Since the Surrender (26 page)

“You look cleaner, too,” she tried.

He still didn’t look at her. “If I’m cleaner, it was inadvertent.” Thump

…thump…thump went the walking stick.

“And you smell pretty,” she added helpfully.

He looked up at her then. “So do you. You always do.”

The bald compliment shocked her.

He smiled faintly, pleased to have surprised her speechless.

“Roses,” he added softly. Holding her eyes with his own.

“Yes,” she said softly after a stunned moment. Utterly disarmed.

“It’s how I think of you. Roses.”

Well.

How else do you think of me now, Captain Eversea?

It occurred to her that despite his impatience with details, Chase Eversea noticed the details that mattered. He listened far more than he let on. He cared about what was truly important. And he’d been so utterly, unnaturally patient with her, and all that was gentlemanly, damn him and bless him, all smoldering looks and carefulness and arm’s length after that moment in the brothel. The front of his shirt was soaked to transparency. Through it she could see the hard planes of his chest, the dark damp hair curling against it, the smooth tanned column of his throat rising up out of it. The sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and his forearms, thick, corded, covered in more manly dark hair, seemed inordinately fascinating. His hair was plastered to his forehead with water. He noticed her looking at it and his hand went up and pushed it back, where it stayed. Somewhat sideways.

“Better?”

“I suppose it depends on how you define ‘better.’”

In truth, she wasn’t looking at his forehead. She was mentally peeling the shirt from him and purring, Oughtn’t we to get out of your wet clothes? and then rubbing his chest slowly dry in front of the fire. Or perhaps she could lick him dry, like a kitten. And he could then return the favor, as she would most certainly be wet by then, too.

In places.

Their silence acquired a crackling density.

She noticed that neither of them had looked away even once, and once again she suspected he could read the content of her thoughts, because his eyes had gone fiercely dark and tremendously interested.

She willed him to come to her.

And then her breath caught, because she was suddenly afraid that he would.

He stood. Somewhat awkwardly.

And then slowly, slowly, he moved toward her, the way one might approach a frightened animal. She rose out of her chair, breathlessly, slowly, as though his motion dictated hers. Still, somewhere in her mind, she was uncertain whether to meet him halfway or to bolt.

He paused and looked down at her. His hands seemed unnaturally still at his sides, but she was certain it was because he was willing them not to touch her. Or could not quite decide where to begin if he did touch her.

he did touch her.

Or was uncertain whether she would truly welcome his touch. After all, she’d soundly and in detail rejected a proposal of marriage, which would have meant access to his body for the rest of her life.

He took a deep breath. “I’m going to go speak to that Charley now,”

he said. “Buckthwaite.”

She blinked. For a second she was mute with a grave disappointment.

She found her voice. “But I want to be there when you do.”

“You are certainly not coming with me.”

“But…. it might be dangerous.”

“Good God! I best not go, then! Danger is scary.”

And now she was irritated because he was amused at her expense.

“Don’t jest.”

“Rosalind, danger is in the eye of the beholder. He’s just a Charley. An officer of the law. We’re just going to have a…conversation.”

She didn’t like the way he said “conversation.” He drawled it a little too darkly and with a little too much pleasure.

“But—”

“First Lucy, and now Meggie Plum. He’s the same Charley, Rosalind, who walks the Covent Garden neighborhood where Lucy was arrested. I know it. Something is amiss. I need to do it tonight. We’ll visit the Montmorency later as we planned, and you’ll experience visit the Montmorency later as we planned, and you’ll experience your measure of danger then. Will that do?” he said dryly. “I’ll send for my cousin Adam to stay with Liam when we do—he might as well make himself useful as part of the family. But you will stay here until I return, and you’ll keep the door barred until I do.”

Briskly planning, shouldering responsibility without complaint in an instant, making decisions for everyone, sweeping up everyone in his certainty. That was Captain Eversea.

“Very well,” she said softly.

“How dare,” he said almost to himself, “how dare anyone do harm to you, or to Liam, or to Lucy?”

He smiled a small, unnerving smile. He made the statement sound not indignant, but like a blackly amused question. Inherent in it was retribution. As though he almost pitied anyone who attempted to hurt someone he cared about.

