“You don’t belong here, mate.”

Edmund bristled. As he fisted his palms, he glanced at the looming figure that had sneaked up on him. He had failed to detect the other man’s stealthy approach, his thoughts engaged elsewhere, and in a wicked den like the Red Dragon that was a dangerous misstep.

“I don’t belong here, do I?”

Edmund relaxed his taut muscles and kicked the empty chair across from him, inviting the Bow Street Runner to join him at the table.

John Dunbar accepted the invitation and settled his long bones into the seat, removing his cap, allowing his mussed, sandy brown hair loose.

“You look more and more like a bloody nob, Eddie.”

“The devil I do,” he groused.

“It’s the hair.” John fingered his own unruly crop of curls, smoothing the locks. “The fashionable cut gives you away.”

Edmund humphed. He might look like a gentleman, but he didn’t feel like one. He possessed the same tainted blood as the thugs and wenches who filled the flash house with their hoarse guffaws and salacious antics.

John squinted in the dim room. “Have you quarreled with one of these roughs?”

“I’ve quarreled with a rough, but don’t worry about it.” He thumbed the glass of gin. “Would you like a drink, John?”

“No.” He set his cap on the table and placed his patched elbows on the soiled surface. “Is there a reason we always meet in the seediest pub in London?”

He shrugged. “I like it here.”

“You’re determined to get me killed, aren’t you?” he queried askance. “I suspect it’s retribution for almost arresting you last year.”

Edmund snorted at the absurd idea. He had no ill will toward his friend. A year ago, Edmund was involved in a dockside brawl that had aroused the River Police. The Bonny Meg had waited in queue in the Thames, the quays too small to accommodate the pressing ship traffic. With the ship a prime target for robbery, thieves had attempted to unload the schooner’s cargo, and a scuffle had erupted between the ruffians and the Bonny Meg’s crew.

The Bow Street Runners had arrived to assist the River Police in keeping the fray from turning into a riot and spilling into the city. John had attempted to apprehend Edmund during the struggle, but in the tussle, pistols had fired. It was Edmund who had pushed John out of the way of a bullet, and it was that episode that had united the pair as comrades…though Edmund had yet to admit he hadn’t intended to save John from the bullet; he’d merely tackled the Runner to the ground in hopes of disabling him and avoiding arrest.

Still, their pairing proved a curious one. Not for John, who wasn’t privy to Edmund’s past as a pirate, but for Edmund, who was reminded of their juxtapositions every time they gathered in public. In truth, he enjoyed keeping John as an acquaintance, for he admired and respected the man, but there was another, less wholesome, reason he maintained the amity—he knew it would turn his brothers’ hair white if they ever learned he was chums with a Bow Street Runner.

The twenty-seven-year-old investigator smiled, his brown eyes brimming with jest. “Have you ever thought about joining the Bow Street Magistrates’ Office?”

“No,” Edmund returned brusquely…but the twisted humor in the matter perked his interest. A former pirate serving the law? It was an amusing idea. He also wouldn’t have to confront the darker side of being a privateer in the Royal Navy’s African Squadron.

The caustic smile that had touched his swollen lips quickly faded away as he remembered the deep-rooted groans and the haunting iron scuffs as hundreds of manacles clashed together. The sounds wouldn’t wail in his ears at night anymore, he thought.

“The profession might suit you, Eddie, since you already combat the slave trade. And you fit into the underworld so well; you know the haunt of every villain.” He scratched his chin in deliberation. “I think you must have been a member of the underworld at some point in the past.”

“Do you?” he drawled.

John shrugged. “Well, I know you’d get the criminals confessing their sins, that’s for sure.”

“Why do you think that?”

“You have a sour look about you, Eddie. A ‘give me what I want or I’ll draw your cork’ sort of look. Add to it the fact that you were a member of the crew that destroyed the infamous pirate Black Hawk, and it makes for an intimidating front. You have a sound sense of justice, too.”

