A Kiss in the Dark Read online

  Deirdre froze. "Barnaby Flynt?" she whispered, her heart lodging in her throat and her hands tightening on the arms of her chair. "Barnaby Flynt is back in Tothill Fields? You're certain?"

  "As certain as I can be wiv'out seeing the man 'im-self." Peter studied her curiously. "A coupla' 'is toffs grabbed Davey in the alley last week and tried to weasel in on 'is day's earnings. Some of us 'appened along and sent 'em on their way with our bootprints in their backsides."

  Barnaby Flynt! The very name started Deirdre's pulse pounding in her ears, reminding her of a day she'd tried very hard to forget. A day of blood and death. A day that had haunted her dreams for the past eight years.

  Pushing away the terrifying memories, she reached out to touch Peter's sleeve. "Please, you and the boys be careful of Barnaby Flynt. He can be a dangerous man."

  "You don't 'ave to warn me about 'im, m'lady. I know all about Mr. Flynt and 'is gang, and I ain't about to stand back and watch 'em move in 'ere and take over."

  That was exactly what she was afraid of. Peter might be much more capable than other children his age, but he was still just a boy, and Barnaby Flynt was a man. A man who would stop at nothing to gain what he wanted. Not cheating, not stealing.

  Not even murder.

  Deirdre's whole body went cold at the thought of Peter in a confrontation with the malevolent gang leader. "No, Peter, listen to me. You must stay out of his way. And you tell the boys if they see any of his men to hand over whatever lt is they want and then clear out, right quick. Do you hear me?"

  Peter's jaw set with determination, and she gave an inward groan. She knew that look, and it told her that he had no intention of heeding her advice. She should have realized it wouldn't be that easy. The boy was ex­ceedingly stubborn and chafed at the slightest hint of authority, but she couldn't fault him for that. It was what had kept him and the others alive for so long in the world they lived in.

  Well, she couldn't just walk away and forget about Barnaby Flynt's presence in Tothill Fields. She would simply have to make it a point to check in with the Rag-Tag Bunch a bit more often. At the slightest sign of trouble she would do whatever it took to ensure the boys' safety.

  And pray that Flynt never discovered who she re­ally was.

  With a sigh, she rose from her chair. "I suppose I'd better be on my way. It's getting late, and if I don't re­turn home soon, Mrs. Godfrey will be sending Bow Street out after me."

  The obstinate look on Peter's face instantly van­ished, to be replaced by one of concern. "Should I es­cort you, m'lady? This ain't a part of town you want to be wandering about in alone. 'Specially if you ain't fa­miliar with it."

  Deirdre had to stifle a laugh. She was a bit more fa­miliar with this part of town than he might guess. "No, but thank you for offering, Peter. I have Cullen with me, so I should be fine. He's waiting outside with the carriage."

  Gathering up her cloak, she crossed the room to check on Benji one last time. The little boy had already fallen asleep, his new book clutched against his chest. Emotion choked her as she ran a hand over his head, smoothing down the wayward tufts of hair. All she wanted to do was scoop him up and take him home with her.

  She glanced at Peter. "Take care of him."

  The young man's chin went up, and a fervent light flared in the depths of his blue eyes. "I will, m'lady. I always do."

  Deirdre had no doubt of that. Peter was fiercely pro­tective of all the boys, but he was especially so of Benji.

  Turning, she started for the door, but his sudden, tentative question halted her in her tracks.

  "Do you truly believe all children 'ave guardian an­gels, m'lady?"

  She faced him, trying in vain to read his expression in the dimness of the room. "Yes. Yes, I do."

  "Even the bad ones?"

  In that moment, he sounded so lost and alone that Deirdre longed to put her arms around him in a warm, motherly hug. How often as a little girl had she asked herself the same question? How many times had she lain awake on her dirty cot in the hovel she'd called home and wondered if God could ever forgive her for what she was forced to do just to stay alive?

  "You're not bad, Peter. None of you are."

  One corner of his mouth tilted upward in a cynical slant. "We're pickpockets, m'lady. We steal for a living, and I 'ave a 'ard time believing God would send any angels to the likes of us."

