A Kiss in the Dark

by Kimberly Logan

  "How can I believe you?" His expression was so confused, so full of pain that it tore at Deirdre's heart. "After everything we've been through together, I thought I could trust you. Now, I. . . I just don't know."

  She had to make him understand, had to make him see she was still on his side. Laying a hand on his arm, she ignored his flinch and held his eyes with hers. "You can trust me, Tristan. All I've ever wanted is to find Emily. I delayed telling you I'd done so, yes. But at the time I was certain she would be safe where she was."

  "Safe?" He sounded disbelieving. "In the hideout of a band of pickpockets?"

  Before she could answer, he started to turn away again, but Peter suddenly planted himself firmly in his path.

  "She would have been safe if it weren't for Jack, m'lord," the boy said with quiet conviction. "I would 'ave done anything to keep Em—er, Lady Emily out of Flynt's 'ands."

  "And yet he has her." Tristan scrubbed a hand over his face and shook his head, unable to hide his an­guish. "My God, that monster could have done any­thing to her by now!"

  "I don't think 'e'll 'urt 'er, m'lord. At least, not right away Once 'e found out you were an earl, 'is plans changed. Or so Jack says."

  Deirdre's breath caught. "He wants money," she concluded, wringing her hands together in front of her. Knowing Barnaby, she should have guessed.

  "And lots of it." Peter named a sum that had Deirdre's jaw dropping, then he faced Tristan again." 'E says you're to bring it back to our 'ideout by six o'clock, and you're to come on your own or he will kill 'er."

  "He'll kill her anyway," Tristan said hoarsely. "And I don't have that kind of money. Father went through almost everything before he died. I've had to struggle not to sell things off to pay his debts, and I've only just started to gain back some of what he lost."

  Deirdre bit her lip. "I might be able to get it, but it would take a while. I'd have to pay a visit to Nigel's so­licitor and—"

  "Even if I would take money from you, Deirdre, we don't have time." Tristan glanced at the grandfather clock on the far wall. "It's already almost three."

  Looking at him with anxious eyes, Deirdre strug­gled to come up with a solution. She couldn't believe the suggestion she was about to make, but right now she could see no other alternative.

  "Perhaps," she ventured in a timid voice, "it might be time to try Bow Street again."

  "And have them turn me away like they did last time?" Tristan shook his head. "No. I'm going to han­dle this myself. I'm going to make Flynt sorry he ever thought to threaten the people I care about." His eyes glowed with determination. "I'll just have to surprise the fox in his den. When Dan stopped by this morning, it was to tell me some of his men had managed to track Barnaby's boys back to their lair. An abandoned build­ing next to a tavern called The Rook." He looked at Peter. "Do you know it?"

  The lad nodded.

  "Good. I want you to show me where it is."

  As he started for the door, closely followed by Peter, Deirdre raced after him, determined to make him see reason. "Tristan, please. You can't do this. At least wait until I can get a message to Dan so he and his men can go with you."

  "I told you, Deirdre, I don't have time!"

  "But if you go in there alone and unarmed, Barnaby will kill you."

  "So be it, then." His jaw was set at a stubborn angle she recognized all too well. "As long as I get Emily out of there safely, that's all that matters."

  He began to turn away once more, but she clutched at his arm, her gaze beseeching as she looked up at him. "Please, you have to listen. You don't know how ruthless Barnaby can be. I do."

  "And just how is that, Deirdre?" He looked down at her, studying her with hooded eyes. "I've been won­dering that for quite some time, and now I'm thinking I should have asked sooner. Just exactly how would you know anything about a man like Flynt?"

  God, it was the one question she'd dreaded, one she could no longer avoid answering. He deserved the truth, especially when her previous omission might cost him his sister's life. Once she told him everything, she had no doubt he would be lost to her forever.

  Mentally saying good-bye to the only man she would ever love, she took a quavering breath and be­gan to speak. "You asked me once what I did after my father abandoned me and Dan turned me away. Well, the truth is, I spent my days scavenging through trash heaps for food, stealing from street vendors and stall owners. It wasn't enough to keep me alive, though, and I was very close to starving when Barnaby found me."