Edmund refrained from smirking.

“I can put in a good word for you at the magistrates’ office, if you’d like.”

“Thank you for the offer, John, but I’m not interested in the post.” He had not invited his comrade to the flash house for idle chitchat. He had a more pressing matter to impart. “I need a favor.”

“I don’t know.” John sighed and rubbed his brow, etched with fatigue. “I’m in the midst of an investigation. I haven’t the time for favors.”

“What are you investigating?”

“The dowager Lady Stevenson’s jewels are missing.” He yawned. “We suspect one of the servants, a footman, the culprit. He was apprehended by the other staff members, skulking from the country house after the jewels had disappeared. He must have tossed or hidden the jewels, though, for they weren’t on his person when he was detained, and he won’t utter a word about their location.”

“Of course he won’t confess to their location. He’ll hang.”

“Aye.” John stroked his head. “It means I’ve got to comb the house and the grounds in search of the blasted baubles. I suspect the footman intended to evade capture and later return for the prize. I’m sure the jewels are still somewhere on the property.”

“Have you checked the well?”

John snorted. “I sincerely doubt the vandal drowned the priceless ornaments.”

“I would.” He shrugged. “Gold doesn’t rust. Besides, no one would think to look in the well…right?”

John stared at him thoughtfully. “All right, I’ll inspect the well on the property. And if I find the jewels, I guess I owe you that favor. What is it about anyway?”

As soon as Edmund envisioned the spirited lass, his blood warmed. He rubbed his lips together at the memory of her sweet mouth pressed hard over his, seeking kisses.

She wanted him.

He was tempted to let her have him, too, but he set aside his desires, determined to put the matter of her abduction to rest. Was there a family out there, looking for her? He’d be remiss in his duty as her guardian if he didn’t make some inquiries into the unpleasant affair.

“I need you to look through the files at the magistrates’ office, going back about thirteen years, perhaps more.”

“What am I searching for?” said John.

“A report about a missing girl. Her name is Amy. The surname might be Peel. And she possesses a birthmark.”

“Do you know how many ‘missing’ children there are in the city? The last survey places the figure well into the tens of thousands! Most parents don’t even report the child’s disappearance, they’re too thankful to be rid of the spare mouth.”

“I understand, but I’d still like you to search for the potential record.”

John sighed. “Why the interest in the girl?”

“I can’t tell you that.” He stood and prepared to depart from the flash house. “Don’t reveal our conversation to anyone. Let me know what you find.”

“If your tip about the well proves fruitful.”

“It will.”

 

Amy entered the dining parlor—and paused. She admired the elegant table settings and inhaled the rich scent of freshly cooked fare. Candlelight flickered across the green-and-gold striped papered walls. In the narrow room with a high ceiling, the flames skipped over the dark woodwork, giving the polished furnishings a warm and lustrous glow.

Slowly she lifted her gaze and narrowed her eyes on the scoundrel standing behind one of the high-back chairs, carved in the classical baroque style. He offered her a sensual smile.

“Good evening, Miss Peel.”

A tremor skipped along her backbone. “What’s going on, Edmund?”

“I thought we’d continue our lessons.” He pulled out the chair for her; its legs scraped softly across the floor. “With dinner etiquette.”

She remained standing beside the door, transfixed on a single thought. “Alone?”

“James and Sophia have departed for Mayfair, William’s away on business, and Quincy’s still resting.” He gestured toward the chair. “That leaves you and me, Miss Peel.”

Amy stared at the offered seat and balled her fingers into fists. What must he think of her after their morning kiss? That she was a brazen harlot? Was that why he’d arranged for such an intimate dinner? To seduce her?

She wanted to be a lady’s maid or companion. She hadn’t behaved like one, though. She had forsaken her good sense and polite manners for a scandalous kiss. And now he was treating her like a strumpet.

