Page 80 of One Night with a Rake

“You have a pistol,” she pointed out.

“In France I had a whole company of men armed to the teeth, but that didn’t stop most of them from being killed at Maubeuge, did it?” he said through clenched teeth. “We trusted the report of others when we should have done our own scouting.”

His frown deepened. “I should have done it,” he amended.

“There’s no way you could have known you were being given false reports. I understand you feel responsible, but clearly someone sabotaged your company of soldiers. Isn’t there some way to prove that you were not at fault?”

“There is.” The muscle in his cheek ticked. “A certain well-placed gentleman has assured me he holds the proof that would exonerate me, as well as Warrington and Sharp, who were the other commanders that day.” Tension knotted his brow. His whole face seemed at war with itself. “But the price he’s demanding for the information is too high.”

“If it’s a question of funds—”

“No, damn it, I don’t want your bleeding money.”

Georgette flinched as though he’d slapped her. She bit her lower lip, wishing she hadn’t made him think of the disaster in France again. He suffered so over it, but he didn’t need to lash out at her about it.

She never knew what might trigger a memory of Maubeuge. It seemed as if anything she said might lead his thoughts there.

She leaned toward him so she could peer out the narrow opening too. Concentrating on the current search seemed safer than wandering through Nathaniel’s past. “What are we looking for?”

“A familiar face.”

Almost to a man, the passersby had their hats tugged so far forward, their features were obscured.

Minutes ticked by, but Georgette didn’t see anything of import. She fidgeted with her reticule, wishing again that it held her coin purse for the sake of that little match girl. She would happily empty the contents into that child’s lap, no matter what Nathaniel had to say about it.

“Honestly, why don’t we simply go up to the door and ask to speak to Mrs. O’Toole directly? We wouldn’t have to go in. She could come out,” she finally said. “It certainly worked for me at the House of Pleasures. Once I gave Madam Bouchard a chance, she was very forthcoming about a number of things.”

“I’ll bet,” Nate said wryly, but didn’t look away from the slit in the curtains. “It’s a safe wager someone not involved with the Lackaday Lane killings would be forthcoming.”

“How did you know Madam Bouchard wasn’t involved?”

“Murder is bad for business. Makes the customers nervous,” Nate said. “She may have been upset with Vesta for leaving her, but she didn’t stand to gain anything by her death.”

“Then why would Sadie O’Toole kill Vesta? She was gone from Lackaday Lane by the time the murder happened.”

“I didn’t say she did it, but I think she may well know who did,” Nathaniel said. “However, if our killer is one of her regulars, or more to the point, her investor, she’s not likely to tell us for the asking.”

“From your description of her, Sadie O’Toole strikes me as a businesswoman first,” Georgette said. “She might tell what she knows for the right price.”

One of Nate’s brows arched. “That’s a thought. But information that can be bought is always suspect. She might only tell us what she thinks we want to hear.”

Something must have caught his eye because he sat forward suddenly and followed the progress of a man in a dark tweed greatcoat till he disappeared into the red door.

Georgette couldn’t make out the man’s face since he wore a black-and-white-checked deerstalker with the flaps tied down. But she didn’t think the fellow more remarkable than any other gentleman who ducked into Sadie O’Toole’s new establishment. Nate, however, smiled grimly and reached up to rap on the carriage ceiling, signaling that they were ready to move on.

“This whole exercise is a complete waste of time,” she said.

Nate didn’t correct her, but it was obvious he’d seen the familiar face he was looking for. Georgette didn’t dare ask him who the man in the tweed coat was. She was still smarting over accidently reminding him of Maubeuge and didn’t want to chance that the connection Nathaniel had made with the fellow was somehow related to his time in the military.

As the neighborhood outside the carriage windows improved, Georgette found she could stop worrying the ties on her reticule. Whitechapel had bothered her more than she would admit.

“Now where are we bound?”

“Back to Madam Bouchard’s,” he said. “It seems I may owe your footman an apology.”

“Mr. Darling? Even if you did, he and Mercy are probably not still there. I wouldn’t be surprised if they have returned to Yorkingham House and raised a hue and cry over the way you carried me off.”

“No, I imagine they are still at the House of Pleasures,” Nathaniel said a trifle sheepishly. “It was not intentional, you understand, but during your abduction, Mr. Darling was knocked unconscious.”