Chapter 7
Isadore stumbled and fought to stay on her feet as Ban Dyer clasped her hand and dragged her though the empty King Street house.
The vacant rooms went by in a blur save for each time she glanced over her shoulder the image of the two dead men flashed into her mind.
Her blood, her entire body ran cold, and she feared she'd never be warm again.
She'd made a mistake. She never should have involved a man like the one shoving her into the hackney in her fight against George Fitz-Wilton. Only a woman who had taken complete leave of her senses would --
"Rose Street, Benny. Then I need you to run a message to Fam." Her hired thief clambered into the hackney and fell onto the seat beside her.
Isadore shook her head. What had he said to his coachman?
"Rose Street? Why are we going to Rose Street?
Take me home this instant." She reached over to clasp his upper arm.
He flinched and brushed her hand away. She glanced at her pale kidskin glove, now damp and covered with dark dots and smears. What the devil?
"Not until you answer a few questions for me, milady," he snapped. "My men scouted this house very carefully. There was no sign of guards or a single soul about for the past few days. How did those two men find out we were--"
"You're bleeding. Why are you bleeding?" She shifted sideways in the seat and began to search for the source of the blood. The coppery scent cut through the musty odor of the hackney.
"That's what happens when I am ambushed in a supposedly empty house and get shot. I bleed. What are you doing, woman?" He batted at her seeking hands as she peeled back one side of his coat and found a gaping burned hole that went through his clothes and into his shoulder.
"Sit still. You're bleeding like a butchered hog." Without thought she dragged her skirts up and tore a long piece of her petticoat free. He leaned down to peer at her legs. She gave a grunt of disgust and pushed him back against the seat.
"Dammit, will you stop grappling me? I am no hog, and this is not my first time to be shot." He rested his head against the back of the seat and closed his eyes as she pressed the torn fabric against his wound.
"You squeal like a hog, and I am all over surprised that this is not the first time you have been shot. I daresay the list of people who have been tempted to take a shot at you is as long as Prinny's list of creditors. What is on Rose Street?"
He laughed and then winced as she applied more pressure to his shoulder in an attempt to slow the bleeding.
"A physician who is brave enough to venture into the rookeries and clever enough not to ask any questions nor to spill any of our secrets."
"Our secrets?"
"My brothers and I. He lives in Mayfair, but with two young patients in need of his care he'll likely be sleeping in his dispensary tonight. You know him. He holds young Dickie Jones's leash or tries to when he can."
"Mister Carrington-Bowles is a physician?" She'd heard rumors, but with her life being so consumed with running the family bank and now her search for her son she'd had little time for gossip.
"A damned fine one too. You people shun him for the most dim-witted reason, but people in the Dials count themselves lucky to have him.
" The hackney slid to a stop. Ban lurched out of his seat and allowed the huge placid-faced coachman to help him down.
Isadore hopped out unassisted and did a quick study of her surroundings.
The street reeked of the privy and rotten vegetables.
The air fairly clung to her like a shroud.
Not a soul appeared to be about, but she sensed eyes upon them from the dark recesses of the doorways across the street.
Ban was in conversation with his coachman, a conversation that involved several hand motions on Ban's part and slow nods of agreement from Benny.
With a last pat on the shoulder the crime lord dismissed the young man who immediately climbed onto the hackney box and drove away.
Ban waved her toward a bright shopfront door and he followed her inside a quiet, but well-lit room.
"Who is there?" a cultured voice called from another room deeper inside the building.
"You wouldn't have to ask if you'd convince your man to lock the fucking door and allow us to station some men in the front of his place."
"Dyer?" A handsome dark-haired young gentleman met them at the entrance to the next room. "What have you done to yourself now?"
Isadore followed the two men into a sort of office with a robust fire burning in the hearth.
There was a desk, several comfortable chairs, a sort of raised cot covered with pristine white bedclothes, cabinets of instruments and bandages, and a wall of shelves containing a variety of books and containers of all shapes and sizes.
Ban dropped into one of the chairs. In the bright light of the gas lamps and the fire she saw how pale he'd become and the tightness of his jaw.
"Sit, Isadore, before you fall down," he ordered.
"Rough night?" the dark-haired man asked.
"You have no idea," Isadore muttered as she took the chair beside Ban's.
