I Kissed a Rogue (Covent Garden Cubs) (12 page)

“I know it.” Of course she did. She’d been standing across from it for the better part of the evening.

“Did you happen to see anyone go in or out?”

“I saw you and that tall one go and come back. I kept my eye on you.”

“Good. Was anyone else watching me?”

She bit her lip, and Brook jingled the coins again.

“Might be someone followed you.”

“Who?”

She shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“You’re a clever girl. You know. Crown to jog your memory.”

She glanced around. “If I was clever, I wouldn’t be ’ere talking to you.”

“Was it Beezle?”

She shook her head.

“Stub?”

Another shake.

“Racer?”

She hesitated.

“Damn it.” Even Brook knew how Racer had a reputation for running through the congested streets as fast as a town hack. “Did he come back while I was away?”

She glanced behind her again and then gave a quick jerk of her head.

“And then what?”

Another look over her shoulder. “Give me the blunt.”

“Tell me.”

“The blunt first.”

It went against every rule he had, but he gave her the crown plus a tanner. He’d have given it to her even if she hadn’t told him a thing.

“Racer came back and him and the other one you said—”

“Stub?”

Quick shake of her head.

“Beezle.”

“Them two set off. Next thing I know yer back.”

“What did—” But he was speaking to himself. She was gone, and she’d watch for him and keep out of his way. She wouldn’t want anyone to link her to him. Brook didn’t want that either.

He returned to the corner, where Hunt looked wet and miserable. “Sir.”

“Racer followed us then came back for Beezle. The two set out a little while ago,” Brook said without preamble.

“Do we wait for them to come back?”

Brook studied the flash ken. Like the rest of the buildings around, it looked dark and empty. No one in Seven Dials had tallow or lamp oil to waste. Brook wanted to settle back, watch the building until Beezle returned, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he should go.

It wasn’t the rain or the cold, although those two factors made the work difficult.

He felt as though he’d forgotten something.

“I have a bad feeling about this, Hunt.”

“We weren’t followed, sir.” Hunt had a way of cutting to the point.

“Not from here to the flat,” Brook said slowly, his thoughts locking into place as he spoke. “Even Racer isn’t that fast. How did you go from the flat to Derring House? Walked?”

“Of course.” Hunt didn’t need to point out he didn’t own a coach.

“Beezle knows Derring House.” Bloody hell.

“You think Racer went to Derring House, saw me, and followed me back to the flat.”

“I have a bad feeling, Hunt.”

“I know your bad feelings, sir. I trust them too.” He’d already started back the way they’d come.

Brook was right behind him. At the end of the street, Brook began to run.

* * *

Lila had left the bedroom when she heard Brook exit but only to retrieve the book on the Peloponnesian War. She assumed her husband would be gone for the rest of the night, possibly the rest of the week. That should have made her happy, and she told herself the reason she was unhappy was because she felt lonely.

She didn’t mind solitude, but she’d had little of it in her life. After three days alone, she had begun to miss the company of others. Reading of the battles between Sparta and Athens comforted her—or at least put her problems into perspective.

And her biggest problem, at the moment, was Brook Derring. Of all the men in London, why did he have to be the one to rescue her? Why did he have to be the one to marry her? Protect her? Kiss her?

No, she would not think about that kiss.

She turned another page in the book and stared at the words, which had begun to resemble ancient Greek.

How could she
not
think of the kiss? Who kissed like that? There was nothing proper or dignified about the way Brook had kissed her.

She should have been appalled at having been treated so cavalierly. He’d yanked her against him. Like some conquering general, he’d captured her mouth with his and made her bend to his will.

The worst part was that he was right when he said she’d liked it.

She
had
liked it. She’d liked being pressed against his hard, bare chest. She liked the feel of his mouth on hers. She liked that he didn’t kiss her like a gentleman.

She
wanted
to be taken.

Lila supposed that was what galled her the most. For years her father and mother had admonished her to
act like a lady
. Any small infraction, from slouching to stepping too loudly on the stairs, had been met with stern lectures and reprimands. Lila had strived to meet their high standards. She’d wanted to be just like her mother, who had behaved like a lady even as she took her dying breath.

