Night Storm (4 page)

“I should hope so.” She cut the left side of his trousers back as far as she could, then wiped the area clean before dousing it with whisky, too. Cameron squeezed his eyes shut during the painful process. She waited for him to open his eyes. When he did, she said, “The wound is deep enough to require stitches.”

He groaned. “How many?”

“Perhaps twelve or fifteen.”

“I’m going to need some of your aqua vitae.”

She shook her head. “I’ll give you a little more laudanum, if you need it. Mixing the opiate with alcohol is not a good idea.”

“Laudanum it is, then.”

After adding a small amount of the opiate to a glass of water, she helped him into an upright position before handing it to him. The feel of him in her arms again sparked a long-suppressed yearning. She’d loved him beyond imagining once. Had even offered herself to him—before he walked out of her life.

A cloud of anger rolled over her, extinguishing the dangerous longing.

“Thank you,” he said, sounding exhausted.

Charlotte finished treating his injuries in silence. It took seventeen stitches to close the cut on his leg. After clearing away the soiled linens and drawing her mother’s throw down over him, she paused awkwardly near the door. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

He rolled his head to the side to better see her, but said nothing and simply stared at her with his fathomless blue eyes. Eyes that always had the ability to penetrate the deepest secrets of her soul.

Hesitant to leave him alone, she tried a different tactic. “Should I notify anyone of your whereabouts?”

Turning away, he fixed his attention on the ceiling. “Don’t worry, Charley. I’ll be gone by morning.”

“That was not my intent.”

“Nevertheless.”

She studied his uncompromising profile and decided to leave the issue alone. “Try to get some sleep. I’ll check on you first thing in the morning.”

Before she could slip away, Cameron called to her. “Charley.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” he said, with a note of tenderness. “For patching me up.”

She hesitated. “I was sorry to hear about Nick’s death.” All during their childhood, Cameron, Jules Gardner, and Nick Bellwood had terrorized the neighborhood with their antics. Nick had been the wildest of the three and, as a result, Charlotte had spent the least amount of time with him. But that had not stopped the hurt she had experienced upon learning about his tragic drowning a year ago.

Cameron’s jaw clenched, and he refocused his attention on the ceiling above, saying nothing.

Charlotte pushed back the hurt his reaction caused, and murmured, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Recalling that she had used Mrs. Cates’s laudanum order, Charlotte took a moment to fill another bottle and place it with the rest of tomorrow morning’s orders. Satisfied, she made the long climb to her apartments upstairs, not once allowing herself to think about the last hour. She simply put one foot in front of the other. Her mind a perfect blank. Safe. The closer she got to her bedchamber, the more leaden her feet became. Once she arrived, she didn’t bother to light a candle. She unerringly strode to the window overlooking her herb garden in the rear of the building.

Sparse moonlight spilled onto the rows of frozen dark-brown plants. Illumination mattered little. She knew every nook and cranny of the garden. The fifteen-by-twenty section of soil was one of the most important aspects of her business. She required a ready supply of medicinal herbs, most of which she ordered from the Chelsea Physic Garden. However, having her own inventory of the most commonly used herbs allowed her a sense of security and independence. Not only was her little garden a source of income, it fed life into her lonely days and troubled thoughts.

Unable to block Cameron from her thoughts any longer, she recalled their brief reunion a few months ago when her friend Sydney Hunt had called her to the Hunt Agency to treat a gunshot wound sustained by a member of her staff. The entire time she’d worked on the gentleman, Cameron had watched her carefully while helping to secure the patient’s flailing limbs.

Never had she been more shocked in her life, walking into the Hunt Agency and finding Cameron there, bloody and unkempt. Handsome as ever, but with a hard edge about his features and tension pulsing off his body in great typhoon waves.

Later, she’d learned Cameron had been with the gentleman when he’d been shot and, at the injured man’s request, he’d managed to haul him all the way to Sydney’s place. Her friend had referred to Cameron as ruthless, insensitive, and the absolute best at finding people who don’t wish to be found. So many contradictions. And Charlotte had no wish to unravel them.