“Edmund—”

As she was still rooted to the spot beside the door, he crossed the room and cupped her elbow, escorting her to the round table. She assumed the seat with a sigh.

“We don’t use first names at the table,” he said, and occupied the seat opposite her. “It boasts a level of intimacy one might not share with the other dinner companions.”

She glanced around the room. “But it’s just the two of us at dinner.”

He removed the napkin from its gold ring, flapped the crisp linen, unraveling it, then set it across his lap. “And are we intimately acquainted, Miss Peel?”

“Ed—”

He raised a brow.

“Mr. Hawkins,” she said tightly as she followed his mannerisms, covering her skirt with the napkin. “I must talk with you about—”

“You’ve placed the ring on the wrong side of your plate.”

She looked at the table. “What?”

“The ring sits to the left of your plate.”

She moved the article. “It matters where I set the napkin ring?”

“It matters if you’d like to be invited back to dinner. Don’t underestimate the smallest detail, Miss Peel.”

The weighty warning sobered her, and she quickly firmed her lips, studying the man’s movements, mimicking his posture.

As the soup was already presented in the bowls, Edmund picked up a spoon and tasted the steaming first course.

Amy followed his movements. “Shouldn’t you wait for the lady to begin?”

“It’s old-fashioned and crude to wait for the other guests. One dines as soon as one is served.”

“Oh.”

Amy brought the spoon to her lips and sighed at the refreshing scent, rather hungry herself. She tasted the soup; scrumptious.

Edmund set down the cutlery. “You’ve just ruined yourself, Miss Peel.”

Aghast, Amy placed the spoon into the bowl. “How?”

“I heard the little noise you made.”

Heat filled her cheeks. “I beg your pardon?”

“You slurped your soup. You must never make a sound while eating soup.”

“I see,” she said stiffly.

She picked up the spoon again, drinking the repast with an unsteady hand, but she managed not to make another indelicate noise.

“The soup was delicious. Can I have—?”

“No.” He cleared the table of soup dishes and retrieved two plates with roasted ham and potatoes from the serving cart. “One doesn’t ask for seconds.” He set the plates over the gold chargers. “It holds up the next course for the other guests.”

Amy wiped her mouth.

Slowly Edmund lowered himself back into his seat, staring at her.

“What?” she demanded.

He lifted his napkin. “Tap your lips.” He gestured. “Like this.”

Her heart fluttered as he caressed his mouth in demonstration, his lips sensuous, inviting. Her mouth slightly ajar, she quickly clamped her lips together, chastising herself for her folly. The etiquette lesson was stirring very improper feelings in her blood, and setting aside her desire to learn and practice proper dinner manners, she realized she still had to set the scoundrel straight about their earlier kiss.

He poured her a glass of wine. “A miss might drink up to three glasses of wine during dinner; however, a married woman might have up to six.”

“Six?” She cut into the ham. “I’d lose my faculties after one.”

He arched a black brow again.

“I mean, I have to talk with you—”

“Never speak with food in your mouth.”

She quickly swallowed and parted her lips to speak—

“And don’t talk about yourself at the dinner table; it’s rude.”

She glared at him. “All right,” she said tightly. “What did you do today, Mr. Hawkins?”

“I visited with a friend.”

“That’s nice. Well, I—”

“Keep your elbows off the table.” He gestured. “Wrists only.”

“How about if I slit your wrists?” she muttered under her breath. At his questioning look, she swallowed the threat. “Well?”

“Yes?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me about my day?”

“I already know what you did today.” There was heat in his eyes, his voice. “And it isn’t necessary to reciprocate with the same question.”

Amy shivered at the man’s knowing expression, the approval in his gaze. He wasn’t the least bit put off by her scandalous behavior, scoundrel that he was.

“Tell me, Miss Peel. What do you remember about your childhood?”

She stiffened at the unexpected query. “Very little.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why are you asking me about the past?” she snapped.

“I’m curious to know more about you.”

