Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage 05] (15 page)

“Of course they’d like you. You’re eminently good-natured.”

“Ahhh.” He made a face. “You have not heard of my stellar reputation?”

She looked away.

“So you have.” He scratched his chin. “Which of the fine descriptions have you heard about me? Was it the ‘Filled with more ambition than the House of Commons when a vote is tight?’ Or, my personal favorite, ‘As sharp as a scythe and leaves you just as bloody.’”

“Ouch!” She made a face. “You don’t seem bothered by these statements. Instead…you seem proud.”

“I’m not ashamed of my ambition; it’s gotten me where I am today. I made a goal for myself, and then did everything in my power to attain it. Some may call it ruthless, striving, grasping.” He shrugged. “I needed to become the man my wife deserved.” He looked away, as if shocked that he’d shared that information.

Shifting on the seat, he added quickly, “The other sentiment, about being like a scythe…well, I suppose I am proud of that since it’s been said as it applies to me in court.” He nodded. “And I do take it as a compliment. When I can cross-examine a hostile witness and distill the facts from the rubbish he tries to pawn off as truth.”

Abigail couldn’t quite forget his comment about being the man his wife had deserved, but clearly he did not wish to discuss it. “It must be gratifying to do a job so well.”

“It is. And to feel like I am serving my country.”

She shook her head. “I can’t help but venture that your friends would be glad to hear from you. And
not just because of your position. There’s great integrity to all you do.”

His brow furrowed as if this were a new concept to him.

Abigail continued, “I know it would be gratifying to me if one of my charges grew up to be a man like you.”

He crossed his legs, seemingly uncomfortable.

“Did I embarrass you?” she asked.

“No…well…I’m sincerely flattered that you think so well of me. But you haven’t known me for long—”

“If you have any doubts about your character, children are the best judges, and both Seth and Felix adore you.”

“Well, I don’t feel as if I’ve done a very good job getting to know them,” he confessed.

“Felix has been crowing about the stories you read together. He’s quite taken with you, and I have to tell you that boys don’t lie about such things. They either like you or they don’t. Very simple. Write to your friends. They’d be delighted to hear from you.”

Scratching his chin, he realized that he was tempted by the notion of writing to the Cutler brothers. The oldest, Johnny, must be forty by now. Gabriel, thirty-five. The twins, Kincaid and Peter, would be about his age. “It’s been so long since I left them. I wonder if they’re angry.”

“When was the last time you met a man angry that another man didn’t keep in touch?”

The way she presented it, it did sound silly. “Never.”

“I think men don’t care or fuss about such things as much as women do.”

He nodded, a feeling of lightness in his chest. “I’ll do it.”

“Good. Please let me know how they respond.”

Seth snorted, stirred, and sat up. Blinking, he rubbed his eyes. “Lord Steele?”

“How are you, Seth?” Steele asked, leaning forward and catching a whiff of Miss West’s heather scent.

“Better. Hungry. When’s breakfast?”

Steele smiled, exchanging a glance with Miss West. She was beaming. “I think buttered biscuits are in order.”

Seth’s eyes brightened. “With raspberry jam?”

Lord Steele stood. “With whatever you want!”

“Yippee!” Seth jumped up and raced out the door.

“Not so fast!” Miss West chided, but the boy was gone.

“I think he’s feeling better,” Steele commented.

“Most definitely.” Slowly Miss West rose from the seat.

Steele grasped her arm. “Here, let me help you.”

“Ah, thank you. I got a bit stiff sitting for so long.”

Awkward silence encased them as he released her arm.

Miss West looked up. “I’d better be off to the kitchen, before Seth turns everyone on his head.”

“Yes.”

She smiled shyly. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

He looked away, chagrined. “Ah, you’re welcome.”

Her skirts swooshed as she walked out the door.

The parlor felt empty, and quiet, and Steele suddenly did not mind. He felt better, as if a burden that had been weighing on his heart had lightened. The internal acrimony that had plagued him for so many years had been replaced with a feeling of…acceptance. It wasn’t quite forgiveness, but more akin to understanding.

