My Favorite Thief (21 page)

Harrison hesitated. He did not want her to go. Did not want her to move from underneath him and adjust her clothes and hurry out the door into the cruel world beyond. He wanted her to stay with him. Wanted her to go with him upstairs and climb into his bed and let him hold her in his arms while he watched her fall into a deep and restful sleep. He wanted to see the soft play of sunlight spilling across her face as morning broke, wanted to see her gradually waken, all sleepy and disheveled and warm. He wanted to keep her with him, not just for that day, but always, to know that whatever fate awaited him, she would be there, ready and willing to share it. All this he wanted, and so much more. But it was impossible. He understood that. And so he cradled her face between his hands, forcing her to look at him, agonized by the sparkle of tears upon her lashes.

“I'm sorry,” he said, despising himself for the distress he had obviously caused her, and the fact that he could never make it right.

Charlotte regarded him in surprise. How could he be sorry about something that had been so exquisite? She could hardly consider herself ruined for any other man.

There never had been any other man, and she was utterly certain there never would be.

“I'm not,” she whispered solemnly.

He arched a brow in surprise, once again confounded by her. He found her assertion comforting. Even so, he knew he owed her more.

“I will do everything within my power to help you, Charlotte,” he vowed. “I will find you the money you need to give to your father for Flynn. But I want to be there with you when you make the exchange, to make sure that both you and Flynn are safe. I also want to explain to your father that there will be no more blackmailing.” He traced his finger gently around the stained contours of her bruised cheek, struggling to control the anger burning within him as he finished quietly, “And tell him that if he ever so much as lays a finger upon you again, I will tear him apart.”

She stared at him, mesmerized by the low cadence of his voice, the protective fury in his gaze, the unberable gentleness of his touch. She could never allow him and Archie to meet. It would have been wrong to expose something as strong and beautiful and giving as Harrison to the foul brutality of a man like Boney Buchan. But she did not tell him that. Instead she laid her hand against his cheek, memorizing the heat of his skin against her palm, the chiseled contour of his jaw, the dark sureness of his gaze.

“Thank you.”

He nodded. And then, realizing he had no choice but to release her, he rolled off her and turned away, giving her a modicum of privacy as he donned his dressing gown.

Charlotte rearranged herself as best she could, hoping that Oliver wouldn't notice anything amiss as she clumsily buttoned her gown and tidied her hair.

“You may turn around now,” she said at last.

Harrison turned to look at her and felt his heart wrench. “I will have the money for you in a few days. I will send word to you when it is ready. Then we can arrange to meet your father. Do not worry about Flynn,” he added, fighting the desire to pull her back into his arms. “He's a strong, clever boy who knows how to handle himself. He'll be fine.”

Charlotte wasn't so sure about that, but she didn't argue. There was no point in imagining the worst. Permitting herself to break down in hysteria was a luxury she didn't have. She had to stay strong, for the sake of Flynn, and Annie, Ruby, and Violet, and all those she loved. On some level she didn't completely understand, she even had to stay strong for Harrison.

“Telford will show you out,” Harrison continued, pulling upon a velvet rope to summon his butler. “Somehow I don't think Oliver would appreciate seeing me escort you to the door in my current state of undress.” He opened the door to the corridor, afraid that if they shared even one more moment alone, he would lose his resolve and drag her back against him.

Charlotte stood before him, staring at the deep lines etched into his face, and the haunted depths of his eyes, which were torn between the most powerful longing and the most excruciating regret.

“Harrison,” she began softly.

“You rang, my lord?” asked Telford, fumbling sleepily with the tie of his flapping dressing gown as he rushed down the hallway.

“Miss Kent is leaving now,” Harrison informed him. “Kindly escort her out to her carriage.”

“Certainly, my lord.” Summoning an extraordinary dignity despite his rumpled state, Telford turned and gave Charlotte a courtly bow. “After you, Miss Kent.”

