Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right (30 page)

“How do you know it’s a man?”

“No curtains.”

Aha. Poppy felt a dash of admiration for Nicholas’s skills of observation. “He must not have anything to hide, then. Which is a good thing. My mother wouldn’t have a sinister man’s address in her appointment book.”

“You’d think not. But having no curtains could also be his cover. Hiding out in the open, so to speak.”

“Why would Mama have his address? She wouldn’t know anyone in this neighborhood.”

“It could be 15 Vine Street from another city or village,” Nicholas reminded her, and called to the driver to go to the opposite end of the street.

“We’ll walk back to the house on foot,” he said. “And don’t worry. Just stay with me.”

She let out a nervous breath. “Of course I’m worried. It’s not every day a girl breaks into someone else’s home.”

“We’re going straight to the front door. I’ve got my bundle of wood, so if someone answers, I’ll offer to sell it. What will you do if we’re discovered?”

“Run to the designated meeting place on Pearl Street,” she said. “If you don’t appear within fifteen minutes, I’ll have the driver take me home.”

“Good.”

Poppy’s chest tightened when they strode up the pavement toward 15 Vine Street.

And then five children came scampering down the street, laughing and chasing each other. They lingered beneath the tree in front of 15 Vine, swinging from its branches.

“What bad luck,” she whispered.

“Happens all the time,” Nicholas said. “Turn here.”

Exactly ten houses down from their target, they turned right and came up a dirt alley to what Nicholas counted out as the back door of 15 Vine Street. The chickens in the coop behind it greeted them with nervous clucks, their feathers lifted by the increasing wind.

Poppy waited nervously, her hair flying about her face, as he knocked on the back door.

No one was home.

Nicholas worked the door with a small tool and managed to twist the knob. But the door stayed shut.

“Bolted,” he whispered, strong gusts moving snatches of his hair as well.

He looked above them. And then behind them. There was no way in from the roof, Poppy could see. And behind them all she saw was the coop with a small shed inside. A sound came from it, a slight creaking.

“What’s that noise?” she asked.

“Let’s go see.”

She entered the coop with Nicholas, and he peered inside the shed, chickens scattering at his feet. “There’s a false wall in here,” he said. “Keep the chickens back, please.”

Oh, God. How did one keep chickens back?

She did her best, pushing chickens away from the shed with her feet and even her hands while Nicholas examined the wall. But the birds were making so much noise.

Too much noise, but what could she do?

When Nicholas was finally done moving something about—she had no idea what—he left the coop and tossed his canvas roll and the logs behind some empty barrels. “Hide your bucket there,” he said. “And wait by the back door. I’ll see you in a minute.”

Poppy was aghast when he entered the coop again and disappeared into the small shed. She hid her bucket behind the barrels, and was much relieved when she saw him appear a few minutes later at the back door.

He slid the bolt back and drew her in.

She fell into his arms. “It was a
tunnel
?”

“Yes. Behind the false wall. There’s a ladder propped in it. That noise you heard was the wind catching at a lantern swinging from one of its rungs. Someone needs to repair the shed walls to make it airtight.”

The sounds of the children out front had faded away. Nicholas took her hand and they walked into a pristine room with an oak table, two mismatched chairs, a smoothly made bed, and a fireplace with a large black pot swinging from it.

“Come quickly,” he said. “We’ve only a few minutes.”

He led her behind a hung blanket, where they discovered a serviceable desk with neatly arranged stacks of paper on it, a small signet ring, a quill and inkpot, a set of keys, a scarf, and on the floor, several crates of papers. A colorful braided rug was the only adornment to the space.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “We can’t look through all that in a few minutes.”

Nicholas was already on the floor. “He’ll have a system.” He was scanning the tops of the files in one of the crates.

For a moment, he sat back on his haunches, apparently surprised by something.

“What is it?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No time. I’ll tell you later.”

“Nicholas.”

“I promise.” He was sifting through the files again. “They’re not alphabetized or organized by year.”

She looked over his shoulder at the contents of the crate. “What a strange way to file things. A number in the top right-hand corner. They’re in sequential order but with big gaps in between them. And a few have identical numbers. There seems to be no rhyme or reason.”

“That’s because he doesn’t want anyone to understand his filing system.” Nicholas paused for a moment, then sifted quickly through the files and pulled one out. He put it back, thought some more, and pulled out another file. Opening it, he lingered a few seconds on the first page.

His eyes glowed with satisfaction. “I’ve got it,” he said. “What year was your mother born, what month, and what day?”

Poppy told him.

He sat quietly for a moment. “Look for the number thirty in the second crate while I look here,” he said, then went to work sifting through the first box.

“Nothing in the second crate,” she told him a minute later.

“Nor in mine.”

They were both at work on the third box when they heard a few men talking loudly and occasionally guffawing out front.

“They’re coming home from the pub after a hard day’s work,” Nicholas said. “They won’t notice anything amiss.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, actually,” he said. “You’re never sure in this business.”

“Don’t tell me that.”

“It’s part of the fun.” He chuckled.

“You call
this
fun?” Her fingers stumbled from file to file.

“It makes for a good story later.” He pulled out a file and scanned it. “Damn. I thought I had it. But it’s the wrong number thirty.”

They searched another fifteen seconds.

“Another thirty.” Poppy yanked a file out and thrust it at him.

He threw it open. “Is your mother’s name Marianna?”