Exhaling, Steele tried to recall what he’d intended to do with the rest of his day.

Work.

He checked his watch. Where had the day gone?

He had papers that needed reviewing and a letter to draft.

But he couldn’t seem to garner the desire to go to his study. Instead, he found his footsteps leading him down toward the kitchens.

T
hree nights later, Abigail slowly crept along in the dark alleyway, her senses honed to pick up any hint of her masked savior. But there was nothing. No well-balanced footfalls, no deliciously masculine scent, no tingling awareness racing across her skin. Nothing.

She swallowed her disappointment, telling herself that he’d probably forgotten her. It had been a week since they’d met. A week since he’d woken her slumbering desires.

She pushed aside the disenchantment; she needed to focus her energies on finding Reggie. Guilt pricked at her gut for allowing herself to be diverted from her task, but it was a tiny pinch overshadowed by desperate longing. She yearned for that fantastic heat, the intoxicating pleasure, the astonishing sensations in her most private places. Just remembering the passion she’d experienced made her skin warm all over.

“Stop it!” she whispered to herself, clenching her hands so that her nails bit her palms. She welcomed the pain, needing to regain control over herself and not get distracted from the important mission of find
ing her brother. He was in deep trouble and in need of her help. And if she didn’t start paying attention to her surroundings, she might find herself in deep trouble, too.

A rat scurried along the nearby wall. A cry rang out in the distance. The odor of refuse and the Thames hung over the streets, pungent and cloying, like a whore’s perfume. She’d certainly been exposed to enough of such scents, having interviewed more streetwalkers than she could count in hopes that someone had seen her brother.

Images of some of the women seemed to stay with her long after the interviews were over and they’d parted ways. There was Betty, with the haunted, hollow eyes. Jane, with consumption, who had clothing that hung on her willowy frame in rags. Mallory, who had a cough that rattled and a baby just eleven months old that her sister kept while she worked to pay for food.

Swallowing, Abigail squeezed her eyes closed and pushed away the images from her mind. She knew that when she encountered these women she was a bit too free with her money, even when the information was negligible. But she had to do something…Clenching the small pouch in her pocket, she weighed the little coin she had left. Still, she was so much better off than these women, so much better off…

She tried not to dwell on the fact that if not for Andersen Hall Orphanage, she might have been just a few steps behind these women. She thanked her good fortune for landing at the orphanage. She thanked God for introducing her to Headmaster Dunn. She was grateful for the chance she’d had to succeed.

But what of Reggie? He hadn’t really used that opportunity to best advantage. He’d dashed all her hopes for him, and she hated to admit it, but she was disappointed. He was smart, literate, and had the kindest heart a man could have. But that kind heart accompanied a temper that lit in a flash. When he was angry, rational thought flew out the window, and Reggie usually wound up in boiling water.

A harsh cough echoed in the alleyway, and Abigail’s footsteps froze. About ten paces away on the ground, a man rolled over, his open mouth emitting a small snore. Examining the sky, Abigail was glad to see that few clouds blocked the moon, so rain shouldn’t be imminent. She knew what it was like to sleep in the open, and rain was no one’s favored bedfellow.

Abigail recalled the nights she and Reggie had slept in haylofts and leaf piles until they’d found their way to London and only by happenstance to Andersen Hall Orphanage. Shivering, she rubbed her hand up her arm, wondering where Reggie slept now.

Reggie was a nomad, making do with one odd job and another, and avoiding the law at every turn. Now he was in trouble again, and was scared enough to contact his sister. It was a frightening thought, and a responsibility that Abigail didn’t take lightly.

Abigail quickened her pace, ready to finally meet the infamous Jumper and find out what he knew.

She turned the corner and spied a slim figure leaning on a doorframe. A lantern rested on a hook to his right, spilling a hazy greenish-golden glow around the man’s legs.

He was a lanky fellow with matted blond hair, a
hooked nose, and an Adam’s apple that was as big as a child’s fist. He had gangly arms that hung loosely at his sides and stuck out of the sleeves of his worn brown coat. His legs seemed a mile long, an effect enhanced by the fact that his black breeches were a hand’s-width shorter than his brown, calf-length scuffed boots.

