“Spencer,” she began, trailing a finger along his lapel, causing his senses to overtake his brain, “are you certain you’re the best person to resolve this?” As her words sank in, she continued, “You don’t have any expertise in such matters. Perhaps we should notify someone who could truly be effective.”
The disappointment flooding through him stole his breath.
Of course. Why should he have expected her to have any faith in him? That she would think he had skills to resolve situations like this? It didn’t matter that he couldn’t tell her of his position. What mattered was her opinion of him regardless of his work.
His father wasn’t the only one who thought him incapable. Yet knowing Dalia believed so was much more disturbing than anything his father had said.
Chapter Eighteen
“And what do you get for it all? You’re half fed, and bullied day and night, and threatened to be stripped and turned out; and when you’re at home, the watcher will ‘down’ you with a ‘one’r’ in the back or side (he won’t hit you in the face,
for fear of spoiling it)...”
~The Seven Curses of London
Dalia knew immediately she’d said the wrong thing. A shutter closed over Spencer’s expression, placing a chasm between them though he hadn’t moved.
“Have no concern,” he said as he drew back, placing himself out of her reach physically as well. “As I believe I mentioned once before, I have a friend who knows someone who can deal with the situation.”
“Spencer—” Regret swept through her, causing her to reach for him, wanting to explain what she’d meant.
But he stepped closer to the door that led to the drawing room. “We should return inside lest our mothers begin planning a wedding. Heaven knows that would be a terrible mistake.”
Hurt washed over her. Had he said that because of her blunder or had he truly meant it? “Spencer—”
He gestured toward the door. “I must be going.”
“I only suggested finding someone else because I don’t want you hurt.” She stayed in place, reluctant to return inside until she made him understand.
“Ah.” He gave a nod of understanding, but the coolness in his eyes remained, turning him into a stranger. “Then you appreciate how I feel when you continually involve yourself in perilous situations.” He paused with his hand on the door latch until she reluctantly moved closer. “Pruett is dangerous. You must remain on guard at all times. Do I make myself clear?”
He didn’t wait for her answer but opened the door and motioned for her to precede him.
Though she wanted to protest again, now that the door was open, the women inside would hear everything she said. Instead, she forced a smile and nodded as though they hadn’t been speaking about anything more than the weather. Surely she’d still have the chance to convince him that she hadn’t meant any insult despite their audience.
A glance at her mother had her biting her lip. Spencer had been right. The expression on her mother’s face reminded her of how she’d looked just before the duke had proposed to Rose—calculating.
With a groan, she realized she’d be forced to continually tell her mother there was nothing between her and Spencer, that they were only friends.
Which would be a lie.
For her, at least, their relationship was so much more. Spencer was a gift in her life, a steady presence she could turn to for help. No—he meant far more than that. All these years, she thought she knew exactly who he was. But now she realized she’d only seen the tip of the iceberg. He was strong, capable, intelligent, clever, and the passion she felt for him made her look at herself differently.
He made her feel complete, or rather, more than she was without him. Which was why she’d thought it best if someone else dealt with Pruett. The last thing she wanted was for Spencer to be injured.
The idea that she’d managed to push him away frightened her more than she could comprehend.
Spencer quickly said his goodbyes and left, never once looking at her, leaving her even more hurt. When would she learn to keep her mouth closed until she’d considered every possible outcome of a given situation?
She smiled at the countess but knew it was a failure due to the lump in her throat. “I fear I’ve chased away your son. Please accept my apologies.”
Countess Rutland tilted her head to the side as she studied Dalia. “One wonders what was said in the garden.”
“My questions about the flowers must’ve bored him to tears.”
“Dear Violet,” the lady said though she addressed Dalia, “perhaps next time you might find a more interesting topic of conversation.”
Dalia didn’t bother to correct her. She had far more serious worries than being mistaken for her sister.
Violet started to protest, but Dalia shook her head. No longer would she allow such things to upset her.
She had to find a way to make Spencer understand that her request hadn’t been directed at him but rather for him. But how?
~*~
Upon returning home, Spencer did his best to ignore the unsettling emotions rattling inside him. He tried to tell himself it was good that Dalia hadn’t realized he was well suited to deal with Pruett. She’d formed an opinion of him in their youth, and he’d given her little reason to change it.
Yet he wanted her to look at him with admiration and respect. Before his mind suggested he wanted far more than that, he clamped down on his wayward thoughts.
After the many times he’d told himself they wouldn’t suit, that moment in the garden proved it to be true. He didn’t understand her need to dive into situations where danger lurked, and she didn’t understand much of anything about him. Nor was he at liberty to enlighten her. How could they find the trust and respect needed for a long-term relationship when they were so clearly at an impasse? His growing feelings and his desire for her might be real, but it wasn’t enough to last.
Not that he wanted that—or did he? The woman tied him in knots until he didn’t know his own mind.
The sooner he resolved the case of Pruett and McCarthy, the better off he’d be. Removing Dalia from danger would ease his mind and ease her from his life. Then all this uncertainty he was experiencing would be gone. He’d be able to think clearly again.
