A Kiss In The Dark (11 page)

“I should have gone back the moment my footman found Emily’s portmanteau and demanded they take action,” he said grimly.

The sudden look of alarm that suffused Deirdre’s features caught his attention, and he watched as she made a visible effort to rein in her composure. “First you would have to prove to them she was even here, and that wouldn’t be easy. No, you did the right thing. We’ll find her. I’m certain of it.”

Not a hint of her agitation betrayed itself in her voice, which was confident and full of resolve. But Tristan noticed the rigidity with which she held herself, the way her gloved hands gripped each other tensely in her lap.

Hmm. Now, why would the idea of his going to the law fill her with such obvious distress? For that matter, how could it be that a viscountess was so knowledgeable about someone of Barnaby Flynt’s reputation? Why, Lilah had spoken as if Deirdre knew the man personally.

There could be no denying that Lady Rotherby was an intriguing woman, and Tristan was swiftly becoming determined to get to the bottom of her mystery. Despite his anger over her refusal to help him at first, he had to admit he’d doubted the validity of the stories about her from the moment they’d met. Now that he’d spent a little time with her, they were even more impossible to believe. However, he’d learned over the years to trust his instincts, and his instincts were telling him there was more to her than met the eye. If only for that reason, he had to remain on his guard.

Needing to take his mind off his worry over Emily, he decided now was as good a time as any to do a little probing. “Forgive me if I seem unduly curious, my lady, but I can’t help but wonder how it is you’ve managed to cultivate friendships with such an … interesting assortment of people.”

To his surprise, Deirdre stiffened and her eyes turned glacial. “Surely you must have a theory about that, my lord? It seems everyone else in society does.”

“I should hope you would not judge me by their standards, Lady Rotherby. In truth, I am not overly fond of society, and I am well aware of how the gossipmongers can twist the reality of a situation to suit their own purposes. I’ve been the subject of a few of their conjectures myself since my return home. If you don’t mind, I should like to hear the real story from you.”

“Oh, but the tales of the
ton
are much more entertaining.” Her tone rang with a false lightheartedness, barely veiling the hurt that lay beneath. “I personally quite enjoy the one where I’m part owner of a high-stakes, underground gambling hall. It makes me sound rather bold and exciting, don’t you think? But of course, after visiting with Lilah, it must have only lent credence to the whispers that I’m a madam in a lower-class brothel. After all, like attracts like. Isn’t that what they’ve been saying about me?”

“I would never presume to say any such thing.”

“And why not, my lord? I believe you made your low opinion of me more than clear last night. Why draw the line there?”

Tristan felt a tug of shame as he remembered his words of the evening before. Regardless of his own feelings on the subject, he’d had no right to judge her when he knew nothing about her, and even less about her marriage to Lord Rotherby. After all, she was far from the first woman to wed a man old enough to be her grandfather.

“I apologize,” he said softly. “It was wrong of me to speak to you in such a manner. I was angry and frustrated, and I lashed out without thinking. It was unforgivable.”

That seemed to take some of the wind out of her sails. Slumping back against the velvet squabs, the ice in her eyes melted away, to be replaced by a look of such naked vulnerability that it brought a lump to his throat.

The two of them stared at each other, the air between them thick with an awareness so palpable it could have been cut with a knife.

Finally, after a long, drawn-out moment, Deirdre cleared her throat and tore her gaze away from his to look down at her entwined fingers. “You say you’ve been the subject of a few of the
ton’s
conjectures yourself,” she ventured, her voice sounding a trifle breathless. “What sort of conjectures?”

He shrugged. “Just speculation about where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing in the years since I left London.”

She glanced back up at him, unable to hide her obvious interest. “And where
have
you been, my lord?”

Talk of his past never failed to stir up the feelings of guilt that lurked just beneath the surface of his hard-won control, and since he had no intention of opening himself up for her scrutiny, he brushed aside her question with a deceptively careless gesture. “Here and there. But I can assure you that not a one of the rumors that has been bandied about has even come close to the truth.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Of course, I’m certain you must have heard some of the whispers.”

“Only a very little.” She bit her lip. “I’m afraid I don’t go out and about in society much. Nigel and I were always content to stay at home, and since his death … well, I don’t receive many invitations.”

Tristan leaned toward her, so close he could smell the subtle strawberry scent of her hair, hear the slight catch in her breathing at his nearness. Her reaction started his own pulse pounding in his ears. “Then that’s something we have in common.”

Their eyes caught and held once more. Deirdre’s cheeks were flushed with high color, and as Tristan watched, her tongue flicked out to wet her lips. The movement drew his attention to the delectable curve of her mouth, and he had to stifle a groan as he imagined pressing her back against the carriage seat and covering that mouth hungrily with his own. So vivid was the image that he could almost taste the sweetness of the kiss, feel the creamy softness of her skin beneath his fingers as he molded her to him....

Damnation! Wrenching his gaze away from hers, he turned to the window, his heart racing as he tried to curb his body’s predictable reaction to his wanton thoughts. He was the worst sort of reprobate, to be fantasizing about seducing this woman when his sister was missing. He had to stop, or by the time they finally located Emily he would be stark, raving mad.

“We’re here.”

Deirdre’s announcement signaled the halting of the carriage, and as he pushed away his wayward urgings and returned his attention to her, it occurred to him that she had very neatly managed to evade answering any of his questions.

Well, he wouldn’t be put off quite so easily as that. Sooner or later, he fully intended to continue their conversation.

Climbing down from the carriage, he assisted Deirdre in alighting, then turned to study their surroundings. They had stepped out onto a sidewalk lined with run-down storefronts and shabby tenements, still shuttered and quiet at this early hour. Aside from an occasional passerby and one or two street vendors hawking their wares in loud, singsong voices, few people seemed to be about.

