Chapter Five
As Diana threaded her arm through Ian’s, she slipped her other hand into the hidden pocket of her cloak and traced the outline of the envelope that the bordello proprietress had slipped inside.
One unexpected note from Widow was surprising.
A second missive from her handler, arriving hours after the first, was wildly out of protocol.
It validated the trail of evidence Diana had compiled for months and the fear that had gnawed at her for weeks: there were tears in the fabric of her organization.
And the repercussions on their mission could be deadly.
With Ian watching like a hawk, the bordello proprietress couldn’t reveal much when she passed the note to Diana.
They’d never worked together before and had no established signals.
White Stag operatives rarely met outside their own crews.
It ensured they protected themselves as well as the women they served.
The madam had looked at her plainly, with the respect Diana had only seen men give to other men. She was unaccustomed to it, and found it unexpectedly, pleasantly, satisfying.
From an early age, Diana had learned the value of her beauty was second only to the staggering fortune she’d inherit.
Her mother had reminded her about it with every scrape and bruise she’d collected running along the rocky shore of their Bristol estate.
When she was six, she’d knocked out her front tooth trying to escape down the chestnut tree outside her bedroom window.
Her mother’s caustic warning still rang in her ears.
Get on your knees and pray that the new one comes in as straight as the old one.
I will not allow you to waste your beauty.
You have a handful of years before it fades, so make hay with it while you can.
Before you can blink, it will have slipped through your hands.
Just like your fortune will when you marry.
Diana’s first act of true rebellion was to doubt there was any truth to what her mother declared.
She never considered her features to be any lovelier than those of the women of her acquaintance.
As she grew older, she distrusted anyone who remarked on her physical attractiveness; if they did, she assumed they were liars.
Ian had called her beautiful once, on the night they’d saved each other.
Then he’d reminded her of the promise she’d made his father. And insisted that he wasn’t the son she was meant to marry.
Before she left London, Diana needed to find out why Ian believed it.
She never had.
The rain held off as they traversed the narrow lanes of Soho and turned past Seven Dials Market.
Ian walked them through the crowded streets with the warm weight of Diana’s hand on his arm.
It had been years since he’d permitted himself such an indulgence, and the urge to draw her closer was profound.
He contemplated what she’d do if he made such an overture, and realized he couldn’t predict how she’d react.
There was only one instance when he’d come close to acting on the spark that simmered between them. That brutal night eight years ago, after the attack in Mayfair.
He should have kissed her. Comforted her with assurances or promises he kept in his heart.
Instead, he’d rallied all of his strength to put distance between them.
In the agonizing moment that followed, he’d destroyed all the warmth and affection she held for him because of a promise he’d also made to his father.
They walked at a brisk pace; she matched his strides despite their difference in height and her massive array of silk skirts, which were growing soiled and dingy with dust and dirt from the road.
He remained on a heightened alert. It was impossible for them not to attract notice.
Diana walked like a queen everywhere she went, and if Ian had gained one thing from his Harrow education, it was how to swagger down a street like he owned it.
The scents of the market wafted from the small square—some of them pungent, others more pleasant, like the spicy aroma of the cheese and curry hand pies from a stall at the end of the road. The seller gave him a nod of recognition as they passed.
“Il-lejla t-tajba, g?e?ie?,” she called. Good evening, dear.
“Il-lejla t-tajba,” Ian replied.
Diana’s mouth curved at their exchange. “You know that woman?”
“She’s Maltese. When I’m working late, I often buy her pasties.”
“They smell delicious. What are they called?”
“Pastizzi. Hers are the best I’ve had in London.”
They also reminded him of his mother. She never baked herself.
There was no oven in the spartan kitchen in the San Niccolo apartment she let from Alberti, the merchant who’d employed her to translate his business documents into English.
So they bought the savory treats from the bakery.
Despite complaining that the pastry was too Florentine, not light and wispy like the kind she ate as a child in Malta, she always fought Ian for the crumbs.
He was oddly protective of that memory. And yet, a part of him longed to share some of it with Diana. She didn’t suggest they stop to buy a pastry, but her wistful look made him wager she’d enjoy them.
“Looks like that’s the place.” Diana gestured to the building ahead. “Is it the right address?”
