Chapter 7
The Dog’s Bone
“We’ve go’ a fine roasted fowl with parsnips and peas,” said Bess, watching Gus out of the corner of her eye. “Anyone interested?”
Ben hid his smile. “Sounds good, Bess. Thank you.”
“I’ll take a plate too. Mum only cooks a meal once, and I’ll be late tonight,” said Roger Lynch, giving the lass a wink and laughing when she blushed. Gus glared at him.
When the pretty barmaid had left the back office, Roger’s smoky green eyes turned on Gus. “You’re right dull, considerin’ how smart you are.”
Gus pulled his cap off his dark hair and ran a hand through the tangles. He growled at the young man. “What the devil is that s’posed to mean?”
“Instead of pinin’ after the woman who doesn’t love you—like that,” Roger added quickly when Gus rose to his full height and hovered over the boy.
August Rutland was a huge man, as big as Paddy, and as good with his fists as he was with a pistol. His dark-brown hair was unfashionably long and always pulled back with a leather thong.
“Bess is smelling of April and May when she looks at you, and you break her heart every time,” Roger continued undaunted. “Maybe I’ll try wooin’ her.”
Gus rolled his dark eyes. “She doesn’t want me, so stop yer Banbury tales before my fist ends up in yer mouth.”
“In a foul mood, ain’t we?” asked Clayton with a grin. He was dressed in homespun wool, slightly tattered, a brown cap set rakishly on his auburn hair. He was still undercover with a gang of men working for The Vicar. “The truth does that to a man.”
Gus picked up his ale, gulped it down, and slammed it on the table. “Sorry, Lynch. I’m hungry, and it’s been a fruitless day.”
Roger grinned. “It’s all right. I know you like me.”
Gus grunted while Clayton snorted, his green eyes sparkling with humor.
“Have there been any murders reported in my neighborhood? Maybe an alley off Wormwood?” asked Ben, getting to the point.
All three stopped to stare at him. “An alley off Wormwood? That’s dueced specific,” said Roger.
“There are murders all over London every day. Someone in particular you’re wondering about?” Gus pinned Ben with a stare.
“Remember Mr. Felton, the night watchman?” asked Ben.
Gus and Clayton nodded.
Roger shrugged. “Didn’t you mention something about his wife? She’s a knocker-up?”
“Yes, well, she’s his daughter, and she thinks she witnessed a murder yesterday morning.”
“She thinks?” Clayton raised a brow.
Ben described the scene and the possible murderer. “No shots sounded, but she saw a knife in his hand.”
Roger let out a whistle. “Doesn’t sound good. He’s likely floating, and we won’t see him for a while.”
“Rooney wasn’t around today, but no one mentioned it. He was one of the men who wanted out.” Clayton stopped talking as Bess came in with plates on her arm and a jug of ale.
When she set a plate before Gus, he gave her a side-glance and mumbled, “Thank ye, Bess.”
The girl’s face lit up, and she self-consciously pushed a brown curl beneath her mobcap. “Yer welcome.” She refilled the men’s bumpers and left.
Clayton began again, “Describe the man.”
Ben did as asked.
“The devil if that doesn’t sound like Rowland. Got that scar as a boy in his first fight. Acts like a rooster, parading around with his chest puffed out, wanting to lead the wolf pack. Says the ones left are spineless, and he’ll make ‘em into men.”
“Do you think he got rid of Rooney?” asked Gus.
“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Clayton chewed on a hunk of bread. “He may be trying to impress The Vicar. He’s a hobbledehoy—guessing about eighteen, maybe twenty. Arrogant enough to think he’s got the experience to move up with a few misdeeds, and young enough to end up in the Thames himself.”
“I ain’t heard anything on Bow Street,” said Roger, proud of his new position. “I’ll keep my ears peeled.”
“A Peeler keeping his ears peeled,” barked Clayton. “Good one, except I believe the correct phrase is keep your eyes peeled.”
Roger groaned and rolled his eyes.
“Would this Rowlands try to find Miss Felton?” asked Ben, his nerves taut at the thought of that sweet lass in the path of The Vicar.
“He’s arrogant, not stupid. Yes, if he can find her, he’ll silence her. The bloody cull has no conscience.” Clayton studied Ben. “Are you worried for her, Ben?”
“I-I like her—and her father—and don’t want to see either harmed.”
“Maybe Sam could let her stay at Hospital Hope,” offered Gus.
Ben mulled that over. “Possibility.” Their brother Sam Brooks and his wife had opened a hospital for unwed mothers.
The only option most of the unfortunate women had was to abandon their babes to a foundling home.
The Magdalene House would take in repentant, wayward women, but they had to give up their children.
Roger shook his head. “Too many people there to identify her. No one can know where she is if she is to be truly safe.”
“Can she sew?”
Ben frowned at Clayton. “I don’t know. I assume so since she’s… you know, a female.”
