A Kiss In The Dark (13 page)

“I left Mother in the cottage only long enough to search out another means of transportation, and by the time I returned, she was gone. Apparently, she’d decided to wait for me outside, but she was nowhere in sight. It was as I stood there, trying to decide where to begin looking, that I heard her scream.”

His hand tightened almost spasmodically on hers, and anguish suffused his expression, so wrenching that Deirdre felt her own heart twist in aching sympathy. “It came from behind the row of cottages, and I went running. I’ll never forget what I saw as I rounded the corner into that alleyway. A group of men had backed Mother up against a building. Two of them held her arms while a rough-looking brute with a bald head shoved his hand down her bodice. She was crying, pleading with him to stop. But he just laughed. Laughed, as if her fear was amusing!

“I didn’t even think. I just barreled into the fray. Of course, I didn’t stand a chance against them. Not by myself. But I got in a few good blows before they managed to subdue me. It didn’t matter. I didn’t care about myself. I only hoped that I could distract them long enough for Mother to get away.”

His words, so vivid, brought to life Deirdre’s own memories of that day. Her first sight of him as he’d burst into their midst like an avenging angel, his expression fierce. Large and muscular, even at nineteen, he’d fought valiantly, but he’d been sorely outnumbered. Though her young heart had cried out to race to his aid, one of Barnaby’s men had held her, and she’d been forced to watch in helplessness while he was viciously beaten, his handsome face bloodied by merciless fists.

“It was then that the bald brute pulled out a knife,” he went on, his voice a husky rasp, “and started toward me.”

Though every word brought them closer to the possibility that he might remember her part in what had happened, Deirdre couldn’t find it in her heart to bring the story to a halt, not when it was so apparent he needed this catharsis.

“And then?” she prompted, tightening her grip on his fingers.

“I should have known Mother would never escape and leave me behind. Not willingly.” He swallowed with obvious difficulty. “She flung herself in front of me just as he brought the knife down. She collapsed in my arms, and the next thing I knew, there was blood everywhere. On the front of her dress, on my hands. I couldn’t stop it.”

He bowed his head. “I don’t remember much after that. It’s all a blur. The next time I looked up, the men were gone. All except for the one who’d stabbed her. His face as he looked down at me is emblazoned in my mind. The cold cruelty of his eyes, the scar that ran down the side of his face. He actually smiled, as if he were
pleased
with himself. And I knew for the first time in my life, I was in the presence of true evil. Then he turned and just walked away, disappeared into the shadows.”

He looked up and met Deirdre’s gaze, the bleakness in his eyes almost more than she could bear. “My mother died in my arms.”

Unable to stop herself, she reached up with her free hand to touch his face in a brief, comforting caress. “Oh, Tristan,” she whispered in a voice that trembled, tears misting her vision. “I’m so sorry.”

He turned his head slightly, seeming to savor the contact, and her heart skipped a beat as his breath wafted over the exposed skin of her wrist above her glove. “My father never forgave me for agreeing to take her that day. And I’ve never forgiven myself.”

They were so close, she realized with a start. Somehow, during the course of their conversation, she had scooted forward until she was on the edge of her seat. The temptation of his sensual lips was only inches away, and with each jolt of the coach, her knee brushed the rock solidness of his thigh.

Clearing her throat, she struggled to rein in her wayward thoughts. “I understand you went through a horrible ordeal, my lord. But you must see that you can’t blame a whole group of people for the crimes of a few?”

At her question, his visage hardened. “What I see is that the people of Tothill care for nothing but themselves,” he said coldly, releasing her hand as if just becoming aware he was holding it. “My mother dedicated her life to helping these people. She believed in them, trusted them, and she died because of it. So, let us agree to disagree and leave it at that, shall we?”

Stung, Deirdre retreated to her side of the carriage as he turned back to the window, his jaw set at a belligerent angle. There would be no arguing with him. He’d made up his mind that the people of Tothill Fields were all alike, and she supposed he had good reason to believe the worst.

Biting her lip, she stared down at her lap, feeling strangely bereft without his hand holding hers. Heaven help her if he ever found out about the part she’d played in his mother’s death. He would hate her.

And his hatred was swiftly becoming something she didn’t think she could face.

B
loody hell, but this was getting them nowhere!

Struggling to contain his growing sense of frustration, Tristan watched from his place by the front door of the cramped shop as Deirdre questioned the establishment’s proprietor. He wasn’t surprised when the man shook his head in response to her queries. It was a scene that had played out before his eyes all too often today, and each time he was a witness to it, it snapped another thread of his already frayed nerves.

They had spent the morning since the incident with Mouse interrogating the merchants, stall owners, and street vendors in the vicinity of the rat-catcher’s usual haunts. Deirdre’s hope was that if the little man really had seen Emily, someone else in the immediate environs might have, as well. So far, however, those hopes had proved fruitless, and Tristan was beginning to wonder if he was even looking in the right place.

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he studied Deirdre’s earnest expression as she continued to converse with the storekeeper. Things had been strained between them ever since his outburst earlier, and he felt a flicker of shame. He certainly hadn’t meant to seem so harsh or judgmental, but he had more reason than most to doubt the integrity of the citizens of the Fields. Surely after hearing about his mother she could see he had every right to be suspicious?