  Before Deirdre could think of a suitable reply, he had wheeled about and disappeared back into the shadows.

  He was so wrong, she thought, biting her lip as she stared after him. But how did you explain that to a fifteen-year-old boy who only saw the worst that life had to offer? Before Nigel had come along and taken her in, given her a home and a reason for being, she'd felt exactly the same way. The viscount had been more than her angel. He'd been her salvation.

  At that moment, a slight movement at the edge of Deirdre's vision caught her attention, and she looked up to find Jack Barlow watching her from his place by the fire, his eyes full of anger and resentment.

  She suppressed a shiver. There was something about that boy that stirred a feeling of uneasiness within her, and she couldn't help but believe that his presence in the gang would eventually lead to nothing but trouble.

  Tearing her gaze away from his, she wrapped her cloak more tightly about her and slipped out into the darkness of the alley.

  Though Deirdre's carriage waited for her just around the corner, pulled up to the curb at the end of the street, she hesitated long enough to make certain no one was watching before stepping out onto the side­walk. In this part of town, it was better to be safe than sorry. Waving her coachman, Cullen, back onto his perch when he would have hopped down to assist her, she pulled open the door and quickly climbed in, barely settling herself before they took off with a lurch.

  With a soft sigh, Deirdre let her head fall back against the seat cushions, closing her eyes as a great wave of exhaustion washed over her. Returning to Tothill Fields was always an emotionally draining ex­perience. It brought back too many recollections of a time before she'd become Lady Rotherby. When she'd been merely little Deirdre O'Shea, daughter of the local drunkard.

  And a pickpocket in Barnaby Flynt's gang.

  A chill slithered up her spine as a vision of the gang leader's cruel visage flashed across her mind. With his shiny, bald head, cold, dark eyes, and the sinister scar marring the left side of his face, he was the devil incar­nate. For eight long years, his evil shadow had loomed over her, causing her to wake screaming in the middle of the night, plagued by nightmares of the tragic event that had changed her life forever.

  Even after all this time, her memories of the incident were still just as fresh and stark as if they had hap­pened only yesterday. The pained cries of the beautiful lady as she had tried to fight off Barnaby and his men, the crimson of her blood as it had pooled beneath her on the cobblestones. But the image that tormented her the most was the handsome, battered face of the young man who had cradled the lady's fallen body so ten­derly against his own, his unusual violet eyes full of anguish. Something about him had drawn Deirdre, touched her in a way she'd never forgotten. And now, the person who had set the whole terrible chain of events in motion was back.

  Deirdre's hands tightened into fists on her lap as she contemplated what Barnaby Flynt's return to the Fields could mean. Peter was right about one thing. The man wouldn't be content until he had a stake in every illegal activity in the immediate vicinity. Gambling, prostitu­tion, thievery. In addition to his own band of cutthroats and murderers, he would rule the local pickpockets with an iron hand, expecting a portion of all their tak­ings. And if they wouldn't hand it over willingly, he would wrest it from them by force.

  There had to be something she could do! Perhaps tip off Bow Street to the criminal's presence in the district. But she discarded that idea almost as soon as it oc­curred. Flynt would simply make himself scarce until it had all blown over, as he had before, and she would only have succeeded in bringing down t
he law's atten­tion on the Rag-Tag Bunch and others like them, mak­ing their existence that much more difficult.

  She knew from firsthand experience exactly how difficult that existence was. But she had been one of the fortunate ones, and the day she'd chosen to pick the pocket of Nigel Wilks, Viscount Rotherby, had been the luckiest day of her life.

  The abrupt halting of the carriage in front of her Pic­cadilly town house brought Deirdre out of her musings, and as she alighted, she paid only the scantest attention to the strange coach drawn up to the curb in front of them. Her neighbors must be entertaining tonight, she surmised as she climbed the steps to the front door.

  It wasn't until she entered the foyer that she realized how mistaken she was.

  "Oh, my lady! I thought you'd never get home!"

  Deirdre couldn't restrain a slight smile as Mrs. Godfrey came hurrying toward her. The plump, moth­erly housekeeper had been with Nigel for well over thirty years, and since his death, she'd been indispen­sable. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Godfrey. I didn't mean to worry you—"

  But the woman was shaking her graying head. "It isn't that, my lady." She glanced anxiously over her stout shoulder before lowering her voice to a whisper. "You have a visitor."

