tristan was at her side, his glare saying more than words could. "Touch her and you'll lose that arm."

  Desperate to gain Dan's attention before he could disappear from sight, Deirdre skirted around them and hurried after the former boxer's departing figure. "Dan, wait!"

  Somehow her voice must have reached him over the hum of activity in the club, for he stopped and looked back. As his gaze met hers, his forehead creased in mo­mentary confusion before the light of recognition sud­denly dawned.

  "Why, if it isn't little DeeDee." A smile of greeting crept over his craggy face as he started toward her. "What are you doing 'ere, me dear?"

  She reached out to grip his outstretched hands. "I must speak with you. It's most urgent."

  "Of course, of course." He glanced over her shoul­der to where Tristan and Cullen still stood toe-to-toe with his guards. "Are the two large, un'appy-looking fellows wiv you?"

  At her nod, he gestured to his men. "It's all right, boys. You can let those two through. But get the rest of that riffraff out of 'ere."

  As the guards moved to obey, Tristan and Cullen joined Deirdre. Dan's brow lowered as he studied Tris­tan speculatively for a moment, then he turned back to her. "This way, me dear."

  He started across the club, and as Deirdre fol­lowed, Tristan fell into step next to her and took her by the elbow.

  "I knew your coming in here without me was a mis­take," he hissed at her under his breath. "You certainly know how to stir up trouble, don't you?"

  His tone roused her temper, and she glared up at him. "You needn't have interfered. I'm sure Cullen and I would have had things well in hand before too long." It was an out-and-out lie, but there was no reason why the insufferable prig needed to know that. And to think she'd just been getting ready to thank him for his intervention!

  "Oh, of course. I'm certain Cullen getting beaten to a bloody pulp and your getting every strand of hair yanked from your head was all part of your cunning plot to lull them into a false sense of security before you really let them have it."

  Even Cullen's badly battered mouth twitched with humor at that one.

  "Oh, do shut up!" Fuming, Deirdre yanked her arm
from his grasp and marched ahead. The nerve of the man! She'd never met anyone who could anger her as swiftly and easily as he could.

  At the rear of the building, Dan led them down a short hallway to a large wooden door. Pushing it open, he stepped back and allowed them to enter his inner sanctum ahead of him.

  Deirdre had never been in Dan's private chambers. It was a stark contrast to the rest of the club. The walls were lined with a rich wood paneling, and an exoti-cally patterned Persian rug covered the floor. The fur­niture was ornate and obviously expensive, including the rolltop desk in the far corner, and every table was occupied by decorative knickknacks that seemed to be of the finest quality.

  Tristan gave a low whistle as he took in their sur­roundings. "I'd say your friend the Dodger does more than accept wagers on boxing matches," he murmured in a soft aside to Deirdre.

  She didn't bother to reply. She was well aware that the club was far from Dan's only means of support. He had a far more lucrative line of work. It was the reason they were here.

  As Dan moved past them to seat himself behind the desk, he waved toward a pair of wingback chairs that sat in front of it. "Please, 'ave a seat."

  While Cullen took up a position by the door, Deirdre lowered herself into the chair the club owner had indi­cated. Instead of sitting himself, however, Tristan came to stand behind her, one hand resting on the sloped back of the chair. Despite her anger with him, she found herself grateful for the silent show of support.

  "Can I offer you anything, me dear?" Dan asked. "A drink, per'aps?"

  Deirdre shook her head. "No, thank you. It is kind of you to offer, but I'm fine."

  Dan rested his elbows on the desk and propped his chin on steepled fingers, examining her with an un­readable expression. "Well, what is it I can do for you, little DeeDee? I 'aven't seen you in 'ere since you up and married that rich bloke a few years ago. You used to visit me all the time."

  It was true, and for a moment she was overwhelmed with memories of all the times she had slipped into Dan's fights as a little girl, watching from the shadows in awestruck wonder as he'd bested much larger and bulkier opponents time after time. With his lightning­quick reflexes and agile frame, he had been practically unbeatable.

  And those quick reflexes had made him a legend in the world of pickpockets and thieves. In the criminal arena, he was without peer. He was, after all, the one who had taught Deirdre everything she knew.

  "I have a favor to ask of you." Reaching into her ret­icule, she once more pulled out the miniature of Emily and laid it on the desk, sliding it across the polished surface so that Dan could see.

  "I'm trying to locate a young girl. She has run away, and her family is desperate to find her."

  Dan studied the portrait a moment, then looked up. " 'Ow desperate?"

  Deirdre felt Tristan stiffen behind her, but she ig­nored him. "They are willing to pay almost anything to have her back."

  "And you think I can 'elp you because . . . ?"

  "She's somewhere here in Tothill Fields."

  "You're certain of that?"

  "As certain as I can be. And there's something else. Barnaby Flynt is after her, as well."

  Dan's face bleached of color and his hands tight­ened into fists on the desk. "Flynt?"

  "Yes. I don't know why, but it seems he's offering a reward for anyone who brings her to him." She held his gaze with her own. "Her family is willing to double the amount to have her returned."

  Dan pushed the miniature back toward her and shook his head. "I'm sorry, DeeDee, but you know my policy about messing with Flynt. I can't afford to draw 'is attention."

  "And how long do you think you can avoid it?" Deirdre pressed, her eyes blazing. "How long do you think it's going to be before he shows up at your door, expecting a share?"

  Dan started to protest, but Deirdre cut him off. "You owe me, Dodger. I came to you once before and you re­fused me, turned me away. Do you remember?"

