A Kiss In The Dark (2 page)

“You must be patient, my lord,” Archer was saying as he joined Tristan at the window. “You cannot repair eight years’ worth of damage in just four months’ time. Sooner or later Lady Emily will realize you are only trying to do what’s right for her.”

Tristan reached up to tug at his cravat, loosening the knot before he whirled and began to pace again. “If it were only my impatience we were dealing with, it would be a quite different story. But there is more to worry about than that. You and I both know what the Dragon Lady will say when she finds out about this latest fiasco.”

The “Dragon Lady” was their father’s sister, Ruella Palmer, Marchioness of Overton. As harsh and forbidding as her brother, she’d been a constant source of annoyance from the moment Tristan had returned, making no secret of the fact that she disapproved of the choice of guardian for her niece.

“She has enough power and influence that she could make things extremely difficult if she and her husband decided to try and wrest custody of Emily from me. She has threatened to do so often enough.” He turned back to the butler. “I can’t lose her, Archer. I can’t.”

The very idea struck Tristan to the depths of his soul, and his gaze went to the portrait of Victoria Knight hanging over the mantel. Dainty and golden, with a heart-shaped face and a serene countenance, his mother had possessed unusual violet eyes that had been an exact replica of his own—and Emily’s. In fact, his sister resembled her so much that it sometimes took Tristan’s breath away.

I’m so sorry, Mother. I failed you. But I will not fail Emily. I swear to you, I will not!

He took a shaky breath and returned his attention to Archer. “I suppose I could pack her off to Knighthaven. The Season will be winding down soon, and perhaps some time away from London would be good for her.”

“Or perhaps she would only find a whole different set of troubles to get into.”

“Well, I must do something, and quickly, before Aunt Rue returns from the country and shows up here demanding to know how I’m going to remedy the situation.” Tristan shrugged. “I suppose I should talk to Emily. Where is she?”

“Still sulking in her bedchamber, I believe, my lord. But before you go, if you would take a bit of advice? While you are speaking to her, I would try not to look quite so … imposing.”

That was easier said than done. If Tristan had inherited his mother’s violet eyes, he had gotten his dark, brooding looks, soaring height, and muscular build from his father. It was practically impossible to avoid being imposing.

He started across the room, but before he could even reach the door, a sudden loud knocking shattered the stillness.

Raising an eyebrow, Tristan reached out and opened the portal. On the other side stood an anxious-looking maid.

“Yes? What is it, Mary?”

“It’s Lady Emily, my lord! She’s—she’s gone!”

Tristan froze. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”

“I went up to check on ’er and ’er room was empty. I found this on ’er pillow.” The girl held out a folded piece of paper with a shaking hand.

Tristan took it, hastily reading the feminine scrawl. Terror started his heart pumping like a bellows, and he felt the blood pounding in his ears as he spun to face the butler. “Dear God, Archer, Emily’s run away!”

“S
o the angel tucked the children into their beds with a gentle good night kiss and a promise that she would always be there to watch over and protect them. And before she left, she bade the stars shine brightly through their bedroom window in order to guide them into the sweetest of dreams....”

Deirdre Wilks, Viscountess Rotherby, closed the book she’d been reading and looked down at the group of boys gathered at her feet, a slight smile curving her lips as she noted their awestruck expressions. It always gave her a feeling of personal accomplishment to be able to put that look on their faces, to make them forget—even for just a little while—the desperation of their circumstances.

“Cor, m’lady,” one of them piped up, propping his pointed chin on a grimy hand. “I ’spect those children must ’ave been extra good to ’ave an angel tuck ’em in.”

Deirdre laughed. “I expect so, Miles.”

A slight tug at her sleeve brought her attention to the little boy sitting on her lap. The youngest of the group, six-year-old Benji stared up at her with brown eyes so solemn they made her heart catch.

“Was the angel really always wiv ’em, m’lady?” he whispered. “Even when they couldn’t see ’er?”

“Of course, Benji. She was their guardian angel.”

“Do I ’ave a guardian angel?”

“Yes, darling. All little children do.”

There was a contemptuous snort, and a dark-haired young man stepped into the pool of light cast by the room’s lone candle, one corner of his mouth curled downward in a brooding scowl. “Don’t listen to ’er. There ain’t no such thing as angels, and if you think there is, you’re out of your bleeding ’eads!”

Benji’s lower lip trembled dangerously, and Deirdre closed her arms around him in a comforting hug as she sent a glare in Jack Barlow’s direction. One of the eldest of the gang known as the “Rag-Tag Bunch,” Jack was a sullen loner who seemed to thrive on lowering the spirits of the other boys. In the year since she’d set out on her self-imposed mission to aid the children of the London streets, Deirdre had tried to reach out to him several times, but so far her every attempt had been met with nothing but scorn.

Putting on her sternest frown, she was just getting ready to deliver a rather firm set-down when another voice interrupted her, cutting through the gloom with the sharpness of a knife. “Put a cork in it, Jack.”

Jack’s face reddened and his brow lowered in a glower. “You ain’t me boss and I can say what I like! You—”

“I said put a cork in it and I meant it.”

A figure materialized from out of the shadows.

The unofficial leader of the gang, Peter Quick was a year younger than the sixteen-year-old Jack, but his lean frame was already several inches taller and his eyes held a wisdom and knowledge far beyond his age. He carried himself with a quiet authority the older boy would never possess, and his confident assurance and calm strength had sustained the group through hard times, earning Peter their trust and utter loyalty—a fact that Jack visibly resented.

