A Scandalous Lady (18 page)

Or was it that she knew of the temptation she posed and was holding out for more than he was willing to give?

The groom approached, interrupting his thoughts, and handed him the reins to a saddled gelding that would take him to the outpost where he'd stabled his personal mount. Troyce sent the groom away with a gold piece for his trouble and led the horse out of the livery. A man shouting near the docks snagged his notice. Troyce ignored him, mounted the horse, and would have passed right on by had a small yelp not cut through his dulled senses.

He snapped back around and spotted a familiar figure in a worn macintosh shaking his finger at something on the ground. Then he drew back his foot and kicked. A second yelp erupted at the same time Troyce noticed the small form huddled between two barrels that reeked of fish. The reins dropped heedlessly from his fingers and before his brain gave the command, he slid off the horse.

“. . . you worthless piece of baggage! Didn't I tell you not to show your face around me until you brought news?”

Just as he drew his booted foot back for another strike, Troyce's fingers clawed over the man's shoulder and spun him around. “Is there a problem here, Swift?”

“This is none of your affair, Westborough. Move along.”

Déjà vu
hit him then and his mind spun back to the moment he and Feagin had engaged in a similar . . . discussion . . . in front of Jorge's Tavern. Troyce told himself not to get involved, to get back on his horse and just go home. But before he could stop them, the words slid from his mouth in stony determination. “I'm making it my affair.”

Swift made the worst mistake he could have made in that moment. He put up his fists.

Troyce heaved a sigh. Then he doubled up and slammed his fist into Swift's pretty face. The bloke fell like a sack of grain.

“ 'Zounds, guv! You just dropped Jack Swift!”

“Aye, I did.” He shook out his fist. “I've been wanting to do that all morning.” He turned to the source of the small voice. Recognition hit both of them at once. “So we meet again, mate,” Troyce said, taking in the ragged clothes, the grimy face, dark eyes, and stringy black hair visible from beneath the cap.

Scatter's mouth fell. “You're . . . 'im!”

He couldn't believe it! Hell, he'd turned over every brick in London looking for the bloke who'd taken Fanny, but the chum had disappeared into thin air. Then, of a sudden, he shows up on the docks? What famous luck!

Scatter glanced around. “Where's Fan? Is she with you?” It would save him a whole lot of trouble if she was. If he could find out where Fanny was, Jack would finally let him go back to the band! He'd been living on the docks so long he'd almost forgotten what the tunnels looked like.

“No, she's not with me.”

“What 'ave ye done with her?”

“Calm yourself. She's quite safe, and I'll venture to say, she'll be overjoyed to see you.”

“Ye know where she is?”

“Aye. Come along. I'll take you to her.” He started to walk away, then a thought struck. “What ever happened to the coins the two of you pilfered from me?”

The boy's expression turned wary, reminding him so much of Faith in that instant that his heart swelled. “Have no fear, lad, I just want to know what you did with the money.”

The boy slid a cautious glance toward the prone figure on the ground. With a devilish grin, Troyce crouched beside Swift, dug through his pockets for the wad of notes he'd taunted him with during their earlier meeting, peeled two hundred pounds worth off the stack, and dropped the rest upon his chest.
Let the carrion feed.

Moments later, with the boy secured in the saddle, Troyce asked, “Is there anything you need before we leave? We won't be coming back.”

The lad shook his head. “I just wanna see Fanny.”

“Aye, I know the feeling.” He'd just put his foot in the stirrup and was preparing to mount up in front of the boy when shouts from a group of passengers fresh off a nearby ship spooked his mount.

Troyce took a moment to calm the horse, then he glared at the crowd. The old familiar sight of an American cowboy hat bobbing up and down with the crowd moving along the wharf caught his notice. The owner materialized with a woman in a red gown and black cape at his side. Their heads were bent close, hers just below his chin. The man held his coat over their heads to protect them from the rain, his arm circled the woman's shoulders protectively, possessively, improperly. There was nothing exceptional about the pair except that watching them made him think of the way Faith fit against him.

