She’d left her address. Mistake. She should have run. Not that he wouldn’t have caught her; he would have spent the rest of his life chasing her if she’d run.
He deserved his retribution, after all. And she would give it to him.
Who was this stupid, brave woman?
Mara Lowe. Alive. Found.
Strong as steel.
The thought came, another fast on its heels, and he reached inside his boot, knowing what he would find.
The harpy had stolen her knife.
Within the hour, he was washed and on his way to No. 9 Cursitor Street, uncertain of what to expect. It was possible the woman had run, after all, and as he made his way deeper and deeper into the streets of Holborn, he wondered if she had done just that and left him with directions to her personal cutthroats to finish the job she’d begun the prior evening.
The neighborhood was less than pleasant, even at seven in the morning. Drunks were nestled in doorways of unsavory taverns, empty bottles fallen haphazardly to their sides as they lolled in their early-morning stupors. A haggard prostitute stumbled into the street from an alleyway beyond, eyes bloodshot and heavy as she plowed into him.
Her eyes met his, and he recognized the faraway look in them. “Wot’s a fancy bloke like yerself doin’ ’ere?”
Chasing ghosts.
Like an imbecile.
The prostitute’s touch was everywhere, and he caught her as she searched his coat for his purse.
“No luck today, darling,” he said, extracting the empty hand.
She did not hesitate to lean in, and he steeled himself against her sour breath. “ ’Ow ’bout a bit o’ business, then? I’ve never ’ad one yer size.”
“Thank you,” he replied, lifting her and setting her to the side. “But I’m afraid I’ve an appointment.”
She grinned, two teeth missing. “Tell me, luv. Are you big all over?”
Another man would have ignored the question, but Temple had lived a long time on these streets, and he was comfortable with whores. For years, they’d been the only women willing to keep him company—luckily, he’d never had to settle for ones quite so . . . well used.
Fate had dealt the woman an unfortunate circumstance, a truth that Temple understood better than most. She did not deserve scorn for the way she managed.
He winked. “I’ve never had a complaint.”
She cackled. “Any time you like, luv. A right bargain, I am.”
He tipped his hat. “I shall remember that.” And he was off, down Cursitor, counting the doors until he reached number nine.
The building was out of place—cleaner than all the others on the row, with flower boxes in the windows, each boasting a mass of mums in bright colors—and as he stood outside, staring up at the flagstones, he knew that he’d found the place. And that she hadn’t run.
But why live here, on a filth-ridden street in Holborn?
He raised the knocker and let it fall with a firm rap.
“I see I wouldn’t be the first to sample the wares.” He turned back to the street, where the prostitute stood watching him. She came closer, gaze suddenly knowing. “I know you.”
He looked away.
“Yer the Killer Duke.” He returned his attention to the door, frustration coursing through him. It never went away, that cold thread of anger mixed with something worse. Something far more devastating. “Not that I care, luv. A girl like me can’t be too choosy.”
But he heard the change in her voice. The edge. Wariness and knowledge and a tinge of equality. They both lived in the darkness, after all, didn’t they?
He ignored her, but she continued. “You’ve a boy for MacIntyre?”
He looked to the door again, then back at the woman in the street. “A boy?”
She raised a brow. “Y’ain’t the first y’know. Won’t be the last. It’s the way of it. The way of men. Girls ought to be careful these days. Especially around the likes of you.”
The woman hadn’t met Mara Lowe, evidently.
The door opened, ending the woman’s sermon and revealing a young lady with a cherubic face in the house beyond. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen, peering up at him with wide, surprised eyes.
He tipped his hat. “Good morning. I’m here for Mara.”
The girl’s brow furrowed. “Mrs. MacIntyre, you mean?”
He should have known she wouldn’t be here. Should have known she’d lied to him. Had the woman ever told a truth in her life? “I don’t—”
He couldn’t finish the sentence, however, as hell chose that precise moment to break loose inside the house.
A cacophony of shouting erupted from a room beyond his view, and a half-dozen small figures came tearing through the foyer, chased by a handful of slightly larger figures, one of which was carrying—was that a table leg?
Three of the smaller creatures seemed to sense their impending demise and did what any intelligent being would do in such a scenario—ran for the exit. They made a tactical error, however, in that they did not count on either Temple or the young woman to be in the vicinity, and so instead of a straight shot into the street, they found themselves captured like flies in a wide web of skirt.
The trio cried out in frustration. The maid at the door cried out in what Temple could only imagine was terror, and not improperly placed. And the leg-brandishing creature cried out in conquest, leaping onto a small table in the entryway, raising his club high above his head and launching himself into the fray.
For one fleeting moment, Temple admired both the child’s courage and his form in battle.
The girl at the door stood no chance. She toppled like a felled poplar, and the boys scurried from their cambric trap, tumbling across the floor, kicking and screeching and wrestling.
And it was only when squeals began to emanate from the pile that Temple realized he could not in good conscience back away from the door and let the insanity ensue without him.