  This time, he flushed and stirred a bit uncomfort­ably in his seat. "I 'ad to, girl. This club is no place to be raising a child."

  "And I was better off where I wound up?"

  He was silent for a long moment, then gave a reluc­tant nod. "Very well. I'll put some of me men on it right away. But after this, all is forgiven. Agreed?"

  "Agreed." She put the portrait back in her reticule. "Mainly, what I need for you to do is find out why Barnaby is looking for her. Any information you can dig up would be appreciated. In the meantime, I shall continue my own inquiries into the matter. Hopefully, with the two of us working together, we shall be able to bring this situation to a close very shortly."

  Dan rose and moved around the desk. "If I learn anything, I'll send a messenger round to your town'ouse. But it would be best if you don't venture 'ere again. It's too risky."

  "And how do we know we can trust you?"

  It was Tristan who spoke, and the former boxer lev­eled him with a stern glare. "I've known DeeDee since she was a babe in arms. I was a friend of 'er mother's. She can trust me."

  "Well, you'll have to pardon my doubt, but I haven't known you for quite that long." Tristan crossed his arms and faced Dan with defiance written all over his face. "What assurance do we have that you won't go behind our backs and turn my—the girl over to Flynt?"

  Dan drew himself up, bristling like a cat whose fur had been rubbed the wrong way. "DeeDee, who is this bloke?"

  Deirdre gave an inner groan and reached up to lay a calming hand on Tristan's arm. The last thing she needed was for him and Dan to be at each other's throats. The situation was already fraught with enough tension. "This is Tristan. I've hired him as a sort of . . . er, bodyguard."

  Dan frowned and addressed Tristan. "A bit 'igh in the instep for a servant, ain't ya? Well, I can promise you I would never stab DeeDee in the back. Barnaby Flynt is no friend of mine."

  He turned back to Deirdre. "Now, you'd better go, me dear. It ain't wise to leave your carriage unattended for too long in this part of town. And it would likely be best if you went out the back way. There's been enough brawling in me club for one night."

  Deirdre stood and accepted his crooked arm. "Of course. And I do apologize for the . . . contretemps. I didn't mean to cause any trouble."

  Dan started to escort her toward the door, and Tris­tan followed in their wake. "It's quite all right, me dear. That kind of thing 'appens in 'ere all the time." He sent a scathing glance over his shoulder at Tristan. "And I hope that at least you know I would never betray me star pupil."

  "Pupil?" Tristan's voice dripped with scorn. "And what could you have possibly taught her?"

  Deirdre froze, her mouth going dry with sudden fear. Dear God, this was part of the reason she hadn't wanted Tristan to come in here, and there was nothing she could do to stop Dan's next words. It was like be­ing in the path of a wildly careening coal cart and be­ing unable to avoid the inevitable collision.

  "Why, 'ow to pick pockets, of course. Our little DeeDee used to be one of the best street thieves in all of Tot'ill Fields!"

  Chapter 13

  Back in the carriage, silence once again reigned. However, this time it was even more uncomfort­able than the silence that had prevailed between them before they had arrived at the club. Tristan hadn't said a word since Dan had informed him of Deirdre's past profession, and she was too reluctant to be the one to speak first.

  What is he thinking? she wondered, biting her lip as she watched him from the corner of her eye. What would he do now? Would he turn her away, refuse to let her assist him any longer? Dear God, she hated this unbearable tension!

  "Why?"

  It was a single word, quietly spoken, but it was enough to make Deirdre jump in her seat. Taking a deep breath, she fisted her hands in her lap and forced herself to meet his accusing gaze.

  His expression was remote, dispassionate. No one looking at him would ever guess at the seething emo­tions that roiled just beneath the surface. But Deirdre knew. The muscle ticking in h
is jaw gave him away.

  "Why didn't you tell me?" he continued, his tone harsh.

  "You can ask that after the way you acted toward Mouse this morning?" She gave a slight shrug, strug­gling to seem nonchalant. "Besides, that is all in the past and not something I like to bring up in everyday conversation."

  "You stole from people, Deirdre. I think I had a right to know that."

  "I survived, Tristan. The only way I knew how. I didn't have parents to take care of me, so I had to look after myself. Please don't presume to judge my actions. It was steal or starve, and I preferred not starving."

  "There are homes, workhouses—"

  "Yes, and obviously you've never visited one of them or you wouldn't even make such a suggestion. They are filthy, degrading places where you are treated with contempt and worked like an animal from dawn til dusk. Most people would rather die." She shook her head. "I refuse to let you make me feel guilty, Tristan. I am sorry about your mother. Truly, I am. But I can't change what I was. I can only make an effort to be a better person now and in the future."

  "You should have told me."

  "Perhaps. But what possible difference does it make now? It is because of my knowledge of this area that you came to me in the first place. Has that changed?"

  He didn't answer, merely turned away to stare out the window.

  Drat! Did he have to be so close-minded? After the way he'd been with the McLeans this morning, she'd begun to believe he might be softening in his attitude toward the citizens of Tothill. She should have known better, and while a part of her sympathized with his reasons for feeling the way he did, another part of her longed to shake him until his teeth rattled at his sheer stubbornness.

  How could she get through to him?

  Then, like a bolt out of the blue, it came to her. Turning in her seat, she opened the partition that sep­arated her from the driver's box and carried on a hushed conversation with Cullen. Once she had issued her instructions to the coachman, she settled herself once again and glanced up to find Tristan studying her suspiciously.