Charlotte turned and limped silently down the hall, her gaze down so that neither Harrison nor Telford could see the tear that had somehow managed to defy her fierce determination not to cry.

 

L
EWIS SANK BACK INTO THE SHADOWS, WATCHING IN
silence as Charlotte's carriage clattered into the fog-laden gray of London's early morning light.

He had been keeping an eye on Lord Bryden's home all night. It had been a relentlessly dull assignment, but it was one he had given to himself, so he could hardly complain. If Chief Inspector Holloway knew that one of his senior detectives was spending his nights watching the home of one of London's most respected citizens, an earl who was renowned as a successful investor, a dutiful son, and by all accounts a law-abiding member of society, he would have hauled Lewis in for a lecture on not wasting his goddamn time when there were bloody murderers running about. Chief Inspector Holloway disliked Lewis immensely, and never failed to make his antipathy known. He suspected Lewis thought himself smarter than he.

On that point, the chief was uncharacteristically astute.

When he was first transferred to the Detective Branch, Lewis had made the grave error of admitting to Chief Inspector Holloway that he had a university education. He was swiftly informed that only fribbles and fools wasted their time at university. Everything Chief Inspector Holloway knew had been learned through what he termed the “school of life,” as if the boundaries of his own narrow little existence set the limits to which all men should aspire. He told Lewis that was where all his police officers and detectives should be schooled, not prancing about some bloody university memorizing useless scribblings from ancient Greece. Lewis had pointed out that there was actually a great deal to be learned from books, and that modern law enforcement was inextricably tied to the fields of science, forensic medicine, psychology, and the law, all of which needed to be studied in far greater depth than what might be gleaned from merely walking the streets of London.

That comment had earned him a six-month assignment investigating a series of larcenies of wet linen stolen from their drying lines in north London.

His rise through the ranks had been frustratingly slow. But his intelligence and determination had proven irrefutable, and ultimately, the chief had little choice but to promote him. At his current level of First Class Inspector, however, he had hit the ceiling, unless there was an opening for a Chief Inspector somewhere. Old Holloway wasn't going anywhere, unless the arrogant fool suddenly dropped dead.

One could always hope.

Lewis withdrew his pocket watch and studied the time. Twenty-two minutes past four o'clock in the morning. He took out his notebook and recorded it, then calculated the length of time of Miss Kent's visit. One hour and twelve minutes. He had not been close enough to make any reliable observations about her apparent frame of mind at the time of her departure, but he had noted earlier that she had seemed rather agitated when she arrived at exactly ten minutes past three o'-clock. Lord Bryden's butler, who was dressed in his nightclothes, had answered the door, and he had also escorted her back to her carriage as she left. Her elderly driver, Oliver, had waited for her, stepping down from his seat only to help her in and out of the carriage. Lewis thought for a moment, trying to decide if there was anything else that needed immediate notation. He would compose a more detailed report later, when he was seated at his desk with a pen and good lighting, as was his habit. Lewis was a great believer in notes. He prided himself on having an excellent memory, but that didn't mean he didn't realize that even the most important details could be subject to the shifting variations of time and imagination. If it was recorded in the notes, then it was fact.

Everything else was merely speculation.

He placed his notebook back in his pocket, then withdrew the pristine linen handkerchief that Constable Wilkins had found on the ground the night that Lord Pembroke's home was broken into and his butler murdered. It was this monogram that had led him to Lord Bryden, as well as a half dozen other men who had attended several balls at which Lady Pembroke had recently worn her esteemed ruby necklace. Four of the men had proven far too ancient to be able to perform the kind of physical feats for which the Dark Shadow was renowned. The fifth, Lord Berry, had turned out to be as short and round as a turnip, causing Lewis to dismiss him as well.

Only Lord Bryden was even remotely of an age and physique that might have made him capable of such feats, although at forty years, Lewis was skeptical that he could scale walls and trees. However, since he was the only remaining possibility, Lewis had decided to do a little investigating into Lord Bryden's circumstances, to see if there was anything that might suggest even a tenuous link between his lordship and the elusive thief known as the Dark Shadow.