If these children escaped, they would wreak havoc on London.
He was the only one qualified to contain them. Obviously.
Without asking permission, he stepped over the threshold and entered the house, the door closing behind him with a great thud even as he helped the maid to her feet. Once he had confirmed that all her extremities were in working order, he turned to the more unsettling matter at hand . . . the writhing pile of boys at the center of the foyer.
And then he did what he did best.
He entered the fight.
He pulled boys one by one out of the pile and set them on their feet, removing wooden swords and bags of rocks and other makeshift weapons from hands and pockets before setting them free, placing each of them on the ground with a firm “That’s enough,” before going back to extract the next.
He had taken the last two boys in hand—the one with the table leg and another who was quite small—and lifted them clear off the floor when he saw it, small and pink and unmoving.
He leaned in, still holding the two boys.
“Aww . . .” said the boy with the table leg, seeming not to mind that his feet were dangling two feet above the floor. “She’ll get away.”
Was that a—
The piglet sprang to life with an ear-splitting squeal, running for the nearest room and startling Temple, who leapt back. “Jesus Christ!”
And, for the first time since he’d knocked on the door, there was silence inside No. 9 Cursitor Street.
He turned to face the boys, each of whom was staring up at him wide-eyed.
“What is it?”
None of them replied, instead all looking to their leader, who still held his weapon, but luckily seemed disinclined to use it. “You took the Lord’s name in vain,” he said, accusation and something close to admiration in his tone.
“Your pig startled me.”
The boy shook his head. “Mrs. MacIntyre doesn’t like cursing.”
From what Temple had seen, Mrs. MacIntyre might do well to worry less about the boys’ language and more about their lives, but he refrained from saying as much.
“Well then,” he said, “let’s not tell her it happened.”
“Too late,” said the little one in his other hand, and Temple turned to look at the boy, who was pointing to something behind him.
“I am afraid I already heard it.”
He turned to the voice, soft and feminine. And familiar.
He set the boys down.
She hadn’t run. “Mrs. MacIntyre, I presume?”
Mara did not reply, instead turning to the boys. “What have I said about chasing Lavender?”
“We weren’t chasing her!” several boys cried at the same time.
“She was our booty!” another said.
“Stolen from our treasure!” said the leader of the pack. He looked to Mara. “We were rescuing her.”
Temple’s brow furrowed. “The pig’s name is Lavender?”
She did not look at him, instead letting her attention move from one boy to the next with an expression he found distinctly familiar—an expression he’d seen a million times on the face of his childhood governess. Disappointment.
“Daniel? What did I say?” she asked, staring down the leader of the once-merry band. “What is the rule?”
The boy looked away. “Lavender is not treasure.”
She snapped her attention to the boy on the other side of Temple. “And what else? Matthew?”
“Don’t chase Lavender.”
“Precisely. Even if—? George?”
George shuffled his feet. “Even if she starts it.”
Mara nodded. “Good. Now that we’ve all remembered the rules regarding Lavender, please tidy yourselves and put away your weaponry. It’s time for breakfast.”
A ripple of hesitation passed over the boys, each one of the dozen or so faces peering up at Temple in frank assessment.
“Young men,” Mara said, gaining their attention. “I believe I spoke in proper English, did I not?”
Daniel stepped forward, a small, sharp chin jutting in Temple’s direction. “Who’s he?”
“No one for you to worry about,” Mara assured him.
The boys seemed skeptical. Smart boys.
Matthew tilted his head, considering Temple. “He’s very big.”
“Strong, too,” another pointed out.
Daniel nodded, and Temple noticed that the boy’s gaze tracked the scar high on his cheek. “Is he ’ere to take us? For work?”
Years of practice kept Temple from revealing his surprise at the question, a split second before understanding rocketed through him. The building was an orphanage. He supposed he should have seen that earlier, but orphanages tended to conjure visions of miserable boys in long lines for bowls of steaming grey mush. Not battalions of screaming warriors chasing after pigs.
“Of course not. No one is taking you.”
Daniel turned his attention to her. “Who is he, then?”
Temple raised a brow, wondering just how she’d reply to that. It wasn’t as though she could tell the truth.
She met Temple’s gaze, firm and fierce. “He’s here to exact his revenge.”
A dozen little mouths gaped. Temple resisted the urge to join them. Daniel spoke again. “Revenge for what?”
“A lie I told.”
Christ. She was fearless.
“Lying is a sin,” little George pointed out.
Mara smiled a little, secret smile. “Indeed it is. And if you do it, men like this will come and punish you.”
Like that, she’d turned him into a villain again. Temple scowled as a roomful of round, wide eyes turned on him. He spoke then. “So you see, boys . . . I’ve business with Mrs. MacIntyre.”
“She didn’t mean to lie,” Daniel defended her.
Temple was certain that Mrs. MacIntyre had absolutely meant to lie, but when he looked to the boy, he couldn’t resist saying, “Nonetheless, she did.”
“She must’ve had a good reason. Didn’t you?” A sea of young faces looked to Mara.