He matched the cutpurse’s description to a T.

Thank you, Slippery Milo
, Abigail mouthed the words to herself and proceeded into the square.

Ignoring the familiar knot in her middle, she forced her tone to be forceful yet friendly. “Are you Jumper?”

The man grimaced at her, his face a mask of insolent disregard that would do an earl proud. “Who a’ you?”

“You’re Jumper?”

“Who’s askin’?”

Abigail moved into the pool of lantern light. “Slippery Milo sent me.”

“Who?”

“The cutpurse.”

Jumper sniffed, rubbing his lanky hand across his hooked nose. “I don’t associate with such folk.”

“Then why did he know that you’d be here?”

Jumper shrugged a bony shoulder. “So I’m a popular fella, well known in these parts.”

“Look, Mr. Jumper, I’m looking for a man named Reg or Reggie. With light blue eyes and blond hair.”

“Don’t know ’im.”

“I will pay you for information…”

“I’m ’appy to take your money.”

“…if the information is accurate, of course.”

Wincing, Jumper stuck a finger in his ear and dug as if intent on a find. “What’s ’is name again?”

“Reggie. He may have a scar on his cheek.” Abigail didn’t know if the barmaid had been lying or not, but figured it was worth mentioning.

Looking away, Jumper pulled out a flask and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbling. The odor of gin wafted around him like a halo. “I may ’ave seen ’im…”

“May have or have actually seen him?”

“Actually.”

Abigail released the breath she’d been holding. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out three coins, praying that the man was telling the truth. She held them in her extended hand.

He eyed the coins. “Check by Juniper Street. There’s a flower stall near the market.”

“He’s running a flower stall?”

“’E’s soft on the chit that’s running it.”

Could it be? Could she truly be on the brink of finding Reggie? “What does she look like?”

Jumper frowned.

“Please…”

His gaze traveled toward her slowly, almost as if against his will. “Red-’aired. With bosom enough to nurse three ’ealthy babes.”

Abigail’s heart leaped. Reggie always preferred crimson-haired women! “Thank you! Thank you, Mr. Jumper!” She handed him the coins, which he accepted, quickly slipping them into a hidden pocket in his coat.

She moved to go, but suddenly turned. “When I
was young, we lived in the country, and there was a harvest fair every autumn.”

Silently he listened, studying her as if she’d gone mad.

“There were always great contests. Games of sport. Archery, horsemanship, carving…” She felt her lips lift as she remembered the welcome heat of the autumn sun, the tantalizing smells of cooked meats and pastries, the colorful banners flying about and the sounds of the vendors crying out, advertising their wares. “And the leaping contest was my favorite. I’ll never forget the man who jumped over a horse.”

Jumper straightened, going to his full height, his head a full foot above the lantern hanging on the wall.

Nodding, Abigail bit her lower lip. “I’d venture you would have done well at that.” She turned to go. “Thank you, again.”

“Wait!”

Surprised, Abigail stopped.

Peering to the left and to the right, Jumper stepped closer. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand, whispering, “Ya didna ’ear it from me, but Lucifer Laverty’s lookin’ for ’im, too.”

“Lucifer Laverty?” What was it with these odd names?

“Shh!”

“Who’s Lucifer Laverty?”

“’E’s one a’ the meanest sons a’ bitches you’ll ever want ta meet. I ’eard there was a row, about a job.

But ya didna ’ear it from me.”

“A job?”

“Ya know, a job. Laverty runs the circuit.”

“The circuit?”

He looked at her as if she was daft.

She shook her head, flummoxed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jumper, but I don’t understand.”

“The circuit from Medford Place to Gillingham Square is Laverty’s. ’E runs all the trade.”

She nodded, an uneasy feeling twisting in her gut. “Trade” was often used on the street to mean the business of thievery. In some quarters stealing was as well organized as some of the tradesmen’s leagues. “Thank you for telling me, Jumper.”

