Jacquie D'Alessandro - [Regency Historical 04] (5 page)

The way she smelled so deliciously of sweet oranges. His favorite fruit.

With a groan, his eyes slid closed, and he breathed in, as if to capture her fragrance. Her delicate scent had teased his senses during the entire carriage ride. When he’d said good night, he’d been unable to resist touching his lips to her skin to see if she tasted as delicious as she smelled. She had. And during that brief kiss to her wrist, he’d felt her rapid pulse against his lips—the only indication that she was not as calm as she outwardly appeared. Which pleased him, as he hated the thought of being the only one unsettled. The only thing that had kept him from giving in to the overwhelming urge to touch his lips to her skin again was her assertion that she had a husband—a statement that had resulted in an unpleasant sensation much like a cramp.

What sort of man was her husband? How long had they been married? Was he an honest merchant—or a thief? Did he know of his wife’s pickpocketing abilities? Did he possess them himself? More questions to which he was determined to find the answers. And he needed to do so quickly because the sense of impending doom that had first gripped him in its unrelenting grasp last
month, was growing steadily stronger—even more so since he’d arrived in London.

He opened his eyes, tossed back the last of his brandy, then rose to pour another. Swirling the amber liquid in the snifter, he stared into the golden depths and asked himself the question that had plagued him ever since the recurring dream of his own death had settled upon him.

How much longer did he have?

Blowing out an impatient breath, he dragged a hand through his hair. He’d tried to convince himself that the sense of growing doom was his imagination run amok, or merely the result of weariness. Nothing more than the melancholy that always struck him at the approaching anniversary of his mother’s death. But even after that sad day passed, he still couldn’t shake the feeling.

Then the dream had started. Nightmare, actually. Trapped in a dark, narrow space, heart pounding, lungs burning, everything in him knowing danger was near. Death imminent. Waking up, bathed in cold sweat, unable to fall back to sleep, his throat tight with the inexplicable fear of closed-in places he’d suffered since childhood.

He’d learned long ago to listen to his gut feelings and trust his instincts. Indeed, during his years of service to the Crown, his instincts had saved his life on more than one occasion. Which was why he couldn’t ignore the disturbing message they’d been whispering to him for the past month: Something bad was going to happen to him. Something he wouldn’t be able to walk away from. Something he most likely wouldn’t survive. The feeling had become more pronounced since his arrival in London, one that hadn’t in any way been averted by his run-in with that knife-wielding giant. He’d managed to escape disaster there, but would he be so lucky next
time? His gut told him no, he would not. And that further danger awaited him.

He’d considered that perhaps part of this deep foreboding stemmed from the fact that he was now the same age his mother was when she died, but had dismissed that as superstition. No, he wasn’t a superstitious man. But he was a man who listened to his instincts.

The undeniable sense of his own mortality, of time running out, weighed on him heavily, thus his driving need to fulfill his duties and obligations—immediately. Before it was too late. The most pressing of which were finding a bride and producing an heir.

His common sense tried to tell him he was wrong—that he’d be fine and live to a ripe old age. Certainly that was his hope. But there was no denying the sense of doom he couldn’t shake off, and it wasn’t a risk he was willing to take. Especially since, should he meet with an untimely demise, Nathan would inherit the title and all that went with it. And that, he knew, was the last thing his younger brother would ever want, and therefore was the last thing Colin would want for him. Nathan had always eschewed the trappings of Society, preferring to focus his attentions and talents on medicine, and he was a fine doctor. He wanted the title as much as he’d want his internal organs ripped out with a rusty blade.

No, the responsibility of providing an heir was Colin’s. He now only wished he’d set about meeting that obligation earlier. Before this sense of urgency had grabbed him by the throat. While there’d still been time. Of course, until a month ago, he’d always believed he had all the time in the world….