Something sparkled in her gaze. Humor? She found this situation amusing? “I did indeed, Henry, which is why I fully intend to make a deal with our guest.”
Over his rotting corpse. There would be no deals. “Perhaps we should discuss the reason, Mrs. MacIntyre.”
She tilted her head, refusing to cower. “Perhaps,” she said, sounding as though she meant the absolute opposite.
It seemed to be enough for most of the boys, but Daniel’s gaze narrowed. “We should stay. Just to be safe,” and, for a moment, Temple saw something eerily familiar in the boy.
Mistrust.
Suspicion.
Strength.
“That’s very kind of you, Daniel,” Mara said, moving to usher the boys through a door on one side of the foyer, “but I assure you, I shall be quite fine.”
And she would be. Temple had no doubt.
Neither did most of the boys, it seemed, who went, as though there had been no pig stealing or chasing or sparring or vaulting through the air or anything else—all except Daniel, who didn’t seem sure, but allowed himself to be filed from the room, looking over his shoulder the whole way, assessing Temple with serious dark eyes.
It had been a long time since someone had so fearlessly faced him.
The boy was loyal to Mara.
Temple was almost impressed, until he remembered the woman in question was a demon and deserved no such loyalty.
When she closed the door firmly behind the pack of boys, he rocked back on one heel. “Mrs. MacIntyre?”
At the pointed question, she darted her attention to the wide-eyed maid, still frozen in place at the door. “That will be all, Alice. Please tell Cook that the boys are ready for breakfast. And send tea to the receiving room for our guest.”
Temple raised a brow. “Even if I were a man who drank tea, I know better than to ingest anything you offer me. Ever again.” He looked quickly to Alice. “No offense, Alice.”
Mara’s cheeks went red. Good. She should be embarrassed. She could have killed him with her reckless behavior.
“Thank you, Alice.” The girl couldn’t have been happier to leave the room.
When she did, Temple spoke. “Mrs. MacIntyre?”
She met him head on. “Yes.”
“What happened to Mr. MacIntyre?”
“He was a soldier,” she said simply, “killed in action.”
He raised a brow. “Where?”
She narrowed her gaze. “Most people are not rude enough to ask.”
“I lack breeding.”
She scowled. “The Battle of Nsamankow, if you must know.”
“Well done. Obscure enough that no one could trace him.” He looked around the foyer. “And respectable enough to land you here.”
She changed the subject. “I didn’t expect you so soon.”
“Not enough arsenic in the scotch?”
“It wasn’t arsenic,” she snapped before lowering her voice. “It was laudanum.”
“So you admit you drugged me.”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“And, to confirm, it was not the first time?” When she did not reply, he added, “The first time you drugged me and ran, that is.”
She exhaled a little huff of irritation before coming forward and taking his arm, ushering him toward the room into which the pig had fled. Her touch was firm and somehow warm even through the wool of his jacket, and he had a fleeting memory of his dream—of her fingers trailing through the drop of wax on his sleeve.
She was unsettling.
No doubt because she was a danger to his life. Both literally and figurativel
y.
She shut the door, closing them into a clean, unassuming receiving room. A small iron stove stood in the far corner of the space, a fire burning happily inside, warming the piglet who had narrowly escaped certain death only minutes earlier and now appeared to be asleep. On a cushion.
The woman had a pig on a cushion. Named Lavender.
If he hadn’t spent his last several conscious hours in a state of surprise, he would have thought the animal strange. Instead, he turned to face the pig’s owner, who was pressed against the door of the room.
“I did not exactly run,” she qualified. “I left you my address. I practically—no. I definitely invited you to come after me.”
He raised a brow. “How magnanimous of you.”
“If you hadn’t been so angry—” she began.
He couldn’t help but interrupt her. “You think that leaving me unconscious on the floor of my library assuaged my anger?”
“I covered you with a blanket,” she defended herself.
“Silly me. Of course, that resolves everything.”
She sighed, her strange, compelling gaze meeting his. “I did not mean for it to go the way it did.”
“And yet you packed an excess of laudanum for the journey to my home.”
“Well, you’re a bit larger than most men—I had to be prepared with an excess dosage. And you’d taken my knife.”
He raised a brow. “Your sharp tongue will not endear you to me.”
She mirrored his expression. “A pity, as I was doing such a good job of it beforehand.”
A laugh threatened, and he quashed it. He would not be amused by her.
She was toxic. Toxic was not amusing.
She pressed on. “I do not deny that I deserve a modicum of your anger, but I will not be strong-armed.”
“That’s the second time you’ve used that word with me. Need I remind you that for the duration of our acquaintance only one of us has drugged the other? Twice?”
A red wash appeared on her cheeks. Guilt? Impossible. “Nevertheless, it seems an apt description of how you might behave with me, Your Grace.”
He wished she’d stop calling him that. He hated the honorific—the way it scraped up his spine, reminding him of all the years he’d longed for it. The years he couldn’t have it, even though it was his by right.