Suddenly, subtly, swiftly, without her realizing it, he was so close to her that the damp of his shirt touched her breasts. She was instantly, incongruously enveloped in lavender and sweat and a hint of what might be Bay Rum. Wet linen. Man. Chase. So close now that she was surprised steam didn’t rise from her bodice from the sheer nearness of him.

Still, his hands remained at his sides.

Slowly, slowly, his face came down toward her. She tried: she could not keep her eyes from fluttering closed. It was sweetly difficult to breathe; anticipation did that to lungs.

Just slightly, he brushed his cheek along hers, and she felt the heat of his skin, the start of whiskers, the hard plane of his jaw. His breath, hot, soft, brushed the lobe of her ear, and then his firm lips breath, hot, soft, brushed the lobe of her ear, and then his firm lips were there, just scarcely brushing the whorls of it, and gooseflesh danced over her arms and legs and spine and, for all she knew, her very soul.

“God, how I want you,” he whispered.

Her knees nearly buckled.

And then, slowly, slowly, he drew his cheek away. He stood back to look at her of-a-certainty dazed face, his expression thoughtful.

And then he nodded once, some sort of conclusion drawn or decision made, gave her one of those half smiles, the devil, and was gone.

Covent Garden was its typical mayhem, as it was payday. Men were often paid for their jobs in public houses which made it easy for them to drink their pay, then started fights that spilled into the streets, where prostitutes cheered them on or issued invitations to those still standing when it was all over.

Prostitutes called out to Chase with cheerful prurient suggestions he could scarcely understand, given that he was a little behind on his cockney. But he knew that asking a prostitute was exactly how he’d find Buckthwaite, so that’s what he did, because prostitutes always knew where to find the Charleys.

“Ye’ll find ’im in the Queen of Bohemia, luv. ’Urry back t’ me when ye’re done there, now.”

A noisy crowd, to be sure, was in the Queen of Bohemia, swigging gin in unconscionable quantities. The place stank of bodies determinedly unwashed for a good long time, of spilled spirits and smoke of every variety; the floors were scuffed and scarred from fights and centuries of chairs and tables scraped over them and stomped by boots. The ceilings were low. One of the pillars was charred black all along its north side from a long-ago fire. The Queen of Bohemia was hundreds of years old, and had endurance. He found Buckthwaite by asking another prostitute who was draped over another customer whose gin fumes brought tears to Chase’s eyes.

Buckthwaite, as it turned out, had a table to himself, a little island of cynical law enforcement in the center of chaos, prepared only to intervene if weapons were drawn or if death seemed imminent, as his job was an uphill battle and he chose the skirmishes involved in that battle. He was a solidly built man with a seen-everything air to him, and like the clientele, he was not entirely clean, either. His hair was sparse and greasy; his shirt was gray and ought to have been white. Perhaps his way of blending into his surroundings. He turned unimpressed eyes and a smirk up at Chase when he paused by his table.

And then took a second look.

His gaze fixed. It became clear he couldn’t immediately decide who or what Chase might be, but was certain he didn’t belong in the Queen of Bohemia and wasn’t there to be paid for labor and drink gin. His ale-and-sun-reddened face became stony and guarded. He ironically lifted his tankard of ale by way of salute. Interestingly, he appeared to be just about the only person in the place not riotously drunk.

“Are you Mr. Buckthwaite?” Chase asked politely. Buckthwaite didn’t rise. “Aye, sir,” he drawled with mock gravity.

“And who might you be?”

“Captain Charles Eversea.”

“Trouble outside, Captain?” This was ironically said, given that there was, of course, nothing but trouble outside. “Need my help?”

“I’m here to inquire about Meggie Plum and Lucy Locke.”

The hesitation was infinitesimal. As was the fleeting dart of his eye, the stiffening of posture. Casually, Buckthwaite reached for his tankard and lifted it to his lips. And drank down half of it while Chase watched.

Buckthwaite wiped his mouth and said, “I fear I don’t know of a Meggie Plum or a Lucy Locke, Captain Eversea.”

Chase looked down at him for a moment longer, thoughtfully. His lips curled into a faint smile.