Looking up, his gaze fell on the cherrywood desk, and he recalled Ellis’s saying a letter had arrived for him. After setting his empty snifter on the end table, he crossed the room and picked up the folded ivory vellum
sealed with a bit of red wax. His brows lifted at the sight of his name written on the outside in Nathan’s unmistakable bold scrawl. Amazing that his brother would find the time to write a letter, what with him being a newlywed of only seven months and all that. Certainly, if Colin were lucky enough to have a wife like the very beautiful Victoria, with whom Nathan was passionately in love, God knows he wouldn’t spend time writing letters.

After breaking the wax seal, he perused the short note:

The same sense of lingering guilt that thoughts of Nathan always brought pushed at him, but he shoved them aside, instead focusing on how good it would be to see his brother again. He folded the note, then turned his attention to the small blue-and-white Sèvres dish resting on the corner of the desk. A smile curved his lips at the sight of the trio of exquisite marzipan candies, each a miniature work of art fashioned to perfectly resemble a fruit. He looked over tonight’s choices—a strawberry, a pear, and…

An orange.

There was no question as to which one he wanted.

He reached out and plucked the luscious orange from the dish then popped the morsel in his mouth. He closed his eyes and savored the sweet taste of citrus and almond
coasting over his tongue, while an image of the mysterious Madame Larchmont filled his mind.

Yes, she was mysterious, her motives unclear. But if there was one thing he excelled at, it was unraveling a mystery; and he’d never yet failed at solving one that came his way. He was determined to have the answers to a good many of his questions about her before she ever arrived at his home tomorrow.

The fact that she had not only survived but appeared to be prospering indicated she possessed a great deal of cleverness and an abundance of luck. But this time, Colin vowed, she’d met her match. And if she were engaged in any sort of thievery, her luck was about to end.

Alex made her way swiftly through a series of back alleys, then hurried up the worn stairs to the second floor of the building where she lived. After glancing around the dark corridor to ensure she was alone, she inserted the key and silently opened the door to her rooms. Slipping inside, she quickly locked the door behind her, then leaned back against the rough wood panel and closed her eyes. Her ragged breaths burned her lungs, and her heart pounded—not only from her haste but from the unsettling feeling that someone had been watching her. Following her as she’d made her way home after leaving Lord Sutton’s carriage. She was accustomed to the presence of thieves and footpads and knew how to avoid them. Her fingers brushed over the bump on her skirt from the sheathed knife tucked into her garter. And she knew how to defend herself if she couldn’t.

But what she’d experienced tonight was different. An overwhelming sense of being watched, stalked, had plagued her the entire way home, slithering unease down her spine. Unease that was especially acute after the conversation she’d overheard tonight in Lord Malloran’s
study. Whoever had her in their sights was very good at remaining hidden, but she’d lived in the mean streets of London too long not to know when she was being observed.

“Are ye all right, Alex?”

Her eyes popped open at the softly spoken question, and she found herself being regarded by Emma’s concern-filled blue eyes.

Even though, at seventeen, Emma Bagwell was six years younger than Alex, she was, thanks to her acquaintance with London’s underbelly, very resourceful and perceptive. They’d found each other three years ago and, together, had managed to survive and rise above where they’d come from.

Realizing it was not only useless to try to keep a secret from her tenacious friend, but needing to confide the details of her unsettling evening, Alex said, “Actually, there
is
something troubling me, but before I tell you…” She nodded toward the faded blue velvet curtain that separated a third of the room. “How many have we tonight?”

Emma’s gaze shifted to the curtain. “Eight.”

Eight. Last night there’d been six, the night before that, twelve. Last Tuesday they’d made room for seventeen. “Is Robbie here?”

Emma nodded. “He were the last to arrive, about an hour ago. Filthy and exhausted. Could barely stay awake long enough to eat.” Anger flared in Emma’s eyes. “He were more than filthy, Alex. He’d been beaten.”

Alex’s hands clenched her cloak. “How badly?”

“Swollen eye, busted lip. I cleaned him up, but ye should check on him. He asked for ye.”

“All right,” she murmured. “I’ll do it now, because he’ll be gone before we awaken.”

“Like a ghost he is,” Emma agreed, nodding. “All of
’em are. I’ll add more water to the kettle and make us some tea.”

