I Kissed a Rogue (Covent Garden Cubs) (9 page)

And then he’d left, and Lila’s heart had thundered when she’d realized he’d locked the door behind him. She was locked inside, a prisoner in this unfamiliar place.

For a full moment, terror coursed through her as well as fears of being forgotten or abandoned, and then she squared her shoulders. “Lila, you are a grown woman. It’s time you acted like one.”

Apparently, that included talking to herself. As no one was present to hear her, that seemed a trifle.

“The first thing you should do is investigate,” she told herself in a matter-of-fact tone. She set about doing just that, finding bread and jam in a cupboard and water in the pitchers, as Hunt had promised.

“That’s not much of a dinner,” she said with a frown, but at least she would not go hungry. “Too bad Hunt didn’t wait to collect me until after dinner at Lennox House.” Her father always ordered six- or seven-course meals. It was wasteful and extravagant, but Lila had grown used to it, and bread and water did not appeal.

Besides a sturdy table, that was the kitchen, and Lila returned to the common room. The fire crackled and popped in the hearth now, warming the room considerably. In the dim light, she could see the room boasted a large green rug, a desk with a chair, and a couch. It was a small room, so this was quite enough to fill it, but Lila felt the lack of embellishments.

“Not a single vase or even an ornamental table,” she said, walking the circumference. She could not argue that the room fit her impressions of Brook. “Basic and utilitarian,” she concluded. “And perfectly tedious.” She sighed.

The desk held neat stacks of folders and papers, but she doubted they would be of any interest and headed for the back room instead.

Lila stopped short. “Oh no.”

What she had thought a dressing room that would lead into two bedchambers was a bedroom.

The
bedroom.

The flat had one bedroom. One bed.

Did Brook think she would share it with him? Not likely! He’d made it more than clear he didn’t want to marry her. He’d begun planning the annulment before he’d even said his wedding vows. After the ceremony, he hadn’t been able to get away fast enough.

Strangely enough, her shame at being abandoned at the wedding breakfast was not what hurt the most. He hadn’t even looked at her when he’d pledged to love, honor, comfort, and keep Lila. His hard, coffee-colored eyes had stared at a point somewhere over her head.

Lila would be the first to admit she was a fanciful girl. She’d grown up the daughter of a duke, in grand country houses and town houses with ornate ballrooms and soaring staircases. She’d been dressed in velvets and silks before she could walk. It had been no stretch of the imagination to pretend she was a princess. She had been a princess.

Of course she’d imagined her wedding day. She’d dreamed of the gown she would wear, the handsome duke she would marry, the way he would stare into her eyes as though she were the only woman on earth.

None of that had come to pass. Even her wedding gown was one she’d worn before and which held no special significance for her except that it was a favorite.

Brook was most certainly not a duke, but she could have overlooked that. She wasn’t a child anymore. She knew better than to judge a man based on titles or riches. Brook was a good man, but she did not even exist in his world.

He couldn’t even bear to look at her during their wedding.

She had hardly been able to look away. He’d been so handsome in his dark blue coat and buff breeches. He had broad shoulders and slim hips and someone—probably that valet of his—had actually styled his hair. Combed back from his forehead, the strong lines of his face had been on display. He had a square jaw, defined cheekbones, soft lips.

She’d wanted to kiss those lips, had imagined them pressing gently to hers.

Perhaps she was a foolish girl after all because Brook had walked away from her without even a by-your-leave.

No doubt he didn’t even intend to sleep in this bed with her tonight or ever. Perhaps he’d keep her locked here until he could obtain the annulment he so desperately desired.

Lila forced herself to move into the room and examine its meager contents. The bed was large and took up most of the space. It looked comfortable enough, though there was nothing stylish about the blue coverlet and two pillows.

Interesting that there should be two pillows. Was one for her or had Brook entertained other women here?

She pulled the coverlet back and noted the freshly pressed sheets. Someone—she would lay her wager on Hunt again—had made certain the linens were clean.

Pushed against a wall, a rosewood wardrobe stood with the door partly open. She peered inside, saw shirts and coats stored neatly. Nothing of interest there. Finally, she rounded the bed and stared down at the small bedside table. That had to be Brook’s side, as a book lay open on top of several papers.