  She wrapped her arms about herself, as if trying to ward off the chill of her memories. "He caught me stealing one day and must have realized he could make use of my talent. He took me back to his hideout, gave me a place with his band of pickpockets."

  Tristan's expression was unreadable. "You stole for him."

  "I did what I had to do. At first, I was grateful. Barn­aby made sure we were kept well fed, and being around other children was wonderful. For the first time, I had a family of sorts. It was like manna from heaven for a little girl who'd never really had anyone."

  She bowed her head. "But as I got older, Barnaby pushed me to be more daring, to steal more than just handkerchiefs and wallets. Some of the older boys were burglarizing stores, breaking into houses, and he was using the girls and younger children to lure vic­tims into the back alleys to be beaten and robbed."

  She could practically feel Tristan tense, but she blocked it out and pushed forward. "I hated it, but I was too afraid of Barnaby to refuse. I can't tell you how many people I watched him brutalize." Pausing, she took a deep breath and had to force the words out from between stiff lips. "Oh, Tristan, I'm so sorry, but one of them was your mother."

  He went dead still, his face paling. He even seemed to have stopped breathing as he stared at her. "What are you saying?"

  She couldn't believe she was going to tell him, but there was no other choice. She couldn't let him walk into this situation blind, without knowing who he would be facing. The shock of it would be enough to give Flynt the advantage, when he already had too much in his favor as it was. Yes, by doing so she would be revealing her part in what had happened that day, but what else could she do?

  Fighting an overwhelming feeling of loss, she stum­bled onward. "Barnaby Flynt is the man who killed your mother."

  "And how could you possibly know that?"

  "Because I was there, Tristan. I was the one Barnaby used to lure her into that alley."

  He looked stunned, as if unable to accept what he was hearing. "That's not possible. I would have re­membered you. There was no little girl there that day." He stopped, the light of realization dawning. "But there was a little boy."

  "Not a little boy. Me." She closed her eyes, her heart aching at the agony suffusing his features. All she wanted to do was to reach out to him, but she was too afraid he would push her away. "I felt so guilty by the time I got her back there, I. . . I couldn't go through with if. I tried to warn her, but it was too late."

  Tristan backed away from Deirdre, shaking his head, his gaze rife with disbelief. "I can't deal with this right now. I don't have time for this. I have to save Emily."

  "Tristan, please—"

  "No, Deirdre. I can't." He was out the door before she could say anything else. Peter paused long enough to give her a sympathetic look, then followed.

  Oh, God. All she wanted to do was sink into a cor­ner and cry, but she couldn't. She had to do something. She couldn't let Tristan face that devil alone.

  "Mrs. Godfrey!" she cried urgently, hurrying back down the hallway.

  The housekeeper appeared with a stack of clean cloths piled high in her arms. "Cullen is heating the water, my lady. I—"

  "Never mind that now. If Jenna is still here, send her to me at once. I have something for her to do, and we don't have much time."

  Chapter 26

  Tristan and Peter crouched behind a stack of crates a few feet away from the entrance to Barnaby Flynt's hideout. They'd been watching the comings and g
oings of the gang leader's lackeys for quite some time, waiting for an opening to slip past the guards, but so far an opportunity hadn't presented itself.

  As the sun lowered in the sky and the shadows of late afternoon lengthened, a low fog started to creep in from off the fields, and a slight chill pervaded the air. Peter was shivering, but he didn't complain of the cold. Tristan had his rage to keep him warm. All he could think about was Emily, alone and scared in Flynt's clutches.

  Barnaby Flynt is the man who killed your mother. The words echoed in his head, and he felt his pulse speed up in response. At first his mind had refused to process the revelation. Then he'd wanted to deny the possibility, but he couldn't imagine why Deirdre would make up such a story, and he had to admit that Peter's description of Flynt fit what he remembered of his mother's murderer. I was there.

