Page 5

Chapter Two

The moment he entered the house, Lark noted an unsettled feeling in the air. Hurried footsteps and anxious voices rustled around them. He tried to focus on the layout of the rooms. The street door opened into a hall with creamy walls and a floor of black-and-white tiles as if London had neither mud nor muck. To his right, he could see the base of a fine staircase. He had a momentary sense, powerful in its immediacy, of being in such an entry before.

He shook it off. He had to keep his wits about him. It was only that the design of the house was a common one, similar to the design of Dav’s mother’s house on Hill Street where their gang had first lived when they left the rooftops behind. Lark had to remember that Dav, their boy leader, was no more. Dav’s grandfather, the old duke was dead, and Dav was now the Duke of Wenlocke, not a street urchin. The grinder Dav had hired to teach the gang to read, the girl who’d stolen Dav from them, she would be his duchess. Lark could slip up here if he let memories of his old life take over. He shook off the swarm of them and fixed his gaze on a straight-legged table with a silver tray full of cards. He had to act as if he were the man he meant to be, a gentleman who left his calling card in silver trays every day.

He let a staring footman take his hat and gloves, although it was against his nature to give any possession of his into another man’s hands. Moments earlier, in the cab, Vivian Bradish had reached into his pockets, held his ring and his handkerchief, and undone his waistcoat buttons. Her touch was dangerous. It made him momentarily weak as if he had been fitted with leg irons. He gritted his teeth against the weakness now. If he had to bolt, he could run for it, abandon the hat and gloves. He would go straight through the house. He didn’t know the neighborhood, but he knew there would be a door at the back of the hall to a patch of garden with a path through it to a mew. He reined in the direction of his thoughts. That was old thinking from his days on the game with Rook. He was a gentleman now.

He straightened his shoulders with only a twinge in his side. He’d come to turn a minor catastrophe to his advantage. An hour in Vivian Bradish’s company had brought him to the edge of posh London. She had gone looking for her thousand stories. He would follow her to find one story, his own. First, he’d get her sawbones to stitch him up. Presumably a man who tended to patients in this neighborhood was neither filthy, nor a drunk. Lark steadied himself. His old days and old ways were over. The place wasn’t the Bow Street magistrate’s hall, and Lark wasn’t facing a lagging, just a female who showed no disposition to involve the authorities. When his head cleared, he would have to think about why. He suspected that heavy purse of hers was the reason.

Miss Bradish handed her cape, hat, and gloves to a fluttering maid, who seemed to be her ally.

“’urry, miss, they’ll be ’ere soon,” the girl said.

“Is Lady M very bad?”

“In a taking. Says ’er ’eart is racing like a Derby ’orse.”

“Oh dear, I must go to her.” Viv turned to Lark, looking directly at him and speaking.

He saw her lips move. His brain said she was offering an explanation, but he missed half the words. He was seeing her again, not in the dingy street, but in her proper surroundings. The smooth, close-fitting bodice of the blue silk gown defined her breasts and ribs and narrow waist above the flaring skirts. A mad thought occurred to him that his hands could span that waist.

He wrenched his gaze away.

“Thomas has gone for Doctor Newberry, Mr. Larkin. This is Jenny. She will bring you to the dining room. You must drink a cup of tea, I think, while you wait for the doctor.” She hurried off in a whirl of skirts.

“Mr. Larkin, sir, follow me,” Jenny said. She led him from the foyer into a hall and opened the door into a dimly lit, pale blue room. A dining table occupied the center. A crystal chandelier hung overhead. Silver candelabra gleamed on polished mahogany. The last of the day’s light faded outside the curtained windows. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the hearth, surprised at his gentlemanly appearance.

“Who is Newberry?”

“My lady’s doctor, sir. Lady Melforth’s a poor invalid these days, and these cousins of ’ers fret ’er dreadfully.”

“She’s not Miss Bradish’s mother?”

“Not at all, sir. Lady Melforth is a very great lady. They call ’er the Traveling Viscountess on account of her guidebooks. Miss Bradish is ’er companion and helper.”

He turned from the mirror. He liked that. Vivian Bradish was a hired companion, not a titled miss. The richness of her garments was borrowed finery. She might have a cushy situation with a wealthy employer, but Lady Melforth probably knew nothing of Miss Bradish’s reckless forays into London’s streets. Maybe Lark had it wrong about that purse. It was simply the threat to her employment situation that explained the momentary desperation in her eyes. She depended on her situation and did not want the folly of trying to make the acquaintance of a pickpocket exposed to her employer. Lark thought he could regain the upper hand in their exchanges.

Jenny dropped him a curtsy and bustled off with a promise to bring him some refreshment. The door behind her remained slightly ajar. Lark positioned himself to bolt if necessary. He could hear but not see the comings and goings in the hall. He gathered that the expected cousins were the source of the unease. His wound burned, and his mouth felt dry. The promised tea might help. A clock chimed the hour, and he thought of Rook. Rook would return to their old digs, shed his reeking disguise, hide the captured purse, and go in search of food. He was always hungry, a leftover from their boyhood. Once he ate, though, he’d start to wonder where Lark was.

The front knocker sounded, and a heavier, more stately tread crossed the hall. The door opened, and a deep, male voice greeted the newcomers with cool politeness. Lark guessed the plummy voice belonged to a butler. There were more footsteps, maybe those of a footman, and the rustle of coats being shed.

“Thank you, Haxton. How is our dear cousin today?” asked a female voice.

“As well as can be expected, ma’am. You know she never complains when Miss Bradish is with her.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll let her know you’ve arrived.” The stately footsteps trailed off. Lark judged that the butler had headed for the stairs. His words suggested that Miss Bradish had another ally besides the maid Jenny. For a moment there was silence in the hall, then the female voice came again.

“Haxton presumes, Arthur, I know he does. He will not be butler here, when we inherit this house.”

“You must be patient, my dear Mrs. Stryde,” answered a smooth male voice.

“How can I be, Mr. Stryde? Your cousin may die any day. She doesn’t fool me with that foot of hers. She’s ill. And when she goes, that clever, artful girl will be at hand to take advantage!”

“We haven’t seen the will,” said the reasonable voice.

“But we cannot afford to discover at the reading, Mr. Stryde, that your cousin Aurora has written out our dear boy, or reduced his rightful inheritance, in favor of a chit who has used her wiles to ingratiate herself into this household. We agreed that she must go.”