Buckthwaite began to reflexively smile in return. Chase shot out a hand, clutched a fistful of the man’s shirtfront and yanked him roughly to his feet. The chair went toppling backward. He pulled Buckthwaite’s ear level with his mouth and bit the words off, slow, low and venomous, right into the Charley’s ear.

“Don’t. Lie. To. Me. Buckthwaite.”

He was close enough to see the veins hatching the man’s cheeks, the gray at his temples, the lines at the corners of his eyes, the once broken nose. The man’s nostrils flared in fear. His pupils turned his eye black. The pulse beat in his throat. His gaze remained steady enough.

“I’m the law, sir,” Buckthwaite said with no apparent menace and little conviction. “Perhaps you oughtn’t cross me.” It sounded like he was testing Chase.

Chase released him from the choke hold, and Buckthwaite nearly lost his balance. He took a step back and smoothed down his shirtfront almost reflexively. He regarded Chase.

“Who are you more afraid of right now, Buckthwaite? Which of us do you think is the most dispensable? Which of us do you think is more believable? Who do you think most able to buy themselves credibility?”

And at that Buckthwaite barked a laugh. Decidedly bitter. He shook his head. “We’ve witnesses, Captain.”

“Then don’t bother reaching for your pistol. Mine is trained on you.”

And it was, from beneath his coat.

Buckthwaite took a deep breath, and released it in resignation.

“We’ll talk outside,” Chase said.

It was scarcely quieter outside the Queen of Bohemia than inside. A roar of phlegmy laughter went up in the street, where men seemed to be comparing the legs of one prostitute to another; both prostitutes helpfully had their dresses hiked. Across the street stood the empty, boarded-up theater owned by Kinkade, the Mezza Luna. the empty, boarded-up theater owned by Kinkade, the Mezza Luna. Buckthwaite and Chase leaned against the side of the building and watched dispassionately. One night here was much like another.

“You arrested Meggie Plum for stealing bread,” Chase said, “but she seems to have vanished. Lucy Locke went to Newgate for allegedly stealing a bracelet and hasn’t been seen in a week. Everyone denies she was ever there. But she was indeed, there, because someone whose honesty is without question—someone unfamiliar with our particularly labyrinthine and chaotic and corrupt system of law—saw and spoke to her. Someone who cares about her. You were the last person to see these women before they disappeared.”

“Lucy should not have made it as far as Newgate,” Buckthwaite said absently after a moment. “That was a mistake.”

Chase turned his head slowly. “Explain.”

Buckthwaite pushed a wad of tobacco extracted from a box in his coat into his lower lip. He waited before speaking, apparently allowing it to fortify him.

“Captain. I think you and I can both agree that I am required to uphold the law. The laws are clear about theft. So when someone makes an accusation of a crime and there is some basis for it, my job is to make that arrest. Both women were accused of crimes by reputable men. I arrested both women.”

“Where are they now? Why aren’t they in prison?”

“Oh, did you want them in prison? A great believer in English justice, are you, Captain Eversea? Seems quite…exacting of you. Funny, isn’t there a jaunty ditty about your brother? ‘Oh, if you thought you’d never see—’”

you’d never see—’”

Christ. The bitterest version of the Colin song he’d ever heard.

“Just tell me where the girls are.”

The Charley hesitated. His face was blank with the burden of carrying too many conflicting emotions and motives. In front of them, a drunk took a very slow swing at another drunk and missed by miles, toppling himself over in the process.

“Here is the thing, Captain.” Buckthwaite turned to Chase and yanked up his shirt. His chest was a shocking hatch of thick white scars, as though someone had attempted to carve their way into him. “You’ve your share of scars, no doubt. You didn’t come by that limp accidentally, aye? Do you know how I came by mine? I was attacked bringing in two felons. Murderers, as it were. Just doing me job. They came at me with knives. I near bled to death and was months recovering me health. Everyone is surprised I’m still alive, not the least of all me. Do you know how much I was paid for my trouble during that time?” Another of those ironic smiles. “Naught. Did me job, and was nearly destitute for dying for it. And such is law enforcement valued in London. “Tis Sisyphus, I am.”

Chase was a quick study. “So someone is paying you to do something with these girls. Which is why you do it. You need the money.”

Buckthwaite’s silence confirmed it.

“To do what with these girls?” Chase’s patience was ready to snap its tether.