“I warn ya, Lucifer Laverty’s bad news, and anyone who crosses ’im might as well be signing ’is own death warrant!”

H
earing distant voices, Steele stepped back into the shadows, careful not to make a sound. A woman’s well-cultured inflection! His heart skipped a beat. The wicked widow! He forced his excitement to calm; he wasn’t a pimple-cheeked youngling seeking his blushing bride. He was a mature adult seeking companionship—that was all. It was a matter of sating passion, mutually, of course, and he didn’t want to appear the overeager stallion. Still, his feet inched forward of their own accord.

A man’s voice drifted toward him. Steele froze mid-inch.

The male voice, then the woman’s—too indistinct to hear the words, but Steele was certain that it was the widow.

So she wasn’t alone! Did she have another lover? Was she so quick to drop him for someone new? It had been only a week since their tryst!

Anger flashed in his gut, but he suppressed it, quietly stepping forward so that he could hear better.

Steele melted against the wall behind him, years of practice making his movements instinctive. He dared
not approach closer, but now at least he could catch some of the exchange.

“A job?” she asked, her words barely discernible. Blast that stupid veil!

“Ya know, a job. Laverty runs the circuit.” The man’s voice was louder than hers, even though he clearly was trying to whisper.

Her response was muffled, lost to him.

The man spoke, “The circuit from Medford Place to Gillingham Square is Laverty’s. ’E runs all the trade.”

“Thank you…” Her words were indecipherable. “…Jumper.”

Jumper was a message runner in this area, Steele knew. Why was the widow speaking to him?

Jumper spoke, “I warn ya, Lucifer Laverty’s bad news, and anyone who crosses ’im might as well be signing ’is own death warrant!”

What was the lady up to? Messing with the circuit? Involved with Lucifer Laverty?

Steele had to learn more. Carefully he moved around the bend. The faint golden-green glow of a lantern could be seen in the distance.

Jumper and the widow stood in a courtyard at the junction of six interconnecting alleyways. One of those alleyways was where he and the widow had been the other night.

So she’d been on her way here. Possibly to meet Jumper.

Steele had never met the man, but he’d heard a snippet or two. Jumper was too far away and it was too dark to discern his features. But Steele could tell that he was tall, a full head-span above Steele, and
lanky, with long arms and legs. By his stance and his demeanor, the fellow seemed fit enough. Still, Steele knew he could take him, if it came to that.

The dark-garbed widow stood near Jumper, her head well below his shoulders. There was no sense of intimacy between the two. No heads leaning forward, no hand on an arm, no touching at all.

So they weren’t lovers. Steele exhaled. Once he’d realized it was Jumper, he should have known. He didn’t know why he expected the widow to be discerning, his vanity perhaps, but he did.

Still, what was she doing in one of London’s worst neighborhoods conversing with riffraff about Lucifer Laverty and the circuit?

Steele felt his usual caution cool his ardor. He was Solicitor-General of England, and his reputation, his position, and his hard-won status in society would ill afford him to mix with anyone involved with Lucifer Laverty.

The two people parted, neither making a move to embrace. Jumper quickly turned the corner and was gone.

The widow took the alleyway to the left.

Steele had little doubt whom he wanted to follow. It was probably because he knew that if he retraced his steps and crossed Piper Lane, he’d intersect with the lady behind the market square. That row was filled with vendors’ stalls and cubbies, vacant at this time of night.

His heart began to race at the thought of encountering her alone on such a deserted avenue.

But the widow could be very bad news for him, and he knew he should stay away. Lucifer Laverty,
the circuit…Clearly she was playing with fire, and he had no intention of getting burned.

But what if she was in over her head? What if she didn’t appreciate the danger? What if she was an innocent embroiled in something far more complex than she understood?

As these thoughts raced through his mind, Steele’s legs began to move, retracing his steps and heading toward that intersection. It was as if his body had a will of its own, heedless of any concerns.

He would ask her, that’s what he’d do. He’d learn more about her activities before moving forward with anything physical.

At least that’s what he told himself. His body, on the other hand, seemed without precondition.