It was with a great deal of trepidation that Tristan realized Cullen had stopped the coach at the entrance to a dark, narrow alley. Piles of refuse littered the crumbling cobblestones, and a dank, unpleasant aroma seemed to permeate the air. A faint scuffling from farther back in the shadows had Tristan placing himself in front of his companion in an instinctive move, his stance protective as he was flung back in time to another day, another alleyway.

It was in just such a place that he had watched his mother die.

As if sensing his disquiet, Deirdre laid a hand on his shoulder in a gesture that was oddly comforting, even as it once again stirred to life the lustful urges he’d been struggling against in the carriage.

“It’s all right, Tristan.” The mere sound of his name on her lips was enough to send his pulse racing. “This is Mouse’s place.”

In an effort to free himself from the powerful effect her proximity seemed to have on him, he subtly shifted his weight until her disconcerting touch fell away. “Just who is this Mouse?”

“The resident rat-catcher.”

A rat-catcher named Mouse? Tristan couldn’t smother his wry smile. How apropos.

But the smile vanished when Deirdre suddenly stepped around him and started forward into the narrow passage, her steps purposeful. Forgetting his resolve not to touch her again, he reached out and snagged her arm, drawing her to a halt. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to find Mouse. That
is
why we came here, after all.”

Tristan cast a wary glance at the alleyway. “At least let me go first. We have no idea what could be lurking in there.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I—”

“Deirdre, please.”

Something in his tone must have gotten through to her, because she stopped and stared up at him in silence for a moment. Then, with a slight shrug, she moved aside and gestured with one gloved hand for him to precede her.

Tristan, hesitating, looked back over his shoulder at Cullen. To his surprise, his silent message was heeded and obeyed as the burly coachman swung down from his perch and came to stand guard next to the entrance to the alley, massive arms crossed over his chest.

Stunned but grateful for the servant’s unexpected compliance, Tristan offered him a nod of acknowledgment before turning and drawing Deirdre with him into the shadows.

The moment they entered the cramped space between the rows of tall, dilapidated buildings, memories of that long-ago day once again rose up, threatening to suffocate Tristan. Forcefully, he tamped them back down, determined not to let himself be overwhelmed by the violent images. He had to concentrate on the task at hand, and he certainly couldn’t do that if he was preoccupied by recollections of a past he would rather forget.

At that moment, another sound from behind a stack of crates a little ahead of them brought him to full alert, and he came to an abrupt stop. Throwing out an arm, he barred Deirdre from going any further as his eyes struggled to penetrate the gloom.

The hazy morning sunlight did not reach this far into the alley, and at first he could make out nothing in the dimness. But as his gaze slowly adjusted, he became aware of a small figure crouched behind the crates, face buried in a pair of upraised knees and arms flung over a head of straw-colored hair.

“Mouse!” Before Tristan could stop her, Deirdre lunged past him and knelt next to the quaking figure. “Mouse, is that you?”

A muffled voice replied. “Go away! I ain’t done nofing wrong! Nofing, I tell you!”

“Mouse, it’s all right. We’re not here to hurt you.” Deirdre reached out to lay a gentle hand on one protruding elbow. “It’s me. Lady Rotherby.”

The figure moved slightly, and dark eyes squinted out from the crook of one arm. “I don’t know no ladies.”

“Yes, you do. You know me. Come now, you must remember.”

Mouse finally lifted his head, and Tristan realized with a jolt of shock that what he had at first believed to be a young boy was, in fact, a man of extremely small stature and indeterminate age. With his leathery skin and pale, thinning hair, he could have been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty-five. It also became apparent that he had earned his moniker from something besides his chosen profession, for his pair of beady eyes, long, thin nose, and prominently protruding ears made for a rather marked resemblance to his namesake.

“I do know you,” he drew out, pushing himself to his feet. Fully upright, he barely reached Deirdre’s shoulder as she stood next to him. “You brought me Sally a bone.”

As if in response to her name, there was a loud bark, and a small, brindle-colored terrier came trotting out of the darkness, plopping down on her haunches in front of Deirdre, tail wagging.

Leaning down to scratch the dog behind her pointed ears, Deirdre smiled, and Tristan felt the breath leave his body and his knees go weak at the power of it. It was like sunlight coming out after the rain, and he was as dazzled as poor Mouse, in spite of himself. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

“Did you bring ’er another one, m’lady? Me Sal likes bones.”

“I’m afraid not. Actually, my friend and I have come here to ask you a question.”

Mouse swiped the tattered end of his sleeve across his nose once before turning a suspicious look on Tristan. “Don’t like questions.”

“I know, Mouse, and I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t important. But we’re looking for someone. Someone who might be in very grave danger if we don’t find her.”

Deirdre once again reached out for the miniature, and Tristan produced it without saying a word, watching as the little man took the portrait and studied it with slowly widening eyes.

“The angel,” he whispered reverently.

Tristan felt his heart speed up with sudden excitement, and Deirdre pounced on the words, her green eyes shining. “You’ve seen her?”

“I seen ’er. Last night in me dream. The demons was chasing ’er.”

Tristan’s hope instantly deflated. Demons? Obviously the man wasn’t quite right in the head.

“Demons?” Deirdre asked gently, pressing for more.

“The devil’s minions.” Mouse gave an emphatic nod. “’E’s back, you know.”

“Who?”

“The devil. The ’orrible, scarred devil.”

At his words, Deirdre seemed to stiffen, her face going chalk-white, and Tristan had to wonder what Mouse had said to cause that sort of response. To him, it all sounded like the mad raving of a Bedlamite.

“The devil sent ’is demons after the angel because she saw,” Mouse continued.