“Yes,”
she cried, her voice cracking. But then her heart nearly stopped—she heard shouts outside.

“Mr. Harlow. How are you this evening?”

“Harlow, you need to get out more.”

Several other male voices in the street echoed the raucous greeting.

From the front of the house, a Yorkshire accent called back, “Off with ye, lads. Go piss on someone else’s tree. I’ll nowt have ye drinkin’ o’er here.”

From behind the house, the chickens started cackling. Poppy grabbed Nicholas’s arm. She couldn’t speak. Calmly, he scooped up the papers and handed them to her.

“Hide these as best you can,” he whispered.

She did as she was told, shoving the papers into her bodice. Her heart was hammering, and her breath caught in her throat.

The man who lived here was coming down the front walk. She heard his shoes crunching the gritty pavement.

Nicholas moved like silk, silently and smoothly, putting the file back in the crate and returning everything to its place. Without another word, he moved the small braided rug and pulled up a ring on the floor.

“Down,” he ordered her.

Poppy stuck her leg down the dark hole, fumbling for a ladder with her foot, and finally found one.

“Keep going,” he hissed.

When she heard the front doorknob rattle and then the front door swing open on squeaky hinges, she had to suppress a little cry. She stumbled through the dark and hit the bottom of the tunnel. Behind her, she felt a whoosh of air as the trapdoor shut silently above her head.

She sensed Nicholas’s presence rather than saw him.

Yes
. They were going to be all right.

She threw her hand out and felt nothing but air to her left, so she blindly moved that way. The tunnel smelled of damp earth and decay, like a tomb.

One step at a time,
she told herself. She moved forward and was astounded to realize she wasn’t afraid. The truth was, she’d never felt so exhilarated in her life.

*   *   *

As he descended the ladder, Nicholas was mentally reeling. And not from their near miss with the house’s occupant. He’d had such close calls before. This was his second time in the tunnel, so he navigated it a bit easier going out than he had coming in. When he caught up with Poppy, he grabbed her hand.

“We’re all right,” he whispered, and gathered her close.

She clung to his neck like a drowning sailor, the papers in her bodice a small, stiff wall between them.

“You’re very brave,” he murmured in her ear.

She was still clinging, but she was also nuzzling—his ear, to be specific. “I
love
breaking into houses,” she whispered.

“You do?”
It was another shock. He gave in to temptation and caressed her backside.

“Mm-hmm.”

He pulled her hard against him, and they kissed in the pitch-black darkness—kissed as if they were both starving and this kiss were their last meal.

Finally, reluctantly, he pulled back.

“Why do you make me feel so wanton, Your Grace?” she whispered. “We’re underground. We’re in someone else’s
tunnel
. And you’re the most exasperating man I know. I should be running from you, but instead, I—”

“You what?”

“I crave your kisses,” she said simply.

Somehow that humble admission touched him like nothing she’d ever said before. She was so brave. And true to her feelings.

He pulled her to him for one more kiss. “I want you, too. Actually, I’m desperate for you. You’re the most maddening woman
I
know, and I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

“Really?” She placed little kisses along his jawline.

“Really,” he said, caressing her waist. “But—”

“But back to business.” She pulled away, her tone firm and Service-like. “I’m ready for my orders.”

He led her to the portion of the tunnel leading upward. Rain was falling hard now, and droplets of cold water dripped down on their heads.

“This Mr. Harlow can see out his back windows,” he said. “We can’t leave until we know he’s not looking,”

“How can we do that?” she asked.

“There’s a peephole at the top. We’re lucky, really, for the rain. It’s gotten darker and he’ll probably light a lantern. We’ll be able to see him more readily, and hopefully, he’ll retreat to his office behind the blanket.”

“I hope so.” Her whisper was thin.

“We’ll stand together on the ladder because we have to leave together. And we obviously have to leave fast. You’ll go first. Head to the barrels and pick up your milkmaid’s pail before you go.”

He heard her stifle something that sounded rather like a snort. “We’ve got chickens to get around,” she said. “They’re all huddled in the shed.”

“You’re supposed to be terrified.”

“I am. But it’s still funny.”

He chuckled, too. “You’re right. It is. But meanwhile, I need you to be our lookout. Leave as soon as the coast is clear. I need to slide that false wall back into place, and I’ve got to do it quickly.”

It was a good ten minutes before Poppy moved. But when she did, Nicholas was right behind her. She did a marvelous job of tiptoeing around the chickens without disturbing them. Then she clambered over the side of the coop and ran to the barrels.

The rain was falling in sheets, disguising any noise they might make. Nicholas took three seconds to replace the wall and sprang over the coop for the barrels, where he picked up the logs and the canvas roll.

He caught up with his partner in crime, who was already walking rapidly back up the alley to the north. When they reached the corner, they slowed their pace. She was breathing hard, she had rivulets of water running down her cheeks and nose, and her hair was a god-awful mess.

But he thought she’d never looked so beautiful.

CHAPTER 32

When Poppy arrived with Nicholas back at the hackney on Pearl Street, the driver barely spared her a glance. Nicholas had assured her he’d paid the man well not to ask questions. On trembling legs, she clambered in first with her little bucket, Nicholas not far behind with his logs and canvas roll.

Only when the vehicle lurched forward did she let herself fall apart … just a little. She fell against Nicholas’s equally wet shoulder and began to laugh.