A sick feeling lingered in the pit of his stomach at the idea of spending his days without her. With a shake of his head, he reminded himself to focus on his mission. Then perhaps he’d find clarity to deal with his personal life.
He sent a message to the office for Atkins, requesting a meeting. Perhaps his colleague had learned something new. If not, they’d have to devise another plan to gain the evidence needed to put away Pruett and perhaps McCarthy. Discussing the information gathered with colleagues often created breakthroughs.
Spencer had the feeling they were close but couldn’t pinpoint the missing piece. A visit to one of the other homes by Searle and another associate hadn’t discovered anything of interest. Neither had a raid of a brothel. On both occasions, it had seemed almost as if their arrival had been anticipated. But how could that be?
Perhaps it was time for a different—wider—approach to the problem. McCarthy’s criminal activities were not limited to England.
He jotted a message to Ignacio Choral, a reporter for The Times who’d proven trustworthy on numerous occasions. Not only did Choral know what happened in London, he kept abreast of activities on the Continent.
Spencer had heard yesterday that Choral had returned from his travels. The man rarely stayed in England for long. He was better connected than most of those who worked for the Intelligence Office. In fact, they often requested continental intelligence from The Times.
Reporters had proven more helpful than agents in many cases, better able to gather information from significant political figures across the globe. They were better funded and had a broader network from which to gain details.
Gladstone would be thrilled to convince Choral to join them, but the reporter preferred the
faster pace of the news business.
To Spencer’s surprise, Choral sent an immediate reply, suggesting a meeting at the gentleman’s club later that day.
Spencer hoped his father wasn’t there. He preferred to avoid any questions as to why he was meeting with Choral. His father tended to think journalists of any sort were a necessary evil rather than intelligent men.
The rest of his afternoon passed quickly while he reviewed reports to see if he’d missed anything, and soon came the time to leave for his club.
Spencer had only waited a few minutes, sipping a gin and tonic, when Choral arrived.
“Rutland. Good to see you.” Choral shook Spencer’s hand with a firm grip. His voice held an odd accent, a combination of his upbringing in both France and Germany. He was several years older than Spencer, and his knowledge of foreign affairs and political situations put even the prime minister to shame.
After a waiter took Choral’s drink order, he said, “I hear from Gladstone that you’re working on his pet project.”
Anyone who knew Gladstone knew of his determination to put an end to prostitution. While his opponents might challenge how doing so made England a safer place, Gladstone believed it to be true. Few could argue that wasn’t the case when criminals like Jack McCarthy who were involved in so many other types of crimes also dealt in prostitution.
“Actually, I’m hoping you might be able to assist me with it.”
Choral leaned forward, his dark eyes lit with intensity. “I came across a brothel in Belgium only a few weeks ago filled with young English girls. Some of them no more than fourteen years of age.”
“Were the girls by chance supplied by Jack McCarthy?” Spencer had no doubt Choral would’ve made a point to discover as much about the operation as possible.
Choral’s brows rose with surprise. “How did you know?”
“He’s the criminal mastermind behind the largest of the prostitution rings here in London. We knew he took girls to other countries as well but have yet to catch him doing so.”
The waiter delivered the drink and quickly left, seeming to sense his presence wasn’t welcome.
“I must say I’m impressed,” Choral said with a nod. “I wouldn’t have guessed that McCarthy would’ve come to the attention of the Intelligence Office. Especially to those who don’t work in the field.”
“I’ve shifted into doing work outside of the office as well.”
“That’s good to hear. Obviously, your talents were wasted shuffling papers.”
Spencer appreciated the vote of confidence, especially when it came from a man like Choral who was so well informed, but he couldn’t help defending his previous occupation. “More details are discovered when information is analyzed by an objective party than—”
“Yes, yes.” Choral waved aside his comments. “You’re absolutely right but working in the field requires a special set of skills, both physical and mental.”
Spencer smiled wryly. “When I worked in the office, I had good reason to believe I’d survive a day’s work. Working in the East End has changed my assumptions.”
“Such situations make a man feel truly alive.” The appreciative gleam in Choral’s eyes made Spencer realize that what he’d heard was true—Choral thrived on taking risks. “Nothing like a good knife fight to keep on one’s toes.”
Spencer refrained from offering his opinion. He couldn’t say he cared for knife fights and hoped to avoid such experiences in the future. “Did you happen to learn anything specific about McCarthy’s involvement there?”
“The madam there was all too pleased to take my money in exchange for information until she realized what I was about.” He withdrew a piece of paper from his breast pocket. “I wrote the dates of when the girls arrived and were brought off the ship. Two girls happened to learn the name of the ships on which they were brought. Obviously, there would be no record of this particular cargo but with the names and dates, we might be able to trace those involved. I brought this along with the hope you could pass it on to the proper person, but it appears you’re that person.”
Hope rose in Spencer as he took the paper from Choral. The man had also noted the name and address of the brothel he’d visited, along with the names of the girls with whom he’d spoken. “We can certainly put this information to good use.”