Then the woman looked up.

Troyce drew back in surprise. Faith?

No. It couldn't be. His eyes were playing tricks on him. So the woman had the same amberhued hair. So her jawline was the same delicate slope, and her nose tilted in the same adorable manner. It couldn't possibly be Faith huddled in the shelter of another man's—an American's—arms. Faith was tucked sixty kilometers away at Westborough Manor.

Wasn't she?

My red dress is missing.

His heart picked up pace and prickles of trepidation climbed up his spine. He ducked beneath the horse's head and stepped forward to get a closer look just as her companion pulled her closer. She leaned into him the exact same way Faith had leaned into him that night in his room and let him tip her chin up with his finger.

Then the American kissed her.

On the mouth.

Troyce felt as if he'd taken a mainmast to the sternum. His breath left his lungs in a rush. His knees buckled. Every caution delivered to him over the last couple of weeks came back at him in biting sequence:

She'll rob you blind!

Isn't it coincidental . . . ?

. . . form of manipulation . . .

She had designs on you . . .

The man flagged down a passing hack and once it stopped, they climbed inside.

What the hell would Faith be doing in the city with an American? Who the hell was he? And what in the hell did he think he was doing kissing her?

Well, by God, he was going to find out.

“Stay here,” he barked at the lad. Then he started toward the vehicle, only to hit a crowd of seamen spilling off the docks, engaging in bawdy revelry. Jumping on the balls of his feet, he tried to keep the hack in sight. When it pulled away from the curb, he tried pushing his way through, but even a man of his size was no match for a dozen brawny, barrel-chested sailors.

He spun on his heel and sprinted to his horse.

 

“Feeling better now, darlin'?”

Honesty laid her head on Jesse's sturdy shoulder and sighed. “I will. I'm not much of a sailor, I'm afraid.” The train ride from San Francisco to New York had been stuffy, but tolerable, but the six-week journey across the Atlantic, then up the Thames had not agreed with Honesty in the least. Her stomach still hadn't settled from the trip. “I don't think I've ever been so glad to feel land beneath my feet.”

Jesse chuckled. “We should be at the hotel soon. You'll feel better once you've had some rest.”

“I'd really rather start searching for Faith.” It had been the only thing that kept her going when she'd been so sick she didn't think she'd survive another day aboard her father's ship.

“I promised Anton that we'd wait until he finished his business on board. He wanted to be with us when we talked with the Scotland Yard investigators.”

“Do you think they'll be able to help us after all this time? She might never have even been to London.”

“We'll know soon enough. This is the best place to start, though, Honesty. And if Scotland Yard can't help us, I've heard that London boasts one of the best detective agencies in the world. They call themselves Bow Street Runners.”

“Surely they can't compare to Allen Pinkerton's men.”

“Of course not,” Jesse boasted, “but they come mighty close.”

Shouting outside the carriage interrupted their joint spurts of laughter. Jesse swiveled in the seat to peer out the side of the coach.

“What is it?” Honesty asked.

“Just a pair of fools tearing down the middle of the road on a horse.”

“Do you think they're after someone?”

“Either that or someone's after them.”

She grinned at the irony. “There seems to be a lot of that going around.”

“Looks like they're not going anywhere now.”

Despite her lingering nausea, curiosity had Honesty twisting around to peer out the other side of the coach. Instantly she spotted the riders he'd been referring to, one man, one boy, both bellowing profanities at an army of dockworkers blocking their way with a crate large enough to house the Alamo.

The frustrated desperation on the man's face touched a cord of sympathy inside her. And in that instant, she knew that he, like herself, was after someone.

“I hope he finds her,” Jesse said as if reading her mind.

She looked at her husband as he settled back down into the seat. “What makes you so sure that he's after a woman?”

“Because the only thing that can make a man curse like that is a female.”

 

Troyce didn't even let the horse come to a full stop before vaulting out of the saddle and racing into the house.