"I'm Nathaniel Charpentier," he said as he tugged a bell-pull beside the fireplace. "And you're Missus Fitz-Wilton of the Stringfellow Bank."
She forced herself not to look at Ban, though she could sense his sudden almost animal alertness.
"Of course," Isadore said with a wobbly smile as she suddenly recognized the striking young man.
"You're that marvelous chef who runs that delicious catering business.
" Her shoulders eased at the presence of someone she knew to be a gentleman, an artist when it came to food.
"Thanks to you, Missus Fitz-Wilton. No other bank would finance my business. In my experience women bank owners are far more willing to take a risk on new and innovative businesses."
She glanced back at the master thief and regretted doing so at once.
"You own two banks?" Ban shifted in the leather chair and pinned her with a piercing gaze.
Damn! Isadore had deliberately left that piece of information out when explaining George's nefarious scheme.
"You would not have needed financing if you'd simply taken the money from me or Aunt Camilla," a familiar voice chided.
Thank God for the interruption. She recognized Lionel Carrington-Bowles immediately as he descended a wooden staircase at the far end of the room.
"Now here is a lady I thought never to find in your company, Dyer. "
"I'm shot, Carrington-Bowles." Still studying Isadore like a newly discovered insect, Ban struggled to shrug out of his coat.
Isadore went to his aid and stripped him of his greatcoat and his jacket.
The wad of fabric she'd pressed to his shoulder was soaked with blood.
"And this lady is responsible so don't irritate me with your attempts at humor. "
Isadore huffed and took a step back. "Good evening, Mister Carrington-Bowles."
"Missus Fitz-Wilton.' The gentleman physician offered her a brief bow and set to investigating Ban's wound. "What did this scoundrel do to provoke you to shoot him?"
"Too many things to mention,' she replied. "But I didn't shoot him. This time."
Carrington-Bowles laughed and went to one of his cabinets to gather some instruments and supplies. Charpentier fetched a large bowl and a kettle that had been simmering on the fireplace hob.
"How are those two boys that were dumped at the Bells?
" Ban asked. Carrington-Bowles ripped the shirt from the bullet hole to Ban's waist and splayed the fabric open.
Isadore was struck by two things--the large ragged hole the bullet had torn in his flesh and the incredible sculpted muscles of Ban Dyer's chest and belly.
Charpentier caught her staring and smiled. Isadore's face heated.
"The boys are better. They're asleep upstairs. Sally Big'uns is watching over them."
Ban gave a hoarse laugh as the physician began to probe his shoulder with a narrow silver set of pincers. "I pity anyone who tries to get past Sally," he said.
"You should know,' Carrington-Bowles replied. The two men exchanged a momentarily serious glance.
"What happened to the boys?" Isadore asked. The three men stopped speaking at once. Carrington-Bowles looked to Ban, as if asking permission. Ban hesitated for a moment and then nodded.
"They were snatched off the streets by someone who hired them out to chimney sweeps to be climbing boys. They're no more than six years old, and they have the breathing problems of old men. They're covered in burns and one of them has a shoulder out of place that I may never make right."
Isadore's stomach clenched. She blinked against the sting of tears. "Who would so such a thing?" she whispered.
"Rumor has it that my brothers and I are responsible," Ban said evenly.
His eyes never left her face. "These aren't the first children to be dumped on a Horseman's doorstep.
" He drew in a deep breath as Carrington-Bowles gently pulled a lead ball from the flesh of his shoulder.
The physician set to cleaning the wound and staunching the bleeding.
"Has our Bow Street friend been by to speak to the boys?" Ban asked between gritted teeth.
"He has, though the boys were too weak to tell him much," Carrington-Bowles answered.
Charpentier moved silently in his friend's wake, cleaning up instruments and tossing bloody rags into the fire.
"They do remember being kept in the cellar of a tavern and guarded by an old witch.
He'll be back when they are better and up to answering his questions. "
Bow Street? An old witch? Isadore's head began to spin. What sort of soup had she landed herself in by bringing Ban Dyer into her life?
"Speaking of questions," Ban said as he leaned forward for Carrington-Bowles to wrap a length of material around his shoulder to hold the bandage in place. "You never answered mine, Isadore."