Thoughts of the countess reminded him of the way the story of her death had come pouring out of him in the carriage, and his face heated. He hadn’t meant to reveal so much, but somehow, once he’d started speaking, he hadn’t been able to stop.

He glanced at Deirdre once more. What was it about her that made him want to confide all his darkest secrets? He’d never discussed that day with anyone, not even Archer. Only his father had known the details of what had transpired. But in less than twenty-four hours, this woman had managed to slip beneath his defenses with just a touch on the arm and a soft word or two.

As he recalled the way she’d caressed his cheek, her gaze full of sympathy, he felt his breath hitch in his throat. For a moment, he’d been sorely tempted to press his mouth against the silken skin of her wrist, to let his tongue explore the pulse that beat there. But her final words had been like a splash of cold water in his face. He would be playing with fire to even consider the possibility of intimacy between them, and not only because his aunt would insist on removing Emily from his care if she ever found out. They were too far apart in their thinking. She believed the best of these people while he expected the worst.

At that moment, she turned away from the counter and started toward him. Shrugging off his musings, he reached out to open the shop door, allowing her to precede him before following her out onto the pavement.

“Well?” he demanded the moment he closed the door behind them, planting his hands on his hips.

“Well, nothing.” Her tone was decidedly cool. “He hasn’t seen her. Not that I believe he would have told me if he had. Not with you glaring at him. Perhaps if you could contrive to look a bit less threatening, I might be able to convince someone to confide in me.”

Tristan restrained an irritated breath. After the first few people they’d approached had eyed him askance, seeming uncomfortable with his presence, he’d agreed to wait in the background while Deirdre did the questioning. Short of staying out of sight altogether, something he wasn’t about to concede to, he didn’t know what else he could do.

However, he doubted that her present attitude was entirely due to his intimidating mien. He shook his head as she turned and marched ahead of him in the direction of the carriage and Cullen. She was obviously still out of sorts over their disagreement earlier.

Damnation, but he hated this tension between them, and he was well aware he was the one to blame. He supposed he
had
been unnecessarily cutting in expressing his opinion of the denizens of the Fields. Perhaps if he apologized, he thought, starting after her, it might restore at least a fraction of the equanimity that had been beginning to grow between them before their encounter with Mouse.

But just as he caught up to her and opened his mouth to speak, a strident voice cut across the normal, day-to-day hum of the busy street corner, interrupting him.

“Stop, thief! ’Ere now, somebody stop that boy!”

The crowd on the sidewalk suddenly parted, and a slender lad of about twelve or thirteen came darting from their midst, closely followed by a portly, florid-faced merchant.

“Stop that boy!” the man bellowed again.

As the youth neared them and started to dash past, Tristan took a step forward and caught him by the shirt collar, bringing him to an abrupt halt.

“’Ey! Let me go!” the boy yelped, wriggling in his hold.

But Tristan ignored him, maintaining his grip as the merchant puffed up to join them.

“Thieving baggage,” the man gasped between pants for breath. “I’ll ’ave you before the magistrate! See if I don’t!”

He reached out with a pudgy hand, but Tristan drew the child backward out of his reach, raising an eyebrow inquiringly. “Exactly what has the lad done?”

“What’s ’e done? I’ll tell you what ’e’s done! ’E robbed me stall, that’s what!”

Tristan glanced down at the boy. “Is that true?”

Looking terrified, the youth shook his head. With the vigorous movement, the cap that had been perched precariously on his head fell off, and a long, dark braid tumbled down over one shoulder.

Good Lord, the lad was no “lad” at all.

Deirdre, who’d been observing the scene with concern from a short distance away, let out a startled cry and hurried forward. “Jenna? Jenna McLean, is that you?”

At her voice, the girl’s face paled and she ducked her head. “Y—yes, m’lady.”

Tristan’s eyes met Deirdre’s. “You know this child?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I do.” Pushing past him, she bent over the youngster, her face troubled. “Jenna, what is going on here? Surely you didn’t steal from this … gentleman, did you?”

“Oh, no, m’lady. I ain’t stole nothing.”

But as the girl’s arms tightened self-defensively about her midsection, a lone apple fell from beneath the bulky material of her shirt and rolled across the sidewalk, coming to rest at the toe of Deirdre’s slipper.

The stall owner, who had been only momentarily struck speechless by the revelation of the thief’s gender, let out a scornful snort. “There, you see. A liar as well as a thief.”

Tristan watched as Deirdre looked down at the evidence on the ground, then gave a sad shake of the head. “Oh, Jenna.”

The disappointment in her tone spoke volumes, and the girl swallowed visibly before raising her chin in a defiant manner. “I was only trying to ‘elp Mama. That’s all.”

“Your mother would be shamed by this, and no mistake,” Deirdre scolded. “And what do you mean, help? The last time I saw you, you told me things were going well at home.”

Jenna shrugged, but said nothing else.

Turning to the merchant, Deirdre dug into her reticule and withdrew a few coins, handing them to the man with a beseeching expression. “Here, good sir. I’m certain this should be enough to cover whatever the child took. I can assure you, when I report her behavior to her mother, she will be punished, and this will never happen again.”

The man stared down at the money in his hand, then eyed Deirdre’s reticule with an avaricious glint. “’Ere now, I could ’ave ’er dragged off to Bridewell or Newgate for certain if I liked. Why, if it got ’round that I let the little whelp get away wiv stealing from me, they’ll be robbing me stall all the time.”