  "A visitor?" Deirdre's brow rose as she hung up her cloak and let her gaze travel to the grandfather clock against the far wall. "It's after midnight."

  "I know, my lady. I tried to tell him to come back to­morrow, but—"

  "Please don't blame your servant, Lady Rotherby."

  The sound of the deep voice drew Deirdre's atten­tion to the parlor door, where a large figure suddenly loomed.

  "She did attempt to turn me away, but I'm afraid I was most insistent." The speaker stepped forward into the light of the foyer, and as his features were clearly il­luminated, Deirdre felt all the blood in her body drain into her toes. Her mouth fell open on a gasp of shock and dismay.

  Dear Lord, it was the face that had haunted her all these years! The face of the young man whose mother's death she and Barnaby Flynt had been responsible for.

  Chapter 2

  Deirdre was paralyzed, frozen in sheer terror as she stared up at this man who could so easily bring her dreams to a bitter end with just a few harsh words of accusation.

  How had he found her after all this time? Panic-stricken, her glance went over his shoulder, ex­pecting the law to converge on her at any second. When no one else appeared in the parlor doorway, however, she let down her guard the slightest bit. At least she didn't seem to be in danger of immediate incarceration. "Lady Rotherby? Are you feeling all right?" The man's query had Deirdre stifling a hysterical urge to laugh. Was that his morbid idea of a joke? Her whole world was about to crumble around her and he asked if she was all right?

  But as she swung her gaze back to him, she was surprised to discover that he was watching her with a frown, as if honestly puzzled by her speechless reac­tion. And more importantly, there wasn't a spark of recognition anywhere in his expression.

  Was it possible . . . ? Could she be wrong about his identity?

  But she brushed off that notion almost instantly. There was no mistaking that strong, square-jawed face, those firmly chiseled lips, the aristocratic blade of a nose. Even at the young age of twelve, Deirdre had been aware of the sheer masculine beauty of his fea­tures, and the impact of his appearance hadn't dimin­ished at all in the intervening years. Towering well over six feet, he was a veritable giant, and his mere presence seemed to fill the entire foyer with a crackling magnetism.

  It was his striking violet eyes, however, that truly convinced her. The same deep purple as the sky at dusk, they were utterly compelling—and unforgettable.

  One of the man's dark eyebrows rose with impa­tience. Realizing he was awaiting an answer to his ques­tion, Deirdre cleared her throat and forced out a reply. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine, my lord. You just. . . startled me."

  "Then I must apologize," he said, his tone coolly civil. "For that and for the lateness of the hour, but my business is most urgent and it couldn't wait until morning." He sent a brief glance in Mrs. Godfrey's di­rection. "Is there somewhere we could talk privately?"

  Why? So he could have her dragged off to Newgate without the interference of her servant? Deirdre wasn't certain what game he was playing with her, or why he hadn't had her arrested the moment she'd stepped inside, but she was very much afraid he held all the cards. For now her only option was to play along. "Of course. Mrs. Godfrey, could you please ex­cuse us?"

  The housekeeper gasped and started to protest, but Deirdre forestalled her by laying a hand on her arm. She had no doubt what her faithful servant was think­ing. A proper lady would never even consider enter­taining a gentleman alone in her home in the middle of the night. But what choice did she have? Something about the stubborn set of her visitor's jaw told her he wasn't about to take no for an answer.

  Besides, she'd never professed to be a proper lady.

  "It's all right," she told the housekeeper, struggling to sound more confident than she felt. "Truly."

  Mrs. Godfrey looked unconvinced, but with a shrug of her shoulders, she turned and marched off in a huff, muttering disapprovingly under her breath.

  Longing to call the woman back, Deirdre watched her until she'd vanished from sight. Then, taking a deep breath, she once more faced the object of her dis­tress. "If you wouldn't mind stepping into the parlor?"

  The man gave an abrupt nod, his gaze hooded, then he bowed and indicated with the sweep of one arm that she was to precede him.