His legs ate up the distance, hurrying toward the market square and the widow he intended to confront.

The row behind the market square was just as empty as he’d known it would be. The stalls were boarded and shuttered for the night, the vendors long gone. The air carried the faint scent of mildew and wood and anise, of all things. The shadows hung long, and the silence was hushed expectantly.

He heard her long before he could discern her dark-cloaked figure moving through the darkness. Her shoes had wooden heels padded with a thin layer of leather. If she wanted to be perfectly silent, she’d have to wear purely leather-soled shoes just like his.

Steele moved into the center of the lane, blocking her exit. Silently he waited for her to see him.

Her skirts whispered slightly in the night, reminding him of what lay underneath them. His heartbeat quickened.

Her steps slowed; she seemed to tense, reaching into the folds of her cloak.

“It’s me,” he called out. “From the other night.”

She cautiously continued her steps forward as if unafraid, yet wary, her hand remaining out of sight in the folds of her cloak.

Well, what did he expect—her to jump into his arms? They were perfect strangers. Just so long as she hadn’t hoped never to see him again…

The thought made him frown beneath his mask.

She stopped well outside arm’s reach, as if hesitant of the next move. “Hello.”

“Hello.”

A heavy silence descended as each assessed the other.

“I didn’t know”—her voice was less sure than the other night—“if I’d ever see you again…”

Did that mean that she’d hoped to avoid him?

“Nor I, you.” He tilted his head. “Yet here we are.”

“Yet here we are,” she echoed quietly. Looking around, she seemed to evaluate her surroundings. The moonlight bathed the rows of stalls with a whitish glow couched in shadows. “This is the market row.”

“Yes. Have you been here before?” he couldn’t help but ask, trying to imagine who she was in her daily life.

“It’s so quiet.”

“It won’t be in a few hours.”

“No, I suppose not. What time do you think it is?”

“Close to three.”

“Three!” Her arms tensed and she seemed alarmed.

“Why are you so concerned? Do you have an appointment?”

“It’s just…later than I thought. Well, I must be going.” She stepped sideways, as if to go around him.

It took every ounce of willpower not to cry out,
No!
Quickly he realized that maybe she was simply waiting for him to make the first move. If he wanted anything to do with her, he’d better stop acting so disinterested and make an overture.

“So soon?” he asked, stepping in front of her. “I confess, I’m glad to see you again.”

Her steps faltered. “You are?”

“Yes. Of all people I might come across…well, I’m glad to run into you most.”

“Really.” After a moment she nodded. “Me, too.”

Anticipation bubbled inside him, along with a rush of confidence. “In fact, I’d hoped to meet you again. Tonight.”

“Why?” Her voice had taken on a firmer quality, reminding him of the bold woman he’d encountered the other night.

“Well, I wanted to see you again…and…to…touch you.”

Her hand lifted to her bosom as she inhaled a deep, shuddering breath that made her breasts swell. Desire flashed deep in his belly, hungry and insistent.

He licked his lips. “Would that…suit you?”

“Perhaps.” Her voice was throaty with need.

He took a step forward.

She stepped closer, less than a foot away.

His senses tingled with awareness at every rise and fall of that lush chest, every sway of those rounded hips. He longed to lay his hands on her, but recognized the slight hesitation in her manner. For all her worldliness, she seemed cautious. Smart woman.

He smiled, teasing, “Perhaps? Did I not please you the other night?”

His strategy worked, for she seemed to relax slightly. Playfully she set her hand on hip, replying, “Are you trolling for a compliment, sir? For I assure you, it takes a lot to please me.”

“A lot? How much is that?” He held out his hands, palms facing each other about eight inches apart. “This much?” He widened the space between his hands. “Or this much?”

She moved her gloved hands to mimic his, palms parallel to each other—but hers were about two feet apart. “Don’t be stingy. I want at least this much.” Her voice was tantalizing with mischievous expectation.

“I’m not a horse,” he grumbled teasingly.

Moving closer, she reached up and laid each hand on the round of his shoulders. “You see? Perfect match.”