“I’ve never been here,” he said tersely. He remained uncomfortable with the fact that she now knew he’d concealed Jared’s mistress from her.
“’Ave you got a penny for me, guv?” A boy stood at the doorway. As he leaned closer, Ian maneuvered Diana away; he didn’t want either of them bringing back chits.
“Where can we find Polly Wren?” Diana asked.
The boy eyed them suspiciously.
“There’s sixpence in it for you if you tell us,” Ian offered. “But it better be the right door. Or I’ll return to claim my money back.”
The boy swallowed visibly at the threat. He pointed upstairs. “Blue door.”
Ian tossed up the coin, which the lad caught neatly before he ran off to spend it.
Diana’s bright laugh echoed in the narrow lane. He’d forgotten how infectious it was, how often the sound had filled the summer days they’d spent together by the shore.
It was a lifetime and a world away from where they stood.
He took a moment to reflect on what he was actually doing, allowing things to progress this far.
There was too much at stake for him to be anything less than serious in his investigation.
Daylight was fading, Jared could have worsened, and there was still the small matter of needing to steal the emeralds.
He admitted to himself that he was conflicted about taking Diana to meet Polly. Only a scoundrel of the lowest order would escort a woman to meet her fiancé’s lover.
Even if the woman had insisted on it.
They walked into the building and up the narrow staircase. When Ian knocked on the door, a surprised shout arose from inside the flat.
He pushed at the door, prepared to throw his full weight at it to get through, but the thing flew open, and he tripped inside.
“Get out, you blackguard, or I’ll whistle for the police!”
In the manner of a toy poodle guarding a Great Dane, a petite woman stood protectively in front of a taller, curvaceous woman.
“Lady Cora?”
The shorter woman turned to Diana. “Miss Rives?”
She took in Diana’s wedding gown, and her eyes widened before they narrowed on Ian. “Has this fiend abducted you?”
Ian’s reputation preceded him, but so did Cora Longworth’s. She was one of the fiercest bluestockings in London and known to have a low regard for the male species.
So what in God’s name was she doing in St. Giles?
“I assure you I’m quite well and here of my volition,” Diana said quickly, as she smoothed her hand over her hair. It was a small tic, the closest she came to fidgeting; Lady Cora’s presence unsettled her.
This unsettled Ian.
The woman standing behind Lady Cora—presumably Polly Wren—clutched her hands while she stared at Diana’s gown. Her lip trembled. There was more than a fifty percent chance she would break into hysterics at any moment.
Ian half hoped she would just to get it over with, and they could move swiftly on to his questions.
He ventured a step closer.
Lady Cora stopped him with a glare that would have torn a lesser man to pieces.
Diana chided him with a slanted look. “Allow me to introduce you. Mr. Ian Holt, may I present Lady Cora Longworth.”
Lady Cora sniffed her disapproval. “And this is Miss Polly Wren.”
“Holt,” Polly whispered. “You’re Jared’s kin?”
“His brother,” Ian acknowledged with a tilt of his head, which he hoped would assure the woman he wasn’t a brute.
It had the opposite effect.
Polly broke into sobs as she rushed over to a wooden cradle perched in the corner. “You won’t take my son away! You’re not taking him!”
“Why on earth would you think we came for your son?”
“Because his father is your brother!”
Ian struggled to process the series of appalling epiphanies.
Jared’s mistress had given birth to a son.
The man Ian had charged with watching Polly either hadn’t known about the baby, or intentionally kept it from Ian.
And Polly believed Ian was the bogeyman sent to separate them. Because if Jared had told Polly anything about Ian, the woman knew it was his charge to eliminate any threat to the Holts.
Ian observed Diana; her expression remained eerily calm.
Neither of them should have been shocked by Polly’s revelation. Jared was reckless, and it was possible the baby in the cradle wasn’t the only child he’d fathered. It was also possible he wasn’t the father at all, given that Polly had until recently worked at the bordello.
Yet Jared had continued his arrangement with Polly. He’d never shown such interest in any of his other women.
“You lot have some nerve. Wasn’t enough for the lout to give me that!” Polly gulped another sob as she gestured to a pile of papers on the small table. “So he sends the Devil of the Docklands to force my hand.”