Amy took in a deep breath. It was one thing to collect trinkets that reminded her of better days, but it was another thing entirely to dredge up the past, to talk about wistful memories.

She folded her napkin and set it aside. “I’ve lost my appetite, Mr. Hawkins.” She headed for the door. “Good evening.”

“Amy, wait.”

But she disregarded his entreaty and bustled toward her private room. Once inside the large bedroom, she sighed and examined her surroundings. A small fire burned in the hearth, casting the furnishings in a glistening aura. The bulk of the pieces belonged to her; she had arranged them in such a way that the configuration reminded her of…a time long ago.

She approached the tall vanity, skipped her fingers over the scattered toiletries: hairbrushes, hand mirrors, perfume bottles—remnants from the past. She found little comfort in the familiar articles, now.

A knock at the door.

She ignored the bounder.

The rapping persisted.

She huffed. She inspected her countenance in the mirror and smoothed her scowling features before she walked across the room and opened the door.

Her heart trembled.

“Are you all right, Amy?”

He peered at her from the misty darkness, his expression inscrutable, his eyes veiled with shadows. He queried her in a low voice; the sounds teased her senses, like fingers thrumming her spine.

She gripped the wood frame. “I’m about to retire.”

“Can I come inside?”

He pressed his palm against the door frame, brushing her fingers. She pulled her hand away. Jerked it, really.

He shifted his weight, leaned closer to her. “I need to talk with you.”

She detected the scent of wine on his breath.

“Now?” she snapped.

“It’s important.

She firmly pressed her lips together, but stepped aside, muscles taut, allowing him entrance.

The man’s long figure sauntered inside the room. He stirred the air as he passed, making her shiver. She closed the door after him and waited.

He scanned the bedchamber and remarked in a thick voice, “I see you’ve made yourself at home.”

“Was I not supposed to?”

He turned around and offered her a small smile. “No, I want you to feel at home.”

She humphed at the friendly gesture, still perturbed.

He soon settled on the bed, the feather tick sinking. The ropes stretched, supporting his weight. In the firelight, one side of his body glowed, the other remained in shadow.

She was sentient of his slightest movement. He rested his figure on the spot where she slumbered, and if he shifted a thigh, she sensed the hard muscles rubbing her leg; she imagined it.

He looked across the room and set his gaze on a particular piece of furniture. “I’ve often wondered what sorts of treasures you keep locked away in that chest.”

“You have your secrets and I have mine.”

He chuckled. “And what secrets would you like to know about me?”

It sounded like a dangerous invitation; like he might bundle her up in a potato sack and drown her in a pond if she learned too many intimate details.

She eyed him with intent. “What happened when you boarded a slaver for the first time?”

He looked at his hands as a heavy silence entered the room. “I can’t tell you.”

She walked across the wool runner and sat on the wood chest. “I guess you can’t see my treasures then.”

He glanced at her with wry humor, but the flirtatious light soon faded from his eyes, and he sighed.

“It was dark belowdecks,” he said slowly, “the air ports too small and too few to offer light or a fresh breeze. I had to crawl. The ceiling was low, too low to stand. I followed the sounds: the cries, the iron manacles striking. The smell was foul, putrid. I found the slaves, chained together tightly without space to move. Naked. Filthy. A woman nursed a dead babe at her breast. I…I set about my duty and unlocked their shackles.”

He looked into the firelight as if seeking escape from the memory.

“How many were belowdecks?” she whispered, aghast.

“Two hundred and fifty.”

A staggering figure.

Amy had suffered over the years, too. She had endured hunger and isolation and hopelessness, but she suspected the depth of misery Edmund had encountered aboard the slaver alien even to her.

“Is that why Quincy takes to the opiate? To forget about the ordeal at sea?”

“No.”

“Did he kill someone aboard the slaver? A woman?”

“No!” he said sharply, eyes fierce. “He’s not a murderer.”

“He thinks he is.”