Now she knew why her parents were so hard on her. They must have seen that she wasn’t really a lady at all. Inside, she was no better than a harlot who liked… What was it the prostitutes had said?
A good poke
.

Perhaps she’d never be anything more to Brook than
a good poke
. After all, he hadn’t treated her much better than a whore.

And that wasn’t a fair assessment either. He could have deflowered her right there in the common room. He hadn’t. He’d stopped, even when it was quite clear from one glance at him that he hadn’t wanted to.

But he hadn’t wanted her enough to make her his wife in truth.

And which was worse? That he did want her or that he didn’t want her enough?

Her head had begun to pound, and she remembered why she hadn’t wanted to think about that kiss. She lifted the book again, determined to focus on the page before her.

A moment later, she turned the page, hoping the tide turned and Sparta’s Lysander did not prevail over Athens’s navy, when she heard a quiet tap. She ignored it, going back to Lysander and his plan to lure Athens into battle by sailing for Hellespont and the source of Athens’s grain.

The tap sounded again, and she realized someone was knocking on the outer door. This time she set the book on the bed and went into the common room. Finnegan and the other guard usually called out when they were at the door. But perhaps this was Mrs. O’Dwyer, returning for her tray.

She stopped before the door and laid her hand on the lock. “Who is it?”

“Open the door, my lady.”

It wasn’t Mrs. O’Dwyer. It didn’t sound like Finnegan either, but neither was she familiar enough with him to recognize his voice upon hearing it.

“Who is it?”

“Landlord.”

“Mr. O’Dwyer?”

There was a pause. “Yes.”

She turned the first lock, then paused. “Have you come for the dinner tray?”

“That’s right.”

She turned the second lock. She should open the third, but her fingers hesitated. She’d never met Mr. O’Dwyer. She assumed there was a Mr. O’Dwyer. How could she be certain this was he?

Of course, Finnegan and the other wouldn’t have allowed him to come up if they didn’t know him.

She undid the last lock and opened the door slightly. A man stood without, his face in shadow. “You are Mr. O’Dwyer?”

“That’s right. Mrs. O’Dwyer sent me for the tray.”

He didn’t move forward, into the light spilling from the doorway so she could see him. That wasn’t all that bothered her. There was something…

“You don’t have an accent.”

“What’s that?”

Mrs. O’Dwyer still had the thick accent of her homeland. This man sounded like he’d been born in London. “You’re not Irish.”

Panic seizing her heart, she slammed the door and fought to secure the locks. She wasn’t fast enough. The latch lifted, and though she pushed against the door to keep it closed, the man on the other side was too strong.

He rammed against the door, and it flew open, causing her to stumble back. She managed to keep on her feet and fled for the bedroom. She slammed the door and secured the lock just as the intruder banged against it.

“Go away!” She peered around the room frantically. The lock was flimsy and wouldn’t hold against the man’s hammering.

“Open the door. No ’arm will come to ye.”

“Liar,” she muttered. Why had she sent that wardrobe to storage? She could have used it at that moment. Instead, she grabbed the edge of the dressing table and dragged it in front of the door. One of her fingernails broke at the quick, and she gasped with pain, but she yanked the furnishing until it rattled with every bang of the door.

Only then did she back up and suck the throbbing finger. The dressing table was too small and dainty. It wouldn’t hold. She needed a weapon. A brush? The bottle of cologne? Oh, but if that exploded all over the room, the scent would make it practically uninhabitable.

Where were Finnegan and the other—why couldn’t she ever remember his name?—when she needed them!

The door shook, and the wood around the lock splintered. Lila squeaked with fear. This was it. Now she would die. The door gave way, and the man pushed his face into the slivered opening. His cheeks were red from the effort, and he grunted to move the dressing table out of the way.

She recognized him. It was the same man who’d taken her that night. The same one who’d killed the gentleman, the MP.

She backed away and around the side of the bed, hoping to put some distance between herself, the door, and certain death. At that moment, she spotted the book, snatched it up, and threw it at the door.