She lifted the book, read the title, and set it down again.
A History of the Peloponnesian War
. She didn’t even know what that was, much less care to read about it. Under the book was a draft of a letter to a Mr. Simmons of Chancery Hall. Lila shouldn’t have read it. It was obviously private correspondence and she had no right to pry into it.

On the other hand, what else did she have to do, and if Brook hadn’t wanted her to read it, he shouldn’t have locked her in there and left it out.

The letter inquired after a young boy by the name of Geoffrey, asking how he had settled in and thanking Mr. Simmons again for undertaking his training. Apparently this Mr. Simmons was a butler of a country house, and this Geoffrey had been taken in as one of the servants.

But why should Sir Brook care about this Geoffrey?

Could he be Sir Brook’s bastard?

She lifted another sheet of paper. This letter was not a draft. It had been folded but lacked the wax seal. There were several others below it that were also folded. Perhaps Brook had not mailed these yet because he needed more wax to seal them.

With a furtive look at the door, she opened that letter. This one was addressed to a Mrs. Parson of Timberside Lane in Hampshire. It inquired as to the progress of Miss Mary Smith in the kitchens as the kitchen maid.

Another bastard? Did Brook send all his by-blows to other parts of the country to be reared as servants?

She read another letter and another, all in the same vein.

Exactly how many bastards had Brook Derring sired?

She looked at the bed again, at the plain blue coverlet. Dozens of children had been begotten in that bed, under that quite serviceable blue coverlet. Did Brook Derring actually expect her to sleep in it?

Then Lila remembered she was to write to her father and assure him she was well. That was not all she would write in her letter. With newfound purpose, she returned to the common room, sat at the desk, and withdrew a sheet of foolscap. Dipping the quill in the ink pot, she began to write.

Six

“Sir, I really do think you should go home.”

Brook glanced away from the flash ken he’d been watching and peered through the sheets of rain at his man. Rain had been pouring for hours, and the water sluiced down Hunt’s hat and onto his shoulders in fat rivulets. Brook’s own hat kept the water out of his eyes but little more. He was soaked through to the bone, his hands and feet gone numb two hours ago.

Beezle and two of his cubs—Brook thought they were called Racer and Stub—had gone inside. He’d been tailing them all day, but now it looked as though they intended to stay inside. He could hardly blame them. The foul weather kept all but the most stalwart indoors. But Beezle would emerge sooner or later, and when he did, Brook would be waiting to follow him.

“A little rain never hurt anyone,” Brook said, returning his gaze to the flash ken the Covent Garden Cubs gang called home. It was little more than a dilapidated building a strong wind would have blown over. Brook was surprised the heavy rains hadn’t flattened it yet. “But perhaps you’d like to return to Derring House and sip tea by the fire with my mother and the other ladies.”

Hunt said something under his breath. Brook hadn’t been able to make it out, but he assumed it was a curse.

“That’s not what I mean, sir. I meant, you should return to the flat. You should see your wife.”

Brook didn’t like the sound of the word
wife
. He’d managed to forget he was married the past three days, and he rather liked that state of consciousness.

“Why? Have the men we posted outside the building seen something suspicious?”

“No, she’s quite safe. Guarded all day and all night. No one but me and the guards are allowed inside or out.”

“She’s fine then,” Brook said.

Hunt shook his head, splattering rain on Brook’s cheek. “No, sir. You don’t understand. She’s been writing letters.”

Brook cut his gaze toward Hunt. “What sort of letters?”

“That’s what I want you to see, sir. If this keeps up, we’ll need to hire another guard to fetch and carry.”

Brook turned to face Hunt. “Another? I have four men watching the flat!”

Hunt dipped his head and water ran off his hat and into the puddle at their booted feet. “The men can’t be expected to guard her and carry out all her orders.”

“Her
orders
?” Brook stared at Hunt. “What sort of orders?”

“Pillows, sir. That’s the latest thing. She’s ordered pillows in velvet.”

“Why?” What the hell did she want with velvet pillows? “What else has she ordered?”