As she had that horrible night at the Hunt Agency, Charlotte would walk away from Cameron without a backward glance once he left her shop in the morning. She would never allow herself to be hurt by him again. Her heart could not bear to break a second time.

Resting her forehead against the cold windowpane, she allowed a single tear to fall. A tear for what could have been and for what would never be. “Cam.”

Chapter Two

Thief-taker Cameron Adair woke with a start. He’d lain awake for hours after Charley had gone to bed, going over every detail of their conversation until he was certain he’d made a muck of every syllable. Only in the last hour had he been able to doze fitfully. It must have been close to four in the morning, which meant it was time for him to go. He’d already made one mistake by surrendering to his injuries and collapsing at Charley’s doorstep. No sense complicating matters further by being here when she awoke.

Slowly, he lifted himself into a seated position. Fire lanced down his left leg, and his shoulder pounded in time with his heartbeat. With as much finesse as he could manage, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. His head swam.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he cursed himself yet again for not going the extra distance to seek assistance with the surgeon he normally used. He’d nearly bled out waiting for her to return. Worst of all, he hadn’t missed the look of hatred in her beautiful sage-colored eyes. A look more painful than any gunshot or knife wound.

He glanced at the blanket pooled in his lap. She’d seemed almost reluctant to use it. Had the blanket been her mother’s? Had she been afraid he would soil her keepsake? He searched the blanket whose coloring matched Charley’s eyes for bloodstains and found none. Folding it as best as he could with one hand, he laid it next to him.

The gaping hole in his trousers caught his attention. Despite the bandage protecting a good portion of his leg, a large area of skin still shone through. Thankfully, his greatcoat would hide the damage from anyone who might be out at this hour. But it would still be a damned cold walk home. Bracing himself for the frigid temperatures outside wasn’t his immediate problem. Figuring out how to put on his shirt, coat, and overcoat was the next challenge.

In the end, he managed to wriggle himself into his shirt and greatcoat. The sleeves on the right dangled empty at his side, and he did not bother to try and fasten the thick woolen garment closed. Setting his right foot firmly on the floor, he pushed off the bed and, by slow degrees, put weight on his left leg. He was surprised to find the pain tolerable. He knew the next half hour of his life, until he got home, would be one of the most miserable.

He took a step, then another one. Keeping his momentum going, he didn’t stop until he made it to the counter in the storefront. The skin around his stitches strained, and a fine sheen of sweat dotted his body. Fiery pain radiated from both wounds.

God willing, he would find a hackney cab to carry him home. If he tried to walk the distance, he would probably keel over halfway there.

Now that his vision had adjusted to the gloom, he could better see Charley’s shop. Though much remained the same as before, she had added small touches to make the space her own. The sitting area for her customers, the framed herb collection on the wall, the green plants sitting atop wrought-iron stands, and the multicolored cabinets behind the counter. Every piece made the storefront feel alive, lived-in. Not sterile and lifeless as it had been in the past.

He limped around the counter to the front door. There, he paused to glance around one last time. A closed door stood in the shadows to the left of where he’d been standing moments ago. It didn’t take much imagination to assume Charley’s living quarters lay beyond the wooden barrier.

He envisioned a narrow staircase leading to the second, possibly third, floor, where she would be resting beneath a mound of warm blankets. Did she sleep on her side? Her back? Her stomach? Did she wear a nightrail? Or did she enjoy the feel of the cool sheets against her bare skin—as he did?

When his thoughts veered toward her loose, silken hair fanned over his chest and her long legs entwined with his, he squeezed his eyes shut to the point of pain. The desperate action did nothing to ease the ache deep in his throat.

After the bumpiest carriage ride of his life, Adair finally limped into the lobby of the Mirador Hotel. He made it as far as the first chair, then collapsed into its plush softness. His greatcoat splayed open, revealing his bandaged leg. Adair couldn’t bring himself to care. The last remnants of his strength ebbed away, leaving him with nothing but skin and bones and an odd sense of desolation.

“Do you need assistance, Adair?”

