Miss Charity's Case (18 page)

“But you have told me nothing I did not already know,” Charity asserted. “I shan't pay you for nothing.”

The young man grinned. “Ye don't understand, do ye, missy?” A knife suddenly appeared in his hand.

Charity gasped. He must have been carrying the blade in his rags. She tightened her hold on her bag. Again she glanced along the street. No one. She opened her mouth to scream, but he moved the knife closer. Even if she screamed, no one beyond the closed doors would hear her before this lad stole her purse … or did worse.

“If you find my—if you find the lady I'm seeking,” she whispered, “I shall see that you shall receive more than I have with me in my bag.”

“But those coins'll be mine now, milady, and without liftin' m'finger to do a bit of work.” He jabbed the knife toward her.

Charity shrieked and swung her bag at him. He toppled backward off the step. She lifted the reins, but he grabbed her arm. She struggled to escape. He grasped her shoulder. Her hair caught in his hand. Hairpins flew across the carriage. She cried out in pain. He twisted her toward him. In horror, she realized the knife was only inches from her nose.

“I 'ate to be cuttin' yer pretty face, but ye—” He swallowed the rest of his words with a gulp. All color fled from his filthy face.

Charity's eyes widened. Beyond the lad, a dark form emerged from past the raised top of the cabriolet. Rain ran along the silhouette's ebony cloak and glittered on something in his hand. As his hand rose, Charity strangled on a scream. A gun!

The scream died as he held the dueling pistol against the lad's nape. The conveyancer lowered his knife slowly. She released the breath burning within her, but it exploded out as the lad whirled to slash at the shadow.

The man brought his fist down on the lad's wrist. With a screech, the lad dropped the knife. His curse rang through the fog as he fled along the road, jumped a hedge, and vanished.

The shadowed man did not give chase. Instead he rested his foot on the step and put his hands on Charity's quivering shoulders. She started to pull away, then heard, “Are you hurt, Charity?”

“Oliver!”

He smiled. “Thyra may not need me for her dashing knight, but I suspect you do.” He smoothed her hair back from her face. “Are you hurt?”

His humor was a salve for her fear. She was overwhelmed by the warmth that coursed along her at the ordinary touch. No, there was nothing ordinary about Oliver. Shaking her head, she whispered, “I am fine. Your arrival kept him from stealing my bag.”

“What were you doing talking to such a character?”

“You should know better than anyone why I was speaking to him.”

“Field! Didn't I tell you to have nothing to do with him?”

“The lad somehow knew of my quest, and he attempted to convince me that he had information to help me.”

When he swore, she flushed. He did not apologize, saying instead, “Of course, he knows of your search. Or he does now. Did you give thought that Field has set his network of lumpers to find you?”

“Lumper?” she asked, baffled.

His laugh was hard. “A less than complimentary term for those young bastards who ply their thieving trade down by the river. Good God, Charity, this is not the way to find your sister. You could have every lad searching every hellhole in London and still not find her. You must wait for her captor to come to you.”

“And if he never does?”

“He will.”

She drew back and stared at him. “How do you know so much of this man?”

“This is not the first run-in I have had with him.”

“What happened before? Were you able to stop him?”

“Do not ask me what I cannot tell you, Charity.”

“Why not?”

Oliver tied his horse to the carriage and swung up to sit beside her. He folded her hands between his. “For you to know would be even more dangerous.”

“I understand none of this.”

Leaning her head against the short cape of his wool box coat which was scented with salt, he said, “I know. You must trust me as you trusted your father.”

“Papa? What does he have to do with this?”

“Charity, you are overwrought, I fear.”

“I fear you are mistaken.” She reached for the reins.

He clamped his hands over hers. He did not release her hands as he slid his back along the leather straps, bringing hers with them. “Do not look for trouble where there is none now.”

“Now?”

“Charity!”

“Oliver!” she fired back in the same frustrated tone as she tried to shove her hair back beneath her bonnet. “I am tired of mysteries and half-truths. First, Joyce runs off, leaving such a cryptic note. Now you are talking about things that make no sense.”