“I think you’d better see for yourself, sir.”

Brook glanced back at the flash ken. Beezle wouldn’t be emerging anytime soon, and Brook could send Dorrington or another man to watch the gang. So far neither he nor Dorrington had been able to find any connection between Fitzsimmons and the Covent Garden Cubs, but Brook was persistent. And Beezle couldn’t hide forever.

Brook pulled his collar up and motioned for Hunt to follow him. Once they were away from Seven Dials, they’d hire a hackney to take them to the flat. “Why didn’t you mention Lady”—he glanced around and began again—“my wife’s
orders
sooner?”

“I didn’t want to trouble you with it, sir.”

“And now?”

Hunt seemed to consider his words before he spoke. “I think it’s best if you see for yourself.”

Brook put his head down and plowed through the rain, stepping around those residents of the rookery unlucky enough to have nowhere but the street to weather the storm. There were plenty of them, and once or twice, Brook felt eyes on his back. He looked around, tried to spot who watched him. The old hag hunched against a broken cart? The prostitute shivering under the eave of a gin house? The little boy crouched in the doorway?

It might have been any of them or all of them, but Brook couldn’t afford to take chances. “Hunt, make sure the hackney takes the long way around.”

“You think we’ll be followed in this weather and by a man on foot?”

Brook didn’t speak, allowing his silence to speak for him.

Hunt sighed, a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, sir. The long way it is.”

* * *

Damp, blue with cold, and ravenous, Brook arrived at his flat in St. James’s Street an hour later. He greeted the men he’d hired to watch the flat, who were inside the building and out of the rain. Even so, they looked tired and worn out.

“Thank God you’re here, sir,” one of the men who called himself Finnegan said. “I don’t think we can take much more.”

Brook slicked his damp hair off his forehead. “Yes, I can see it’s been a difficult day for you—inside, warm, and out of the rain.”

“It’s only because of the rain that we’ve had any time to rest,” said the other man, a tall blond called Turner. “The rain slowed her down some, sir.”

Brook looked at Hunt, but his man was absorbed in shaking water off his coat.

“Wait here,” Brook said and started for the steps. At the door to his flat, he shed his heavy greatcoat and patted his waistcoat until he found the key. Using it, he stepped inside.

And immediately stepped back out again to check the number. Where the hell was he? This wasn’t his flat.

But the number was correct, and when he stepped inside again, he recognized the layout if not any of the flat’s contents.

“Is that the dining table, Finnegan?” a feminine voice called.

Brook shut the door behind him, pocketed the key, and moved gingerly inside. His rug, couch, and desk were gone. In their place was a large gold Turkey carpet, a white-and-gold velvet upholstered chaise longue, and a small escritoire with a dainty chair he would probably break if he ever sat in it. The hearth blazed with a crackling fire, which he did appreciate, but when he moved closer, he saw the mantel had been decorated with porcelain vases and Sevres bowls.

What the devil had Lila done to his rug? His desk? His couch? His bloody flat?

He turned when he heard footsteps and their eyes met when she entered the room from the bedroom. He had a moment of dread when he considered what she might have done in there, but then she was blinking at him, her burnished eyes so big and dark, and he forgot his horror for the moment.

One look from those eyes, and heat shot through him. The rain and cold seeped out of him, and a slow burn began in his belly and shot lower. She had lion eyes; her honey-colored irises seemed to look right through him. Into him.

He lowered his gaze, looking away from those eyes, and that was a mistake. Her lips were full and red, her cheeks pink with color from the exertions of—he remembered the velvet longue and the Sevres plates—refurbishing. Her dark hair had escaped the confines of what looked to have been a simple bun and now hung in long, curled ribbons down her back and over her shoulders. She wore a peach-colored gown ornamented with orange and pink flowers and green leaves. Something sparkly—spangles or metallic thread—had been sewn into the flowers lining the bodice and the leaves, and the gown seemed to sparkle and shimmer when it caught the light of the fire.

“It’s you,” she said, finally breaking the silence. “I thought—” She broke off and gestured vaguely.

“You thought I was the dining table.” He glanced around the room again. “What is all this? Where is my desk, my couch?”