Upon initial examination, there was nothing. Lord Bryden apparently enjoyed a solid financial situation, based upon a number of excellent investments that had proven extremely profitable over the years. He didn't drink to excess. He gambled, but only for entertainment, and with a reasonable amount of success. He had once been considered something of a rake, but again, no more so than most eligible lords who had been blessed with a relatively pleasing appearance and the allure of their title and their money. But Bryden's romantic dalliances had dwindled in the past year or two, perhaps in part because of the declining health of his mother. Lady Bryden was reputed to be completely mad, although Lewis could not ascertain whether or not this was true, since she had not been seen in public for several years. It was entirely possible that she was merely suffering from the unkind ravages of age, and preferred not to venture from her home anymore. Lord Bryden himself seemed to enjoy attending social functions with relative regularity, and was considered something of a coup when he attended a dinner party, as the hostess could then try to match him up with one of her vapid unmarried lady guests.

Lewis suddenly found himself thinking of Annie, the beautiful young girl who had stood before him in the rain the night he had gone to question Miss Kent. He had thought of Annie often since that night, at odd moments, when his mind should have been firmly focused on his case, or on the mundane preparation of his dinner, or when he was tossing restlessly upon his bed, fighting to fall asleep. She was a far cry from the milky-skinned, sharp-featured, tightly laced young women of polite society, who Lewis suspected regarded him with either pity or contempt. Not that he inspired much idolization. With his rumpled clothes and his worn shoes and his cramped, gray little flat, which he hardly ever saw because he was always working, he was scarcely an enticing catch. But Annie had not looked at him the way most women did, their narrow eyes swiftly assessing and finding him wanting, or worse, not even worthy of an assessment.

Annie's brandy-colored eyes had flashed furiously at him through the rain, her gaze afire with challenge. She had tossed back the damp chocolate silk of her hair and waited, acting as though she actually believed Lewis could do something to right the wrongs that had been inflicted upon her. Of course this was due to the fact that Lewis was a member of the police force, and therefore obliged to protect the innocent and uphold the law. But somehow he had sensed there was more to their exchange than that. Surely that explained the extraordinary sensations Annie had aroused in him when she realized he would do nothing. Her icy contempt had left him feeling angry and frustrated, not just with the fact that he didn't have the time to go tramping about St. Giles searching for the bastard who had beaten her, but also because she had been with someone who had dared raise his hand to her. A keen intelligence burned in Annie's eyes, coupled with a tantalizing femininity that filled her lush body as she turned away, dismissing him with the condescension of a queen. She was a whore, he reminded himself endlessly, yet he could not bring himself to think of her so. Annie was too full of beauty and rage and light for him to dismiss her as such. Besides, by seeking Miss Kent's assistance, it was clear she was trying to extricate herself from her former life. She was a young woman of experience, who had seen the rougher side of life, but was too much a fighter to have been broken by it.

He was drawn to her, he realized, appalled.

And not just because of the promise she flaunted in the cherry swell of her lips and the soft curves of her charming body. No, there was more to Annie than that, he was certain of it. He prided himself on his highly tuned intuition, which when combined with his relentlessly logical mind, was almost always correct. What then was he to make of his schoolboy attraction to a whore who actually fancied herself better than he?

He pushed his hand through his hair, disoriented. Clearly he needed some sleep. That explained why he was wasting so much time thinking about nonsense when he needed to focus every grain of his attention on the most important case of his career. He stared at the now-crumpled ball of linen in his hand, marshaling his attention back to the question of Lord Bryden and the dropped handkerchief.

On the surface, Lord Bryden's life looked to be neatly in order. But Lewis knew better than to be satisfied by appearances. Everyone had ghosts in their past, and as he had correctly surmised, Lord Bryden was no exception. It had only taken a little digging to uncover the unfortunate circumstances surrounding his father's untimely deterioration and death.