He smiled as he steered the carriage into the fog. “You must forgive me if I am spouting nothing-sayings. I own to being distressed at seeing you fight off that young lumper all by yourself. You put up quite a battle, Charity.”

“I prefer not to lose.”

His eyes twinkled so brightly in the dim light. “In that, I fear we are much alike. You are lucky I was passing by on my way home from the docks.” He put one booted foot on the dash as if he frequently traveled in the cabriolet.

“Were you just passing by?”

“Are you suggesting it was no coincidence I am here?”

Charity folded her arms over her chest in her sternest pose. “It is odd you just
happened
to be here when I needed you.”

“You are right. It was no coincidence.”

“You are following me?”

Again he chuckled. “Not you, Charity. I had been pursuing the lumper, hoping he would bring me to Field. What a shock that he was trailing you as I was trailing him!” Putting his hand on her arm, he asked, “Where were you bound on such a horrible day?”

“To see Thyra.”

“It would be better—if you wish my opinion—for you to go home. I don't need both of you in swooning in hysterics. The scent of burnt feathers makes me sicken.”

Charity finally smiled. How could she halt her smile when he did everything he could to lighten her spirits—and exasperate her? “I can assure you I do not indulge in hysterics. If you do not wish to go to Thyra's with me, I should offer you my thanks now.” She laughed. “I never have had a dashing knight rescue me.”

“And I hope you shan't have the need again. I think you were uncommonly brave, although I question your wisdom in fighting a street ruffian.”

“It was not my bag I fought for. It was the chance to discover where Joyce might be.”

“I told you I would help.”

“Patience is not a virtue I possess, as I recall you telling me.” She sighed and brushed rain from her bonnet. “Unlike Thyra, I am not willing to wait endlessly.”

“So you think I shall not help you because you think I have done nothing to help her?” He shook his head and sighed. “How can it be that my best intentions have labeled me a cad?”

“I did not mean to insult you.”

“But you are dashed well right about my failure to speak to Rimsbury about her calf love, Charity. Can you imagine Rimsbury's reaction if I presented myself at his door on Thyra's behalf? He stutters over every word he says to me, as it is. How could I have helped her suit if I put him to the blush?”

Charity did not answer. The silence was broken only by the clatter of the wheels and the iron shoes of the horses.

When Oliver sighed so deeply, she could see his chest rise and full beneath his thick coat, she asked, “Is something else wrong?”

“Charity, it is time for us to speak sensibly on this.”

“There is nothing sensible about my sister disappearing.”

His smile was as demonic as the glow in his eyes. “I suspect you shall be hearing from Field in short order. Even now, he may be ready to spring his trap for which he needed your sister for bait.”

“I have nothing he could want.” She laughed shortly. “Even if everything we had was not stolen at the inn, Joyce could have taken him whatever he might have wanted.”

“Everything?”

“Everything, except a change of clothing in a small case that was overlooked.”

“By Jove, there is no solution to this puzzle. I had thought Field might be interested in something you were carrying with you from Bridgeton.”

“What could we have that would interest a man like that?”

Oliver's hands compressed on the reins as they turned onto Thyra's street, where the greenery was lost to the fog. “You might be surprised what a man like that could want of you.” As he slowed the carriage, he said, “I shall continue my search for the blackguard, but you must keep yourself out of danger. I might not always be riding past to save you.”

Charity did not retort as he helped her out of the carriage. He did not relinquish her hand as he led her up the steps edged by the metal railing. When her knees trembled with the aftermath of the attack on her, she stumbled, and his arm swept around her waist. He swung her easily up into his arms.

His fingers moved surreptitiously along her side as she stared into his eyes which began to burn with a flame that seared her through her thin dress. She leaned her head on his chest once more as her fingers combed up through his thick hair. Her bonnet fell back off her loose hair when she tilted her face up toward his.

“Stay safe, sweet one,” he whispered, then pressed his lips to hers.

She closed her eyes to savor the delight of his kiss. “I shall try to do so.”