He quieted at that. After a short pause, he confessed, “It’s our mother. Quincy believes he killed the woman.”

She gasped. “What?”

Edmund rubbed his head, scratching his scalp. “She died in childbirth to the pup. The damn fool thinks it’s his fault.”

“I understand.” Amy sighed. “He feels guilty about her death.”

“He’s got no reason to feel guilty about it; he didn’t do anything wrong.”

“He thinks he did, though.”

“Aye,” he grumbled. “That’s the trouble. And I can’t convince him otherwise, I’m afraid.”

She looked at her hands, rubbed them together. “I suppose it’s only fair that you learn some of my secrets now.”

She carefully removed the iron key from around her neck, knelt beside the chest, her skirts pooling, and unlocked it.

He hunkered beside her as she pushed up the cumbersome top and revealed the assortment of curios: a gentleman’s top hat, a crinoline, silk fans.

“Why so many gloves?”

At the low timbre in his voice, she shivered. “They remind me of my mother.” She opened one of the twelve boxes. “She used to wear gloves just like these. I purchased one pair, then another, searching for the right match.”

He fingered the soft white leather. “And do you think, if you surround yourself with these knickknacks, you will recapture the past?”

She closed the glove box, pinching his fingers between the cardboard; he was tardy in pulling them away.

“I want to remember the past.”

“Why do you want to remember painful memories?”

“I don’t want to remember the bad memories,” she said stiffly. “There were good ones, too.”

“Your mother kissing you good night?” He fixed his sharp eyes on her. “Your father tweaking your nose?”

“That’s right.”

She swallowed the knot of tears forming in her throat. “What is this about?” She closed the chest and locked it. “Why did you come here, Edmund?”

“I think it a good idea we look for your parents.”

She scrambled off the floor and treaded toward the firelight, hugging her upper arms. She stared at the snapping flames, seeking warmth. “Why?”

“If your parents are alive, don’t you want to see them again?”

She watched as his shadow moved across the ground, approaching her. She burrowed her fingernails into her arms. “It’s a waste of time; it’s been too long.”

As she gazed into the firelight, fuzzy images stormed her mind: a garden filled with fragrant blossoms, a rambunctious puppy, a bright nursery room. The memories welled in her head with such vividness, she almost sensed…

A set of thick arms circled her midriff. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Amy.

“Really?” She struggled in his tight embrace, breathless, as the comfort of past dreams and the uncertainly of her future prospects clashed together in her heart. “Then what did you mean to do? Offer me false hope?”

“Amy?”

She pushed away from him; she staggered. “I have one chance to better myself as a lady’s maid or companion, and you want me to dream about lost parents and faerie-tale endings.” She brushed her hair away, the tresses trapped between her trembling lips. “Well, I won’t be distracted from my goal.”

“I don’t want to distract you.”

“Liar!”

The man’s sensual lips firmed. “What did you call me?”

“My parents are gone.” She swatted at the wretched tears that welled in her eyes, burned her sight. “I’m not going to waste my time and effort hunting ghosts. Get out, Edmund.”

“Amy,” he drawled, “what the devil’s come over you?”

“There’s nothing the matter with me. I won’t be pushed about, is all. I won’t let you torment me!”

She had suffered under Madame Rafaramanjaka’s cruel dictatorship. She had endured the leers and abuse from the patrons at the Pleasure Palace. She had evaded the kidnappers. She had survived—alone—for most of her life. And she wasn’t going to let the disdainful, arrogant scoundrel taunt her with worthless dreams about long-lost parents for his amusement and selfish curiosity.

“Torment you?” He glared at her. “Are you daft?”

“I said get out!”

He bristled. After a moment, he growled, “I know you’ve been without friends for so long you suspect a saving hand, but I am not your enemy. I am your friend. And you damn well don’t treat a friend with such disrespect. Why don’t you learn that lesson before you tout yourself a lady.”

He stormed from the room, leaving Amy biting back her tears.