He grabbed her waist, pulling her against him. She gasped, then melted into him like butter on a hot bun.

His arms wrapped around her, his hands roamed, exploring the breadth of her back, the curving arch and the delicious mounds of flesh of her derrière that fit so perfectly in his hands. He squeezed and
kneaded, eliciting a heady groan from deep inside her that was music to his ears.

She thrust her hands deep beneath his coat, teasing his chest, his waist, his back. Then, reaching around him, her hands drifted downward to his buttocks, pulling him even closer against her.

He swallowed as desire flashed through him like lightning. He was harder than granite and desperate to have her.

His hard member pressed into her belly. Her legs were parted, his thigh deep in that amazing juncture that he longed to claim.

She was panting, her body quaking. Her desire seemed to match his.

Swallowing, he looked around for where he could take her.

He grabbed her hand. “Come!”

She followed along willingly, her presence beside him like a hot wind from the south, insistently warming him, reminding him of the heat possible with her.

He kicked open a wooden door to one of the vendors’ stalls, and a loud
thwack
resounded through the night.

He froze a moment, yet the only sounds in the darkness were their panting breaths and the beat of his racing heart.

He peered inside the stall, at the same time continuing to listen to see if he’d drawn any attention. It was small, a rectangular closet, really, that smelled of wool and dust. It was filled with stacks of bowls and cups, and in the corner—a pile of rugs!

Steele pulled her inside, stepping through the vari
ous stacks of crockery and closing the door. A plate toppled over, cracking loudly.

With his heart racing, he paused, listening for any activity, but by this point he was pretty certain that such sounds didn’t seem to cry alarm to anyone in particular.

“Shh!” he whispered, leaning down to the plate. “Be quiet!”

She giggled.

Drawing her along, he tried to be more careful as he danced through the various piles in exaggerated motions, mimicking a dancer at a ball. “After you, my lady,” he spoke to a pile of bowls. “Good to see you, sir,” he offered to some cups as he twisted out of the way.

Giggling, she playfully parodied him through the crockery maze. “I must agree that it is a fine evening for a reel, m’lady.”

Finally arriving at the corner, he drew the widow past him, spun her around, and pushed her down onto the mound of rugs. Reaching up, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down on top of her.

Her legs parted; her body was soft and welcoming. Pressing his face into her neck, he inhaled deeply, smelling that woody scent once more. He was so glad that she wore no perfume and had such a unique scent, realizing that he didn’t want to meet anyone socially who might remind him of her.

The sudden thought flashed in his mind,
I may know her! I may have even danced with her at a ball or shared dinner with her at someone’s home!

The thought shook him to the core.

Curiosity overwhelmed him, and instinctively he reached for the hem of her veil.

She grabbed that hand and placed it full on her lush, soft breast, then slipped her hands beneath his coat, and her hands roamed, eliciting a shudder from him.

Diverted, for the moment, he kneaded her, enjoying the way her breath quickened and her nipple pebbled beneath his fingers. She let out a little moan, and for his life, he couldn’t help but think that he might recognize that voice.

His natural inquisitiveness reared.

Raising his other hand, he reached for the veil.

She caught his wrist, holding it tight. “There’s only one way this is going to happen tonight.” Her tone brooked no argument, and he had no doubt that she would make good on her threat to walk away.

What kind of an idiot am I to press my luck when I’m being handed this most glorious gift on a silver platter?

It was foolish to think that I’d recognized her voice when I’ve spoken to virtually thousands of women in London through my job and my social connections.

And what if she’d asked me to reveal myself in return?

You’re the Viscount Steele
,
Solicitor-General of England, for bloody sakes! This is the only way for you
,
too!

Don’t be a blasted fool!

He moved to lower his hand, but she held it fast. “I want your word!”

It seemed as important to her as to him to remain
anonymous, he realized. He wondered what she feared. But given that he had much to fear himself, he could understand.

“I want your word that you will not try to learn my identity. And I will grant you the same promise.”

“I give you my word. I will not try to discover who you are.” Not tonight anyway.