He rolled his head to the side until he spotted the owner of the refined voice. Average in height, looks, and build, Julius Gardner did what any good hotel manager would do—he blended into his surroundings. However, the cultured quality of his voice could command a room with little more than a few well-placed words.

One would never know by looking at the hotel manager that he’d grown up a few streets away from Adair. Through most of their youth, Jules, Nick, and Adair had been inseparable. If not for his two friends, Adair would have drunk or fought himself into an early grave after his and Charley’s falling out.

Thoughts of Nick inevitably brought on his last memory of his friend, one he wished he could cut from his mind. Bloated and floating facedown in the River Thames.

Forcing an even breath through his nose, he asked Jules, “Are you able to carry a grown man up several flights of stairs?”

“Have spirits or tomfoolery impaired your own ability to reach your suite of rooms?”

Adair leveled an I’m-not-in-the-mood-for-your-nonsense look on his friend. “Neither. Hazards of the job.”

“Sounds like tomfoolery to me, but I won’t be the one to quibble over words.”

“What the devil are you doing up at this hour?”

“Hazards of the job.” The manager’s dark eyes swept over Adair’s slumped form. “Do you require a doctor?”

The calm, unruffled demeanor Jules displayed to society was nothing more than a well-honed and polished façade. Something in his friend’s past, back before the two of them tore around the neighborhood together, plagued his dreams, causing him to roam the hotel’s corridors and London’s streets at all hours of the evening. No amount of prodding on Adair’s part could crack Jules’s well-constructed, protective barrier.

Adair rubbed a hand over his face. “No, just a bed.” His head rested against the back of the chair. “The appearance of which seems to be as likely as me becoming the bloody king of England.”

Jules lifted his arm and signaled to someone behind Adair. A tall, lanky young man outfitted in a maroon and gold-embellished uniform appeared.

“Yes, Mr. Gardner?”

“Our esteemed guest here has injured himself and cannot make it up the stairs. It is up to you and I, Henry, to see him safely to his rooms.”

“My pleasure, sir. How should we go about it?”

Adair eyed the porter’s rather slight frame with skepticism.

“I take it your right arm and left leg are injured?” Jules asked, nodding toward Adair’s empty sleeve and the bandage peering through the gaping hole in his trousers.

Adair bit back a sardonic remark. It wouldn’t do to comment on his friend’s powers of observation moments before the man towed his miserable hide upstairs. “Yes.”

“Then we shall take turns, Henry. We’ll switch off at the second-floor landing.”

“Very well, sir. Shall I take the first round?”

“By all means.”

“Does anyone want to know what I think about climbing up four flights of stairs?”

Jules raised a brow.

“I didn’t think so.” He pushed himself to the edge of the chair. “How about a hand up, Henry.”

The porter clasped his hand in a firm grip and exerted slow but steady pressure as Adair rose. Henry’s strength surprised him, making him reassess the young man.

Slinging an arm over the porter’s narrow shoulders, Adair battled a wave of dizziness that nearly took him to his knees.

“Everything all right, sir?” Henry asked, his voice strained.

Adair forced some of his weight off the porter. “Sorry, Henry. It took me a moment to get my land legs back.”

“This way,” Jules said. “Slow and steady.”

Even though he had sat only a short time, his leg had stiffened up, making the first ten paces awkward and more than a little painful. It wasn’t until Jules and Henry traded off at the second-floor landing that he realized the first ten paces was nothing more than a warm-up for the real agony.

“I can take it from here, Henry. You may return to your duties.” Jules waited until the porter was out of hearing range. “Care to tell me what happened?”

“Three weeks ago, Lord Freeman hired me to locate a rare sixteenth-century manuscript stolen from his personal collection.” Adair could feel himself relying more and more on his friend’s strength. “Earlier this evening, while following up on a lead, I was attacked.”

“Any idea by whom?”

“No. One moment I’m walking along a rather seedy area, looking for a particular address number, when I catch a glint of steel. Instinct kicked in, and I deflected my assailant’s lunge, though he still caught my thigh. By the time I twisted around to give chase, he was pulling the trigger. Sheer luck on my part and poor aim on his enabled me to make it out of the situation alive.”