Chapter 6
Rowe House
Well Close Square
When Beatrice didn't meet him halfway, Warrick strode around the desk and moved so close, his heated scent of oranges filled her senses. The room momentarily seemed to tilt on an axis.
The dizziness dissipated with his next words. "If we enter into a pact to get to the bottom of what's really happening to your cargo, and the children, you have to agree to my conditions."
When he closed the space between them, she could almost reach up with her index finger and touch his lips, the puffy, sun-and-sea-roughened lips that had already invaded her dreams. "That depends," she answered breathlessly.
"On what?" His words came out almost hoarse with longing.
St. Joseph's bones, did he suspect her dangerous yearnings? "On what your conditions entail."
He stepped away quickly, putting a safe distance between them.
However, she wondered if there was any distance far enough away to ensure her safety from this brigand of a man.
She suspected she'd soon be inhaling the smell of fire and brimstone if she didn't protect her heart from this unrepentant thief.
After he'd gone around to the other side of the desk and settled back into the comfortably cushioned chair, he placed one booted foot atop his knee and steepled his hands in front of his face for an extended period of time.
When he sat up suddenly straight, he leaned forward, slammed both boots against the floor and said, "My conditions are these: We'll help you unmask and stop the real thieves and child slavers.
We'll guarantee whoever the perpetrators turn out to be, they'll pay for their crimes, but in return, you have to guarantee your silence as well as that of your warehouse crews, concerning the unwritten agreement you have with The Horsemen for protecting your cargoes and keeping the peace along the docklands. "
"How do I know I can trust you to keep your word and bring the child slavers to justice?"
Warrick's expression flew from benign to ferocious in the wake of her question. The sudden change in his mood caught her unawares, but she didn't care. She wanted to know him in all his moods.
"Because...my three brothers, my sister, and I lived through the same nightmare those poor little souls are going through.
The Horsemen do not tolerate the exploitation and torture of children.
..in any form. Period." He stood suddenly and commenced pacing again, as if trying to curb his anger.
"We'll bring the men responsible for those crimes to justice no matter whether you decide to cooperate or not, my fine lady. "
He set his mouth in a firm line and crossed his arms, almost daring her to contradict him.
"I don't know whether you care, but my requirements as part of our deal are simple." She had to keep speaking, or she feared she'd lose her nerve.
He kept his arms firmly crossed but nodded that she should continue.
"First of all, I want to be involved in all of your inquiries. I don't want to wait at home whilst you track down the guilty parties. Secondly, I must insist that any enslaved children recovered will be freed and protected, no matter the cost."
Warrick's eyes narrowed. "What are you playing at? I can't have you following us about, poking your nose where it doesn't belong."
"You're wrong. Ensuring those children who are being ripped away into servitude are given a chance to live a free life again should be concerns for both of us. The only way I'll keep you supplied with information about my brother-in-law's movements is if I'm your partner...all the way. Understood?"
"Understood." He cracked a half smile along with that admission, which made her heart do a kind of joyous jig.
Warrick was flummoxed. What kind of woman wanted.
..no, insisted, on sharing responsibility for the outcome of a Horsemen operation?
Of course, Warrick rarely encountered any women, save those at certain brothels where he went periodically to slake the inevitable thirsts that overcame him from time to time.
To be honest, he rarely considered what women thought or how they acted.
His life had been one long, empty road of duty.
Early in life, he'd owed duty to the Royal Navy.
Now his duty extended to the crew who'd followed him off his last ship; duty to his brothers and sister; duty to the people and families of the rookeries they watched over.
Beatrice was the first woman he'd encountered that he actually cared about what she thought, what went on inside that stubborn head topped by honey-blonde curls, what sparked behind those huge, intelligent blue eyes.
"Why are you so quiet? What's going on in that shaggy blond head of yours?" Her words caught him off guard. Was she contemplating the same thing he was?
He stopped thinking, walked directly to her chair behind the desk and leaned down to cup her face in his hands whilst he sipped tentatively at the lips she constantly darkened with her nervous chewing.
And then he remembered where he was. Any one of her servants could walk in on them, or God forbid, her young son or shrewish sister.
