Page 25 of The Viscount of Shadows

Chapter 9

Four days had passed, and in that time, Oliver could not get Claudia Ellingford out of his mind. Tonight, he traveled to The Piggeries—or Potteries, whatever it was called—and two nights before that, in the East End. Oliver had no idea where his brother was or if Claudia followed him. She had been accurate about one fact: why hire her if he was going to be underfoot, shadowing her every move, either as the viscount or The Sentinel?

One thing that had stung: Claudia effectively shutting down their attraction. And it was mutual and indisputable. It stunned him how hurt he had been at her cold rebuke. Just as they grew closer, she withdrew, throwing up barriers. But he saw her struggling to hold in her emotions before she departed. Had there been a shimmer of unshed tears in her eyes, or was it his overactive imagination?

Yet, with The Sentinel, she was passion incarnate, taking his hand and laying it over her ample breast, rubbing against, touching, and giving him a raging erection that had taken hours to dissipate. Claudia Ellingford was indeed a maddening puzzle. One he yearned to unravel.

A commotion caught his hearing, multiple voices raised in high dudgeon. Running along the rooftops, Oliver ascertained the ruckus came from the next street. He jumped onto the stairs he had used before and, once on the cobbles, made his way along the road.

After turning the corner, he discovered four rough-looking thugs had surrounded a man. They tried to lay punches, but most were not landing as the tall man was swift and light on his feet. The victim of the attack, wearing a suit and a long wool coat, held his own but was clearly growing exhausted. The ruffians were gaining the upper hand.

Oliver thrust himself into the chaotic brawl, using his truncheon to ward off the attackers. His joining the fight only urged the ruffians to fight harder. He and the man being attacked managed to lay two of them low after spectacular roundhouse blows, but the others pushed forward, shouting expletives that would curl anyone’s hair. One of the louts grabbed a hold of Oliver’s mask, pulling it partway from his face. Oliver shoved the truncheon into the bully’s middle, then swung upward with the stick to the man’s chin. He dropped unconscious. The last man standing ran off, disappearing into one of the courtyards to points unknown.

“Viscount Tensbridge?” the man he had rescued whispered.

Damn it to hell.

Frustrated, Oliver pulled the mask back in place. He turned and glared at the man who looked vaguely familiar. Irritated, he grabbed the man’s arm, pulling him away from the unconscious louts. Oliver stepped into a private alley in case the escaped thug still lurked about. He did not want the man to see him speak to this policeman. And the rescued fellow was indeed a copper.

“The man who ran off is wearing my hat,” he observed wryly. “Detective Mitchell Simpson. We met at Damon Cranston, the Duke of Chellenham’s engagement dinner. I recently transferred to the Lancaster Road station.”

Damon’s newly discovered older half-brother had just changed his name from Mitchell Evercreech. The man had attended the semi-formal dinner, looking somewhat uncomfortable and out of place, though Damon and Althea had greeted him warmly and went out of their way to introduce him to everyone. Standing here in the moonlight, he could see the slight resemblance to Damon. Oliver judged his height to be six feet and his hair more of a sandy shade than Damon’s golden hue.

Oliver extended his hand, and the detective took it and shook it. “Simpson. I would appreciate your discretion in this matter.”

“Of course, my lord, but I want to hear more. Let us get off the streets. Do you know of someplace private we can talk?”

Oliver released Simpson’s hand and weighed his options. He could turn on his heel, disappear into the night, or trust this detective. Having a copper on his side would be beneficial. A detective who was situated at the nearby precinct. “Very well. Follow me, but this location must also stay secret.”

He led Detective Simpson to an abandoned and condemned building scheduled for demolition on the first of next year. In the meantime, Oliver used it as a secret hideaway. By chance, he had discovered a concealed trap door on the floor of the large stone fireplace’s hearth. In decades past, the space below ground must have been used to store illegal goods. He had found numerous smashed gin and French brandy bottles. From what Oliver could ascertain, it had not been used in many years.

The fireplace took up nearly one side of the room, and Oliver could almost stand upright in the hearth. Using a nearby iron rod, he propped open the ash-covered door and motioned for Simpson to climb down the narrow stone steps.

The policeman hesitated.

“This is not a trap, I assure you. We can trust each other,” Oliver murmured.

Once below the stairs, Oliver lit the small gas lamp he had recently brought here, and muted lighting illuminated part of the cellar space. Then he secured the door. There was barely enough room for men of six feet in height to stand upright, but it would serve his purpose. The stone walls were sturdy enough and kept out most of the damp.

“My God,” Simpson exclaimed. “You have quite the hideaway here, my lord.”

It was not much to speak of, but he could come here for safety, take a break, or change his clothes. In another abandoned building situated nearby, he had located a few sticks of battered furniture and a pallet and brought them below. There was nothing here, however, that would reveal his identity.

He motioned to the rickety table and chairs. “Please sit.” Oliver sat opposite and pulled off his mask, scarf, and floppy hat, sitting them in front of him.

Simpson continued to look about the area. “Damon told me of your recent bereavement. My condolences, my lord.”

Ah. That’s how the detective knew to call Oliver by his courtesy title. “Thank you. And call me Tensbridge.”

“What’s in the trunk, Tensbridge?”

“Clothes, a blanket, medical supplies, preserved meats, and other edibles. Water. Some coin. I plan for every situation. I have an area similar to this in the East End.”

Simpson gave him a skeptical look. “You are a vigilante. You’re an heir to an earl, correct? Why in hell would you be doing this? I am completely gobsmacked.”

How to explain when he was not sure himself?

“I haven’t examined it that closely. Do I have a self-absorbed fixation with hero worship? Does my ego need stroking by grateful strangers when I act the hero? Is my life so empty I need a constant diet of danger and excitement to feel anything at all?” Oliver paused, drumming his fingers on the table.