“But …”

“I cannot give up my efforts to find my sister.”

“I—” Oliver interrupted himself as the door opened to reveal Thyra's footman's shocked face. Charity heard Oliver's low chuckle before he continued with only a second's hesitation, “I am pleased you are so attentive, Andrew. This young lady has had a harrowing afternoon. A brigand tried to steal her bag.”

The footman stepped back to let Oliver carry her into the house. “Is she injured, my lord? Shall I send for a doctor? Oh, what shall Lady Thyra say? This is a horrible to-do. Oh, my!”

“I shall be fine,” Charity replied quickly to soothe the flustered young man.

Thyra's voice drifted down from the upper floor. “Oliver, is that you?” Even from the foyer, Charity could hear her gasp of dismay. “What has happened? Oliver, bring her up here at once. Andrew, send for Mr. Grover. The doctor—”

“No need for a doctor,” Oliver said as he carried Charity up the stairs with an ease that suggested she weighed no more than his thick coat. “She is suffering from nothing more than the remnants of her battle with a Tyburn blossom.”

“Oh, my!”

Charity smiled as Oliver placed her on the settee in the sitting room. “Thyra, do not let his dramatics unsettle you. It was nothing but my own want-wittedness that allowed the thief close to me. If I had not wanted to speak with him—”

“Speak with a thief! But why?”

She glanced at Oliver. His face had no more emotion than the teapot waiting on the table in front of her. She took a deep breath and released it slowly before she said, “Thyra, please sit. What I shall tell you will not be pleasant.”

“What is it?” She reached across the table to grasp Charity's hands. “Dear friend, do you need something? Ask, and I shall do what I can.”

“I need your understanding.”

“Of course. After you arranged for His Grace and I—”

“Thyra,” Oliver rumbled lowly, “put aside your
tendre
for Rimsbury for a moment. Listen to what Charity has to tell you. Mayhap you shall be able to persuade her to sense far better than I have. I pray you shall, for I fear she may have escaped unscathed from evil for the last time.”

Twelve

The curving staircase seemed longer than ever as Charity went up to her room. Her knees still had the frightful habit of quivering on each step. A smile teased her lips as she hoped Lady Eloise never discovered Oliver had escorted her home. His ebony coat and dark horse had been cloaked by the fog, so even if her great-aunt had been peering out of the window, he would have been invisible.

Tears pricked Charity's eyes while she walked along the upper corridor. Dear Thyra had wept when Charity had revealed the truth about Joyce, but had taken a solemn vow to utter not a word to anyone. Thyra's belief that Oliver could bring the situation to rights dared Charity to believe it as well. Mayhap Joyce would be home soon—safe and forgiven when Lady Eloise understood the whole.

“Which I shall tell her,” Charity whispered, “as soon as I know it.”

Opening the door to her bedroom, Charity smiled. Her new gown with its pomona green silk slip was the most splendid dress she had ever seen. A row of pink flowers edged the hem. Another silk rose waited to be pinned in her upswept hair. She crossed the room and bent to pick it up. She froze when she saw a mess by the dressing room door.

Charity ran to the clutter of papers and cloth. Her small case had been up-ended. Carefully she collected the few items, which had been scattered across the carpet, and put them back into the battered bag. Fury ripped through her. How dare anyone paw through her things! She fingered the stack of her parents' letters. They appeared undisturbed. Lady Eloise's spy—if the old woman was behind this—must not have guessed what they were. Otherwise, they would be gone.

She touched the simple ring her father had given her mother on their wedding day. Slipping it onto her finger, she scowled. This was beyond too much!

Footsteps sounded behind her. Charity whirled, clutching the bag to her chest.

Hélène stared at her, wide-eyed. Setting a freshly ironed chemise on the bed, she gasped, “
Mademoiselle
Charity, what is wrong? You look frightened!”

“Only angry. Do you know who has been looking through my things?” asked Charity.

“I have no idea. I spent the afternoon working in the laundry, so anyone could have come into your
chambre.”
She came around the bed and peered down into the case. “Is anything missing?”