“After speaking with those girls, I knew I had to do something. If there is some way we can bring them back home, I’d be able to sleep at night.” He shook his head.
“We’ve encountered another area of concern,” Spencer said. “Two of the homes for fallen women are actually under McCarthy’s control. Women who come from brothels, prison, or off the street are counseled into realizing the life wouldn’t be so terrible if they worked for someone else.”
“Such as McCarthy?” The outrage on Choral’s face matched Spencer’s feelings on the matter.
“Exactly.”
“Clever bastard. It’s time to remove him from the streets and put him behind bars.”
“Easier said than done, unfortunately. The lack of evidence is preventing us from doing much more than being a thorn in his side.”
“That’s not nearly good enough. If you’d seen those girls...” Choral shuddered.
“We’ve been closing in on the man who serves as manager of McCarthy’s prostitution business. His name is Charlie Pruett. Have you heard of him?” While Spencer was pleased to be given the information regarding the brothel in Belgium, he could do little about it except hand it over to an associate familiar with Belgium and the operatives in that country.
What he truly needed was assistance with Pruett, and he needed it now. Involving Choral without the approval of Gladstone held some risk, but it was one Spencer was willing to take. He wanted to have as many eyes on McCarthy and Pruett as possible.
“Can’t say that I have.”
Spencer sighed with disappointment. “No reason you should’ve. Just a thought.” The sooner they eliminated Pruett, the better. The thought of him boldly confronting Dalia on Regent Street and delivering threats sent him into a cold sweat.
“I will do some digging and see what I can come up with. The Times has several reporters who watch the East End. They may know of him. And if they don’t, they soon will.”
Spencer leaned forward. “We’re close to sealing our case against him, but he must be taken off the streets as quickly as possible. The threat he poses is growing daily.”
Choral studied him. “You sound as if you have a personal stake in the situation.”
“You could say that.” An image of Dalia formed in his mind. He refused to allow her to be hurt by Pruett. “He’s harmed too many women. Taking him out of commission would be a major blow to McCarthy.”
“Anything that hurts McCarthy is something I’m willing to devote time to.”
“Pruett shouldn’t be taken lightly, so advise your associates to tread carefully.”
“Of course,” Choral promised with a grim smile. “One lives longer that way.”
Spencer was pleased with the idea of more eyes on Pruett, especially those with a zeal similar to Choral’s for uncovering the truth. Between all those who’d be watching Pruett, Dalia and her family would soon be safe from potential harm.
What happened between Dalia and him after that remained uncertain, but removing her from danger was his first priority.
Chapter Nineteen
“It is not possible to dip very deeply into the wine-cup or even the porter-pot on an income of about fourpence-halfpenny per diem, and it painfully illustrates what a wretched trade prostitution may become that it is driven even to the barracks.”
~The Seven Curses of London
Dalia moved along the croquet course, striking the red ball with the mallet when her turn came.
But her heart wasn’t in the game.
This gathering at the Duke of Burbridge’s grand country home just outside London was one of the few events of the Season she’d been anticipating. Violet, her mot
her, and father were there as well, amongst the other thirty guests staying the night. Many more would attend the ball this evening. The weather had cooperated with the afternoon’s outdoor activities, granting the party a warm, sunny day.
But her riff with Spencer had ruined everything, including her sleep, peace of mind, and general happiness. The enjoyment in life she’d recently discovered had disappeared since that terrible moment in the Rutlands’ garden six days ago. She had no doubt Spencer was doing all he could—or rather, his contact was—to make certain Pruett kept his distance. Her worry on that front had eased with each day that passed without him making an appearance.
She’d hoped Spencer would attend the Taft ball two nights ago, so she might apologize and find a way to convince him to forgive her. But after spending hours watching the door, she’d realized he wasn’t coming.
Venturing to his home to speak with him wasn’t an option. That would only anger him further. Her hope that he’d attend this gathering had dwindled as the day progressed and the majority of guests arrived. She was beginning to lose hope of seeing him anytime soon.
She heaved a sigh at the depressing thought.
“If you sigh like that again, I’ll be forced to pull you aside and find some way to make you tell me what is distressing you so. I don’t understand why you won’t share it with me.” Sophia struck her black ball with amazing accuracy, launching it through the wire hoop. “Your dark mood is ruining the game.”
“My apologies. Perhaps I should plead a headache and return home.”
The sprawling estate sat at the edge of London, making it the perfect location for an afternoon and evening of fun. The lawn on which they played had been specifically designed for croquet so was perfectly level. The estate also boasted a tennis court, which Dalia had hoped to try. But her mother insisted that was an activity for fast women, therefore none of her daughters were permitted to play.
Dalia was sorely disappointed. She’d found the racquets inside and tried swinging one several times as she’d seen a few other women doing. The handle had felt wonderful in her hand, the racquet neither too heavy nor too light. She’d been certain striking the ball with that satisfying smack would ease her angst.
Falling For The Viscount (The Seven Curses of London Book 6) Page 20