  Once again he heard Deirdre's voice, sounding so lost and fragile when she'd made her confession. Never before had his emotions been such a jumble of confusion. Anger, pain, shock. In truth, he wasn't cer­tain what he felt about her deception. That, added to her not having told him of Emily's whereabouts right away, gave him plenty of reason to be furious with her. He'd known she was keeping something from him, of course, but never could he have guessed at the sheer magnitude of it.

  For a brief moment, he allowed his mind to travel back in time to that painful day as he struggled to pic­ture the child Deirdre must have been. He had a vague recollection of a small, ragged waif with strag­gly hair sticking out from a dirty cap and tattered, overlarge boy's clothing that hung on a too-thin frame. It was no wonder he'd mistaken her for a lad. However, he couldn't remember much else about her. Other than his mother's death and her killer's face, the rest of the incident was understandably a blur of pain and grief.

  And right now he simply didn't have the time to as­similate it all. He had to concentrate on freeing his sis­ter. But one thing was certain. If he walked away from this confrontation alive, he and Deirdre were destined for a very serious talk.

  "Look," Peter suddenly hissed, pointing toward the building. "The other guard 'as gone in and Toby's alone. If we're going to go, we'd better go now."

  Tristan eyed the tall youth blocking the door for a moment, then he nodded. "All right. Here's what we're going to do."

  Standing in the middle of the Jolly Roger, Deirdre looked around at the crowd gathered about her, their faces suffused with varying degrees of anger and trepidation.

  With Jenna and Lilah's help, she'd been able to call together quite a number of people. Merchants and stall owners stood shoulder to shoulder with prostitutes and chimney sweeps, and even the Rag-Tag Bunch lurked at the edges of the crowd, their expressions rife with excitement.

  She'd just finished telling them all about Tristan's search for his sister and Barnaby Flynt's subsequent snatching of the girl, making sure to mention her belief that the gang leader had also been involved in the re­cent death of Mouse. Outraged mutterings could be heard, and several people were indulging in heated discussions on the sidelines.

  "The time has come to do something," she said loudly, speaking over the hum of conversation. "We can't keep letting this sort of thing continue. Barnaby Flynt has terrorized the citizens of Tothill Fields long enough."

  "Easy for you to say," one of the merchants grum­bled. "You don't 'ave to live 'ere."

  "No, I don't," she agreed, "but you do. The question is, do you want to continue living with his shadow looming over you? Turning a blind eye to his deeds has accomplished nothing."

  "But if we oppose 'im, 'e'll kill us," a prostitute ven­tured timidly. "Just like Mouse."

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  Dear Lord, what could she possibly say to persuade them? Their terror of the gang leader was so palpable that it filled the tavern.

  Lilah came to her rescue. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm. tired of being bullied by the likes of 'im. After what 'e did to Mouse, 'e deserves to 'ang, and if the law won't do it, we should."

  "What do you know, you bloody doxy?" a street vendor spat, raising a fist in a threatening gesture. He immediately backed down, however, when Cullen's hulking form stepped in between them.

  Deirdre gave her coachman a grateful smile, noting the protective arm he placed around Lilah's shoulders before turning back to her audience. "Things are never going to change as long as we stand aside and allow this to go on. If we all band together, if we rise up and refuse to be intimidated, Barnaby loses his power."

  She clasped her hands in front of her, taking a deep breath. "There is a child in danger, and if we don't do something, she could die. I'm not saying it will be easy, but I have faith in us all. Now, will you help me?"

  For a long moment, there was absolute silence. Then, Rachel McLean took a step forward. "I'll help. After everything you've done for us, my lady, you de­serve our cooperation. And it will be good to get rid of that monster once and for all."

  "You know me and Cullen will 'elp, luv," Lilah said confidently, clinging to the coachman's arm. He nod­ded in agreement.

  "I'll 'elp, as well," Harry called from behind the bar. "I wouldn't miss out on a good skirmish."

  There was a slight shifting in the crowd, and more and more people stepped forward to volunteer their assistance. Though there were still a few holdouts, her friends' words had made all the difference, and the resulting outpouring of support brought tears to Deirdre's eyes.

  You see, Tristan, she thought proudly. They do care about something besides themselves.