“Faith!” He stormed through the entrance hall, heedless of the mud he was tracking on the clean stone floor, or the child dogging his steps. “Faith, where the hell are you!”

Millie appeared in the doorway, her face wreathed in puzzled concern. “Is something wrong, milord?”

“Where's Faith?”

“She went to the village. I expect her back anytime.”

That defiant little—“How long has she been gone?”

“Since early this morning, milord.”

Troyce cursed. It was past dusk. Thanks to the crowd on the wharf, he'd lost track of the carriage she'd been riding in, so the only way he knew to find out for sure if she'd been the woman he'd seen was to return to Westborough. If he found her here, and the staff could vouch for her, he'd know he'd made a mistake. If she wasn't here . . .

“Do you wish for me to send someone after her?”

“I'll go myself.” He spun around and nearly ran Scatter over. “Millie, the lad needs a meal, a bath, and suitable clothing—oh, and someplace to sleep. See to it, if you will.”

“Oh, lud, another one?”

Troyce returned to his horse and left for the village. And if Faith knew what was good for her, he would find her there.

But he didn't.

Night fell, and with it, what little control he'd managed to retain on his temper. He recognized that he was fast venturing beyond rational action, yet he couldn't rid himself of the vision of her in the other man's arms, lifting her face for his kiss, riding away with him.

He didn't want to believe it. Didn't want to think she would betray him or that he could be so deuced stupid to have let it happen.

But the truth he'd stubbornly tried to deny was, Faith Jervais—if that was even her name—was a product of the London underworld, a street survivor. Her submissiveness and cooperation had simply been a ploy to throw him off her true intent.

Whatever the hell that was.

A slow burning fury continued to simmer inside him as he entered the village, and by the time he finished questioning the tenants, his mood had grown dark as the thunderclouds rolling across the blackening sky. No one had seen her since that morning when she'd announced that she planned on rounding up stray sheep. Clever thinking—a perfect excuse that would leave her free to make the trip to London, meet her lover, and be long gone before anyone knew what hit them. And no one would be the wiser. And he, fool that he was, had given her carte blanche to roam at will.

A drop of rain all but sizzled against his skin as he veered his horse toward a shortcut through the woods on the off chance he might see her or at least some sign of her passage before the rains wiped out any tracks she may have left. He was probably wasting his time. No doubt she was halfway across the Continent with her American cowboy by now.

It crossed his mind that if she wanted away from him so badly, he should simply let her go. He'd gotten his money back from Swift, there was no longer any reason to keep her here against her will. Yet he couldn't. She still owed him for the trouble, he told himself, kicking his horse into a lope. Two hundred bloody pounds worth of trouble to be exact, and by God he'd get it back if he had to track her to the ends of the earth and take it pound by pound out of her flesh.

Halfway through the woods, a sound startled his horse. It stepped back, danced in placed then lunged forward again. “Easy boy, easy,” Troyce muttered, keeping a firm hand on the reins and his eyes peeled for the source. The woods of the low weald were thick with full-leafed beech and maple and holly. Wild hedges and barbed plants grew between them, creating hazards enough for man and beast during the daylight; but in full darkness, the trail became even more treacherous.

Again the sound came, almost a bleating, causing the horse to pull its forelegs off the ground. Its ears flattened against its head, his eyes rolled back. It took all Troyce's strength to keep the animal from bolting. Again, he searched the trees, the ground, the area around the trunks.

And there he saw her, lying on her side on a bed of leaves at the base of a pale-barked beech. In the space of a few seconds he took in the sight of her. Muddy skirts. One shoe missing.

Tear stains on her cheeks.

Nearby, a lamb cried plaintively.

“Sweet Jesus . . .” he whispered.

The anger that had been driving him faded, replaced with raw fear. Was she . . . ? He couldn't think the word without a cold chill spearing his heart.

He dismounted and after securing the nervous horse to a low limb, strode on silent feet toward her, the leaves muffling his footsteps. The lamb backed away when he crouched beside her, close enough to see the even rise and fall of her shoulder.