“Thank you.” She crossed the room and hung her cloak in the battered wardrobe she shared with Emma. Even with both their clothes combined, there was room to spare. Knowing Robbie and the others were already asleep, she took a few extra minutes to remove her gown, then quickly dress in her plain cotton nightrail. She knotted her robe’s sash around her waist, then walked to the velvet curtain. After doing this for the past two years, she knew what to expect; still, she pulled in a bracing breath before pulling aside the heavy material.

She waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark, and slowly they became more visible. Eight of them tonight, each wrapped in the only comfort they’d ever known—a blanket. Her gaze touched their sleeping forms, and no matter how many nights she saw them here, each night they tore at her heart.

She recognized Will and Kenneth. Dobbs, Johnny, and Douglas. And there, in the corner, lay Mary, and next to her, Lilith. All sleeping on the pallets that were kept rolled in the corner, ready for them, each child looking like a small, broken angel. Which in Alex’s mind they were, as none of them was older than twelve. All safe for a few hours in the shelter her meager home provided, but all too soon dawn would arrive, and they’d leave this sanctuary for the hell that awaited them on the unfriendly streets and back alleys where they spent their days.

Her gaze fell last on Robbie and, as it did every time she saw him, her heart clenched, more so now as the soft light from the low-burning fire in the main room touched on his bruised eye and busted lower lip. All these children, and the scores of others like them, who were orphans or abandoned, victims of severe poverty and abuse and horrible living conditions tore at her
heart, but something about Robbie touched her even deeper. Perhaps because he so reminded her of herself at his age. A bundle of trembling fear wrapped in layers of false bravado.

Tears of anger and frustration and utter pity pushed at the backs of her eyes. Dear God, he was barely six years old.

A lock of his pale hair, darkened with soot, fell across his forehead, and her fingers ached to brush it aside. But she knew if she touched him, he would most likely awaken. Out of necessity, because of where they lived and how they lived, all the children were light sleepers. If one slept too deeply, any manner of horror could sneak up upon them. To this day, Alex slept lightly, and never for more than a few hours at a time. The children slept more soundly here, knowing they were free, for a few hours, from harm. So although she ached to go to him, Robbie needed sleep more than Alex needed to touch him and risk frightening him.

After one last lingering look, she let the curtain close, then made her way toward the kitchen area, where Emma poured tea into thick ceramic mugs. She sat at the long wooden bench, suddenly bone-weary, drained of all her energy. The scent of oranges and fresh-baked muffins lingered in the room.

“Thank you for doing the baking this evening,” she said with a tired smile, keeping her voice low so as to not awaken the children.

“Ye’re welcome.” With a flourish, Emma produced a plate upon which sat a single biscuit. “I saved ye one.”

Alex’s throat tightened at the thoughtful gesture. Emma well knew her weakness for sweets—a weakness Emma shared. Reaching out, she broke the biscuit in half and gave the bigger piece to her friend. “I’m sorry to leave all the chores to you.”

“Nonsense,” Emma said, setting a steaming mug be
fore her. “’Tis a labor of love for me, and is more important for Madame Larchmont to ply her fortune-tellin’ wares on the rich, fancy folks. With the extra money yer earnin’, we’ll be able to move to a bigger, better, safer place. And sooner than we’d thought possible. Then you can start educatin’ them.”

Yes, a bigger, better, safer place for herself and Emma and the children who trusted them, came to them for protection, was what she’d worked so hard for. What she was determined to have. What she’d finally been able to hope, with the recent success of her Madame Larchmont persona, to achieve.

“That is my hope,” she said, “but you know how fickle Society can be, how easily bored, how quickly they move on to the next entertainment. I’m in demand now, but I have no illusions that my current popularity will last more than the length of the Season.”

“Then let’s make certain ye make a killin’ this Season,” Emma said, looking at her over the rim of her steaming mug.

“Again, that is my hope…but…well, we both know that Madame Larchmont’s career would be over if the elite of Society now clamoring for her services were to discover her past.”