The soft moan that escaped her throat made him forget all of those dangers.
When he moved in to capture her lips fully, she leaned toward him, making her luscious breasts too tempting to ignore.
Her widow's black bodice was cut just low enough for him to dip one of his fingers, and then two, to find one of her nipples that he'd noticed earlier, pushing through the black silk, begging for attention.
At a light tap at the door behind them, a stab of fear much worse than a beat-to-quarters before an enemy attack at sea raced through his gut. He moved his body in front of hers whilst she straightened her bodice before saying, "Come."
It was only her butler Childers, bringing a tray of tea, along with tiny sandwiches and lemon-iced biscuits. "Miss Van Djik asked me to bring you this. She was afraid you might forget the time and require some refreshment."
Beatrice shook her head. "I'm afraid my sister understands more than she lets on."
Beatrice had no more than poured cups of tea for herself and Warrick than there was another, lighter tap at the door.
She smiled and rose to welcome the visitor herself.
She suspected Anneke had told Willie some sort of tall tale about why his mother was entertaining a strange man behind her closed office door.
"Cook told you about the lemon-iced biscuits, didn't she?"
Willie hung his head. "May I have some?"
"Of course." Beatrice poured another cup and gave the boy a look meant to let him know he'd better mind his manners and save a few biscuits for their guest.
Warrick gave Beatrice a look of wonderment.
"What? Have you never seen a mother caution a son against too many treats?"
"No. I've never seen a mother do anything with a child.
Growing up, we never had a mother. That is, until Missus Kamish, the rag man's wife, informally adopted The Horsemen.
I suppose she was the closest thing we ever had to a mother.
She still worries about us and sends soups to Fam all the time, because she knows he's always hungry.
She also knows all she has to do is send for us, and we'll be there whenever she's in need. "
The minute Beatrice poured Willie's cup of tea and handed him a biscuit, he began asking questions of Warrick.
"Willie...your manners." Beatrice gave a huge, exasperated sigh. "This is Mister Dyer, a business associate of mine. Mister Dyer, this is my son, Wilfred Rowe."
"I'm the third, you know," the boy helpfully supplied, before launching into a series of rapidly asked questions: "Why are you dressed in a Royal Navy uniform? What is that thing on your back that's all shiny but looks like what you use to chop wood? What business do you have with my mother?"
Warrick threw her a perplexed look.
"You'd better answer all his questions, in order, or he'll not give you a moment of peace until you're well quit of our house."
Willie turned to Warrick with an expectant look.
Beatrice squirmed, a bit uncomfortable at her child's endless questions. When had he turned into a bloodthirsty young man?
"All right...first question. I'm a retired Navy lieutenant, and it's convenient to still wear my old uniform. Second question...that's a boarding axe on my back." He gave his weapon a loving pat. "I never go anywhere without it."
"Why?"
"Because I have to go some places that are dangerous. I never know when I'll need to defend myself."
"Do you still want an answer to the third question?" Warrick exchanged a wary look with the young whelp.
Willie nodded, his cheeks puffed full of his second lemon-iced biscuit.
"I'm in the business of, um, moving cargo for your mother."
The boy finished chewing and then spat out another question: "Why?"
"Because I'm good at it."
"Why?"
"Because I'm the best mover of cargo in all of London."
Beatrice intervened, a mischievous look in her eyes. "You'll be here all night if you keep answering his questions."
"How old is young Wilfred?" Warrick suddenly asked, as the boy went for his third biscuit.
"He was eleven last month," Beatrice supplied proudly.
The bite of biscuit Warrick had just swallowed lodged like a stone in his stomach.
He'd been Willie's age when he'd been sold to a Royal Navy press gang by followers of Bill Green, The Horsemen's former handler and torturer.
After his brothers had killed the old man, his gang followers had retaliated by selling Warrick into service aboard a British man-of-war.
Seeing Beatrice's strong, but vulnerable, young son, he realized for the first time in his life how truly horrible the abuse he'd gone through at the hands of older sailors had been.
Because of his life on the streets at that time, he'd felt like an adult, but in truth, he'd been no older than Willie.
He wanted to escape outside and cast up his accounts.