  There was a tug at her sleeve, and she looked down to find Benji staring up at her with wide eyes. "We want to 'elp, too," he proclaimed, jerking his head at the rest of the Rag-Tags. "We want to save Miss Angel."

  "Believe me, Benji," she told him. "We're all going to have to help. We'll need everyone if this is going to work."

  "When do we leave, m'lady?" someone shouted.

  She bit her Lip and glanced out the windows. She'd sent Jenna for Dan and his men quite some time ago. She'd hoped to wait for them to arrive, but they couldn't afford to hold off any longer. The sun was al­ready lowering in the sky, and every moment that passed increased her chances of losing the man she loved to the business end of Barnaby's blade. Whether he was still in her life or not, she wasn't about to let that happen.

  Meeting their eyes gravely, she gave a determined nod. "Right now."

  * * *

  From the concealment of the shadows next to the building, Tristan watched as Peter approached Flynt's guard at an almost casual stroll, making no attempt to hide his presence.

  Tristan had to hand it to the lad. Peter didn't back down from a challenge. Despite the pain his injuries had to be causing him, he was ready to try anything if it meant saving Emily.

  The guard, a youth Peter had called Toby, leaned against the building, cleaning under his nails with a pocketknife. He went on immediate alert, however, as he caught sight of Peter.

  "Aren't you supposed to be fetching the girl's brother?" he asked suspiciously.

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, Peter shrugged. "I decided I'm not doing it unless I get a share of the blunt."

  "A share? You're full of it. Mr. Flynt ain't giving you nothing."

  "Then I'm not fetching anyone."

  Toby's face darkened. "Then you're a dead man, mate. I'll gut you the same way I did that idiot rat­catcher."

  Peter sauntered around to the boy's other side, and Toby turned to follow him with his eyes, effectively putting his back to Tristan.

  "You're welcome to try," Peter invited.

  Toby took a step toward him, but before he could do more than brandish the knife in an ominous manner, Tristan swooped out of the gathering mist and ren­dered him unconscious with one sharp blow to the back of the head.

  "I wish you would 'ave let me 'it 'im once," Peter grumbled as he helped drag the youth's limp form be­hind a pile of crates.

  "I don't have time for that." Tristan sent a swift glance left and right, then
clapped Peter on the back. "I want you to wait here."

  "But—"

  "No arguments, Peter. I need someone out here to go for help if I can't manage to get Emily out. Do you understand?"

  Peter reluctantly nodded, and Tristan gave him a fleeting smile of approval before creeping into the building.

  Once inside, he found himself in a long, narrow hallway lined with several closed doors, and he paused for a moment to get his bearings. Straight ahead, at the end of the corridor, a set of steep wooden stairs led off into the dark upper reaches of the second floor.

  If he had to wager a guess, he'd say that it was more than likely that Barnaby was holding Emily up there. One stealthy footstep at a time, he began to make his way forward, his boots treading carefully on the rotted and creaking floorboards.

  He had just reached the foot of the stairs and was preparing to ascend when a loud voice cut through the silence behind him.

  " 'Ere now! What are you doing 'ere?"

  Damnation! So much for the element of surprise.

  Pivoting, he found himself face-to-face with a hulk­ing brute of a man several years older than the youth who had been guarding the door. This was obviously one of Flynt's more seasoned ruffians, for there was an air of violence about him that told Tristan he'd be quite a bit more lethal, as well.

  Not wanting to give the fellow a chance to raise any further alarm, Tristan lunged forward and tackled him about the waist, slamming him as hard as he could against the wall.

  The man grunted and instantly began to grapple with him. One ham-sized fist plowed into Tristan's stomach, sending him staggering backward, but he re­covered enough to land a punch on his adversary's bul­bous nose. Blood squirted, and Flynt's lackey roared, reaching up to stem the flow.

  It was a move that gave Tristan a momentary advan­tage. He brought his fist up in an uppercut to the fel­low's jaw.

  He dropped like a stone, but before Tristan could do more than suck in a breath of air, one of the doors along the corridor flew open and several more of Bar-naby's boys spilled out into the hallway, eyeing him with murderous intent.