Deirdre watched as Peter cocked an eyebrow in an almost arrogant fashion and took a step closer to the bristling young man, as if daring him to object. “Do you ’ave a problem wiv that?”

For just a moment, Jack stood poised, as if debating his chances in a toe-to-toe match with the bigger Peter. Then, muttering under his breath, he turned and stormed across the room, flinging himself onto a bench next to the cold and crumbling fireplace.

“Are there really angels, Peter?” Benji asked, his question timid.

Peter’s face softened, and he reached out to ruffle the little boy’s curls. “If Lady R says so, there must be. She wouldn’t lie to us, would she?”

Benji shook his head, then glanced up at Deirdre. “Are
you
an angel, m’lady?”

She smiled tenderly. “No, darling. But I thank you for the compliment.”

“Could you read the story again?” he begged.

Before Deirdre could answer, Peter spoke up in a no-nonsense tone. “That’s enough for tonight, boyo. It’s off to bed wiv you all.”

There was a collective grumble from the lads seated on the floor. It was mostly good-natured, however, and after a minute or two they got to their feet and bid Deirdre good night before heading for their makeshift pallets.

Benji paused for a moment, staring up at Deirdre with an uncertain gaze before leaning forward to speak softly in her ear. “May I keep the book, m’lady?”

“Of course. That’s why I brought it. But you must promise to be a good boy and share it with the others.”

Instead of answering, the child flung his arms around her neck, planting a moist kiss on her cheek before clambering from her lap and taking the storybook with him.

Tears blurred Deirdre’s vision as she watched him run to join the others. He was such a darling little boy, and he deserved so much more than the life he was living. They all did.

Her gaze moved about the room, taking in her surroundings with an inward shudder. The Rag-Tag Bunch had adopted one of the many abandoned back alley tenements as their hideout, and while someone had made an effort to keep the interior as neat and tidy as possible, there was no disguising the cracked and peeling walls or the ramshackle condition of the furniture. From the street outside the boarded-up windows came the shouts of the costermongers and the drunken revelry of the patrons who frequented the nearby gin shops and flash houses.

No child should have to grow up amid such poverty and hardship, she thought despairingly. But since when had life ever turned out the way it should?

“Are you all right, m’lady?”

Peter’s query jolted Deirdre out of her dispirited musings and she turned to face him, forcing a smile to her lips. “I’m fine. I was just wishing there was something more I could do.”

“You’ve already done more than anyone else ever ’as.” He jerked a thumb at the sacks of food and supplies spread out on the plank table. “Thanks to you, we’ll ’ave food in our bellies for the next week and warm blankets at night.”

“So, the boys shouldn’t have to go on the job for a while then?”

Peter chuckled at her hopeful look. “We’re set right and tight, so the pockets of London should be safe from us for a few days. ’Course, I can’t say the same for Barnaby Flynt’s boys.”

Deirdre froze. “Barnaby Flynt?” she whispered, her heart lodging in her throat and her hands tightening on the arms of her chair. “Barnaby Flynt is back in Tothill Fields? You’re certain?”

“As certain as I can be wiv’out seeing the man ’imself.” Peter studied her curiously. “A coupla’ ’is toffs grabbed Davey in the alley last week and tried to weasel in on ’is day’s earnings. Some of us ’appened along and sent ’em on their way with our bootprints in their backsides.”

Barnaby Flynt! The very name started Deirdre’s pulse pounding in her ears, reminding her of a day she’d tried very hard to forget. A day of blood and death. A day that had haunted her dreams for the past eight years.

Pushing away the terrifying memories, she reached out to touch Peter’s sleeve. “Please, you and the boys be careful of Barnaby Flynt. He can be a dangerous man.”

“You don’t ’ave to warn me about ’im, m’lady. I know all about Mr. Flynt and ’is gang, and I ain’t about to stand back and watch ’em move in ’ere and take over.”

That was exactly what she was afraid of. Peter might be much more capable than other children his age, but he was still just a boy, and Barnaby Flynt was a man. A man who would stop at nothing to gain what he wanted. Not cheating, not stealing.

Not even murder.

Deirdre’s whole body went cold at the thought of Peter in a confrontation with the malevolent gang leader. “No, Peter, listen to me. You must stay out of his way. And you tell the boys if they see any of his men to hand over whatever it is they want and then clear out, right quick. Do you hear me?”

Peter’s jaw set with determination, and she gave an inward groan. She knew that look, and it told her that he had no intention of heeding her advice. She should have realized it wouldn’t be that easy. The boy was exceedingly stubborn and chafed at the slightest hint of authority, but she couldn’t fault him for that. It was what had kept him and the others alive for so long in the world they lived in.

Well, she couldn’t just walk away and forget about Barnaby Flynt’s presence in Tothill Fields. She would simply have to make it a point to check in with the Rag-Tag Bunch a bit more often. At the slightest sign of trouble she would do whatever it took to ensure the boys’ safety.

And pray that Flynt never discovered who she really was.

With a sigh, she rose from her chair. “I suppose I’d better be on my way. It’s getting late, and if I don’t return home soon, Mrs. Godfrey will be sending Bow Street out after me.”

The obstinate look on Peter’s face instantly vanished, to be replaced by one of concern. “Should I escort you, m’lady? This ain’t a part of town you want to be wandering about in alone. ’Specially if you ain’t familiar with it.”

Deirdre had to stifle a laugh. She was a bit more
familiar
with this part of town than he might guess. “No, but thank you for offering, Peter. I have Cullen with me, so I should be fine. He’s waiting outside with the carriage.”