  Eyeing him with suspicion, she did so, and as she brushed past his solid form, she became aware of a faintly pleasant aroma, a blend of bay rum and spice that sent her already scattered senses reeling.

  That's enough, Deirdre, she scolded herself as she led the way across the foyer. Now wasn't the time to lose her head merely because he smelled nice. If she was to have any hope of getting through this, she had to keep her wits about her.

  After all, she hadn't survived three years alone on the streets of London for nothing.

  Following along in the wake of his hostess, Tristan found himself wondering once again what the bloody hell he was doing in the home of one of the most infa­mous widows in London.

  It was a question he'd been asking himself ever since he'd arrived on Lady Rotherby's doorstep, and he was no closer to answering it now than he had been to begin with.

  He'd heard a great deal about Viscountess Rotherby, very little of it favorable. It seemed her marriage to the viscount three years before had caused quite the scan­dal; speculation had been rife ever since the elderly gentleman had first taken her into his home as a young girl. Her origins and true identity were a mystery, and her strange comings and goings in the year since her husband's death, not to mention her odd practice of hiring disreputable-looking characters onto her house­hold staff, had only added to the whispers.

  Tristan had to admit that when Archer had first sug­gested he approach her for help, he'd viewed the idea with a certain amount of distaste. But after his frustrat­ing visit to Bow Street and what he had discovered upon his return home, he was desperate enough to try anything if it meant finding Emily.

  As they entered the small, tastefully decorated par­lor, he returned his attention to the lady in question. She wasn't at all what he'd expected, he mused. In­stead of the hard-eyed, jaded female he'd envisioned,

  he'd been confronted by a woman whose striking beauty had stunned him. Tall and slender, with an air of quiet refinement, she possessed bright, emerald green eyes and rich auburn hair restrained in a tidy coronet, though several spiraling curls tumbled free to cling provocatively to the sides of her neck.

  He watched as she crossed the room and seated her­self on the edge of a velvet-cushioned love seat, the muslin material of her jewel-green gown barely hint­ing at the curves that lay beneath. Feeling an unwel­come jolt of lust, he mentally pushed it away with firm determination. He had to focus on Emily, and he couldn't afford to let himself
be distracted by any unanticipated stirrings of attraction.

  With a regal inclination of her head, she indicated that he was to take the chair opposite her. As he moved forward to do so, however, he noticed by the light of a nearby lamp that she was observing him rather warily.

  Come to think of it, her behavior had been odd from the beginning, he realized as he lowered himself into the chair. Almost as if she expected him to leap on her at any second. He knew he was a bit large of frame, but surely that gave her no call to eye him as if he were some sort of ogre.

  Deirdre, meanwhile, was praying her guest wouldn't notice the slight trembling of her hands as she crossed them demurely in her lap. She struggled to keep any sign of her anxiety from showing on her face. "Now, what can I do for you, Lord . . . ?"

  "Ellington."

  She couldn't restrain her start of surprise. She'd heard of the Earl of Ellington. The ton had been buzzing for months about his recent return to take over the title after the late earl's death in a carriage accident. But she had never associated the name with the gallant young knight who'd raced so bravely to defend his mother all those years ago.

  "To be truthful, I'm not certain there is anything you can do for me," he was saying, leaning forward in his chair. "But I'm desperate, and someone suggested you might be of help."

  Deirdre tilted her head in a considering pose. Though his tone was chilly and his manner stilted, she could detect no hidden anger or animosity. As impossi­ble as it was to believe, she was beginning to think his presence here truly might be a coincidence, that he didn't know who she was. But until she knew for cer­tain, she had to tread carefully. "Oh? In what way?"

  "My sister has . . . run away."

  "Your sister?"

  "Yes." The earl reached up to run a hand through his thick, ebony hair, disordering the blue-black strands and causing an errant wave to tumble down across his forehead. It made him appear oddly boyish for such a big man. "I've only newly inherited the title, and along with that responsibility came the guardianship of my younger sister, Emily." One corner of his mouth gave a rueful quirk. "I'm afraid my father was a bit more lax in keeping track of her activities than I've been, and she resents my intrusion into her life. Earlier this evening, after one of our more . . . voluble disagreements, she left a note and slipped out of the house."