Page 31

“… doodle, bow wow, Boodle, noodle, pooh …”

Thomas desperately wanted to be voted into membership at Boodle’s, where he would finally brush elbows with London’s most titled, wealthy, land-owning politicians. For Rafe’s part, the sight twisted his stomach.

As Chenoweth made the final turn onto a dark side street, Miss St. Quinton began to hum some nondescript tune—a reminder that she had probably imbibed as much claret tonight as any Boodle’s gentleman.

“All right,” Rafe said, hopping down from the carriage the instant Chenoweth opened the door. He scanned the shadows of the side street. “Let’s get you inside.”

She took his proffered hand without hesitation and skipped down the step.

“What time ought I to return?” Chenoweth asked.

Rafe gritted his teeth. He didn’t have any answers, just a bone-gripping certainty that the whole enterprise was foolish, inherently dangerous, and yet … somehow necessary.

“A few hours, I suppose.”

Miss St. Quinton wavered in place. She was still staring at the handkerchief and humming, and when she took a step forward, she lost her balance and flung her arms out to steady herself. Rafe jumped forward and took her shoulders in his hands.

“At least,” he added dryly, looking at Chenoweth. “It’ll take her that long to learn how to walk again.”

The look on the coachman’s face only added to Rafe’s worries. It wasn’t tinged with mischief anymore, but remote and watchful as Rafe ushered her toward the back door and twisted the key in the iron lock.

The store, the extraordinarily familiar and excessively mundane store, felt strange to him. Nothing here had changed in the few hours since he’d left, but he had changed in some small way. Taken this tremendous, multifaceted risk that was entirely out of keeping with his character.

They could be caught. Miss St Quinton’s reputation ruined. Their respective hopes for their futures slaughtered out of existence. And all this time spent around her, it would only feed the uncomfortable aching in Rafe’s chest, make it harder to shut out. But he’d brought her here anyway. The revelation rolled slowly over his consciousness.

He had brought her here anyway.

He pushed open the door to his windowless office. It looked smaller than normal. More cramped and cluttered, too.

“Have a seat, if you will,” he said, setting his gas lamp on the desk and turning her to face an ornate armchair, the most costly piece of furniture in the room. “Sorry I don’t have something more comfortable for you, I— Would you like a blanket?”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” she said slowly.

“I’ll get you one. You should try to rest—it’ll sober you up more quickly, you know.”

She gave a weak nod and lowered herself into the chair. She and it looked out of place among Rafe’s scruffy things, her with her shimmering, tired eyes and the green silk damask upholstery selected by Thomas. Relics from another world, one he didn’t belong in.

“I’ll be back straightaway,” he said, hesitating at the door. Her shoulders were hunched, and she smoothed the handkerchief idly between her fingers. She pinched one corner of it and pulled it through. Pinch and pull.

“All right.” Her voice was quiet, and not at all convincing.

Rafe smoothed his clammy palm down his coat front and dipped from the room. He’d forgotten his damned lamp in his haste—oh, very well, she needed it more than him anyhow. He knew the store inch-for-inch, even if it was against his will. He’d return with the nicest, largest blanket he could find, along with some candles. Softer light might help her sleep. If he didn’t get any work done while she rested, it wouldn’t matter anyhow.

He was halfway down the long service corridor when a clanging noise stopped him cold. His heart, already alive with a rhythm reflective of the night’s stress, pumped harder. He didn’t twitch a muscle, save the involuntary force of his lungs inhaling and exhaling sharply. He just listened. Prayed there would be no repetition.

A scraping sound and a thud swept down the corridor toward him. Unmistakable, if muffled, sounds of life. He squeezed his eyes closed. He could tell Thomas … He could tell him he was working late. That he left the Bancrofts early in favor of restocking some goods. Yes, that was idiot behavior. Perfectly plausible, tastefully punishable.

He could add some meat to the tale, say anything he liked to keep his father angry and keep that ire focused. Extol him with tales of how much the Bancrofts had spent on that champagne and chicken; there hadn’t been a more impressive dinner in the whole of London in months. Or the liveliness at Boodle’s, no doubt honoring the induction of a newly minted member.

Ah, yes. Rafe could come up with a great many things to keep his father’s attention right where he needed it: on himself, and far as hell away from his office.

Another clatter came from the same direction, and he squared his shoulders to follow it. It sounded like the last room, where all the incoming shipments were left. Thomas often pored through the crates himself, suspecting everyone and no one of stealing from under his nose. There was a special irony in that that Rafe and Alfie appreciated, considering the crates of excess goods that found their way to the Royal Hospital for Seamen.

He reached the storage room and pushed open the door before he could doubt himself. A shadowed figure hunched over a crate, and the weak gas lamp in the room’s center kept his face from view. Until it didn’t.

The man straightened, and cast in meager light was Alfie. “Rafe?”

“Alf?”