She’d played catch with her brother a thousand times as a child, and all that practice finally paid off. The book cuffed the man on the chin, and he stumbled back and out of the door’s slim opening. Lila ran back and tried to shove the door closed again. If she could find a way to wedge the dressing table in front of it—

But the door wouldn’t close. The blasted book had landed in the opening. She bent to free it, and a hand caught hers.

Lila screamed. It was the sort of scream she knew would make her throat raw later, but she didn’t care. She didn’t think there would be a later.

The dressing table still blocked the door, and the man couldn’t pull her through the opening without first moving the dressing table. She was wedged between the table and the door. She fought to free her hand, but his punishing grip on her fingers didn’t slacken. They were deadlocked in a tug-of-war until the door shuddered from a punishing blow. Someone else—there were two of them!—had kicked the door. Lila screamed again and yanked her hand, only to have it pulled back.

The door crashed inward, and the dressing table toppled over, the contents shattering with an angry crash.

* * *

Brook heard the scream and began to run. He’d almost reached the building and was grateful for the rain because if the sky had been clear, St. James would have been crowded, and his progress would have been slowed. Now, with Hunt keeping stride, they burst into the building. The scene that greeted them was chaos.

The landlady was yelling. Her husband knelt beside one of the dead guards. And Lila—it had to be Lila—screamed just as what sounded like an entire china cabinet crashed to the ground.

Brook took the steps two at a time, ignoring the burning in his legs. He burst into his flat to find Racer pushing his way into the bedroom, and Beezle crouched on the floor, his hand locked around Lila’s wrist. A large piece of furniture had overturned, blocking the doorway and preventing Lila from backing away from Beezle.

Racer turned and saw Brook, but Brook couldn’t tear his gaze from Beezle’s hand on Lila’s wrist.

He would have seen Beezle locked away for a thousand crimes, but the crime of touching Lila—his wife—meant death. Racer charged him, and Brook knocked him aside like one might an annoying insect. Beezle saw him coming, hesitated a moment too long in releasing Lila, and Brook had his hands on Beezle’s shoulders.

He yanked the arch rogue to his feet, slammed his fist into him, and followed him as he careened across the room. Blood from Beezle’s broken nose splashed the walls and Lila’s new rug. There would be more blood yet. He reached for Beezle again when Lila shouted.

The warning was enough for him to duck, and, with a sharp sting, Racer’s blow grazed his side. Beezle was on his feet now, and Brook had no more ducked to avoid his fist than Racer caught him.

With a bloody sneer, Beezle slammed his fist into Brook’s breadbasket, making him double over, gasping. Hunt thundered into the room, met Brook’s gaze, and Brook looked to Lila, who had managed to rise from the floor. She stood with her hands pressed against her pale cheeks, her face caught in an expression of horror.

Hunt had made a career of obeying orders, and he went for Lila, ushering her back into the bedroom, where she might be safe.

With a curse, Beezle lifted a knee, connected with Brook’s chin, then ordered Racer to release him.

“We’re not through yet, Derring!” he yelled as he ran for the door.

Not even close to through
, Brook thought. Still unable to speak, he jabbed at the door when Hunt raced from the bedroom. “After him,” he wheezed. The room spun, and he pressed a hand to his burning flank.

But he knew it was too late.

Beezle was free, and he’d be back.

Eight

Lila hated the silence even more than she hated the sounds of the fight. What did the silence mean? Had Brook lost? Had he won? Her back pressed against the bedroom wall, she squeezed her eyes shut. The door was broken, but Hunt had shoved it against the jambs to give her a measure of protection. It also prevented her from seeing out.

Finally, she heard footsteps and the low sound of a man’s voice. Brook or Hunt? Or the other? No, he wouldn’t have spoken quietly.

Unless he didn’t want her to know he was coming for her.

The stench of the spilled perfume made her head spin, and a piece of broken mirror jabbed at her foot through her delicate slipper. Still, she didn’t move.

“My lady?”

She thought it was Hunt. She knew Brook’s voice by now, and this one was too refined to be one of the thugs.