Gus guffawed. “Don’t let Maggie or Nora hear you say that. They made sure we can all darn a sock if needs be.”
Embarrassment chased up Ben’s neck. “I can ask her. Why?”
“Genie was talking about hiring an assistant. The business is growing, and she needs help. It wouldn’t be hard to explain her presence.”
Clayton’s fiancée, along with her aunt, owned a dress and apparel shop on Clements Street. A random place to keep Miss Felton safe with no connection to her family or the murder. “Do you think Genie would mind a boarder for a week or so?”
“Let me talk to her. Find out if your girl has any skill with a needle,” said Clayton. “Now, that particular lovely woman is waiting to plant a kiss on me as soon as I grace her doorway.”
“Speakin’ of arrogant,” Roger whispered loudly.
Clayton only chuckled and hit the top of Roger’s head with his cap. “Let me see what I can find out. I’m meeting up with a few of the congregation after midnight.”
“Thank you,” said Ben, hoping Clayton was wrong about the scarred man.
The night was warm for April, and he walked along Bush Lane toward Cannon Street.
His mind was crowded with thoughts of Miss Felton, murder, and his new client, Lord Tamber.
When he stopped for a moment, he realized he was on Walbrook Street.
There was a light on at the Feltons’, so before he overthought it, Ben knocked on the door.
Miss Felton called from the other side in a strange, husky tone. “Yeah?”
“It’s Mr. Cooper,” he said to the smooth wood, grinning at her attempt to disguise her feminine voice. “If you harm a hair on Miss Felton’s head, it will be your last act on this earth.”
The door swung open, and a brilliant smile took his breath away. He couldn’t name the exact feeling every time he saw this girl, but it was overwhelming and wonderful at the same time.
“Oh, Miss Felton,” he said in feigned surprise.
“You knew it was me,” she said, standing back to let him enter. “I appreciate the gesture, though.”
Ben walked to the table and stood by the chair he’d occupied that morning.
Spread across the table were scraps of a variety of materials, along with buttons, shiny things, paste jewels, and lace.
There were several different sizes of needles sticking out of a red wool pincushion. The clutter answered one question.
When he turned to see the door still open, it hit him. “I apologize, miss,” he stammered. “Propriety didn’t occur to me. I was walking, and thinking, and then I saw I was on your street…”
She laughed, and he realized her hair was down, black curls spilling over her shoulders. His fingers itched to see if the tresses were as soft as they looked. “It’s fine. I’ll leave the door open, and Mr. Mercer will hear me scream if you’re improper.”
His eyes flew to the ceiling, as if the image of a cackling old man would wave back at him. “I give you my word.”
“Did you come with news?” Her voice held hope.
He nodded. “I’m afraid your father is correct. You may be in danger.”
She swallowed, and his eyes lingered on her slender white neck peeking above the high pale-rose collar. Tears shone in her eyes, sending a bolt of pain straight to his heart.
“Don’t cry,” he said, feeling helpless. If this was his sister, he’d wrap Nora in a tight hug. But she wasn’t his sister. Far, far from being his sister.
“I have no place to go where I wouldn’t put someone else in danger.” Her bottom lip trembled just before the tears spilled over onto her cheeks. “I d-don’t know what to do.”
Ben watched her slim shoulders shake while her hands covered her face. He reached out to pat her arm, not sure how to comfort her, when he suddenly found himself holding her.
How the devil did this happen? he wondered as he rocked her back and forth, rubbing her back, his chin resting on her head.
Her hair smelled of lemon and something flowery, and he breathed in the scent.
Her dark waves shone in the lamplight, and beneath his palm, he found the tresses comparable to fine silk.
Just as suddenly, she pushed away, shaking her head. “Now I must apologize,” she said, a look of horror in her shimmering eyes. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Fear,” he said softly. “A human emotion which usually requires some means of comfort.” He wanted to lighten the mood, take her mind off the grim situation.
His hands reached out to cup her face, wiping the tears away with his thumbs.
Before his brain could refuse, his lips brushed her cheek, then lingered…
His body’s reaction to the contact was immediate.
A desire of such intensity surged through him that it almost knocked the breath from his chest. But it wasn’t just a physical desire, a man wanting a woman.
It was a longing to protect her, to make her happy, to have her smile light up his world every day for the rest of his life.
Miss Felton peered up at him and sniffled, confusion clouding her deep-violet eyes. “Th-thank you for being so k-kind and helping me.”
Blast! It was as if some other man had taken control, pushing Ben forward to seize the moment.
Her cheeks were splotchy from crying, her sooty lashes spiked from the tears. He’d never seen her look more beautiful. He ached to pull her back into his arms and swear to her that no one would ever hurt her. That he would keep her safe till his dying breath.
Perdition! What kind of tricks was his mind playing on him?
He could hear Maggie’s words in the back of his brain as she scolded one of his brothers.
It’s not yer brain, ye daft man. It’s yer heart.