Page 24 of When We Touch

The address was not encouraging. It was true that crime was rampant in the area, that death by foul play was far too frequent. But now . . .

Father Vickers had reminded them the other day of a poor woman—a drunken, violent prostitute known to get into a few street fights—who had met her death, viciously assaulted with a knife—last April. Then another prostitute had died not long ago, cut up by a knife as well. She’d last been seen with a sailor or serviceman. But nothing had compared to the last horror. And that such a frenzied crime had occurred at all was horrifying.

“Ah, well, then—” Jamie murmured. “We’ll need to get started. Right now. I’m assuming you’ve the exact address?”

“Ah, sir, you know I wouldn’t come to you unprepared!”

“Um, still, you’re going to rent a carriage. I don’t want the crest being seen anywhere near Alexander’s center of operation. Let’s see, make an appointment for a Mr. Richard Riley, an Irishman of considerable wealth who just last month lost his beloved wife. Sadly, she drowned, in the pond on the family property in Cork. Be as detailed as you can, you know, gossip away as a dear and lamenting servant of the poor departed Nellie.”

“Aye, Sir James, you know I love to tell a good story.”

“Indeed. Get to it, then. I’ll head to the town house right now.”

He watched Darby as he walked away, a happy bounce to his gait. Indeed, he’d tell good tales about Ireland, the home he’d left long ago. Thank God. He had proven himself irreplaceable and extraordinary more often than Jamie cared to remember.

“Have we finished the game?” Roger called to him.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to forfeit.”

“Good! I’ll be able to talk about the way I beat you at the club tonight!” Roger called cheerfully back to him. “Will you be there, ready to defend yourself?” Roger joined him at the edge of the net, a slight limp in evidence. Roger had been knighted due to his service in India. The leg still bothered him when the weather was damp—a continual state in England—but Roger had no wish to ever leave his native land again.

“Ah, not this evening.”

“Well, you should come. Seems Lord Ainsworth has found some spectacular new venue of entertainment.”

“I’m afraid I shall have to miss it,” Jamie apologized.

“Pity. Oh, well, next time!”

“Next time, yes.” He wasn’t sure if he was sorry to miss any of Percy Ainsworth’s entertainment. The baron was known for a keen sense of showmanship—and debauchery as well. It was often said that he’d be the fall, if not the death, of many a foolish young man.

Still, he didn’t particularly want to dress up and attend a séance, either.

* * *

For some reason, Lord Charles left late that evening. He had been in a terribly nostalgic mood, and though Maggie usually loved listening to his stories, she found that she was watching the clock over the mantel.

It was nearly ten after eight when he glanced up himself, let out a yawn, apologized profusely, and said that he must call Darby.

Darby, of course, had been somewhere near with Clayton, and appeared immediately.

After Charles left, Justin lingered. “You look restless. I was going to the club, but I’m happy to stay here with you.” He was anxious and solicitous. As well he should be. However committed she was to their cause, however much she loved him, it remained true that he had brought about their current situation.

“Justin, please, I’m just going to read and retire myself. It would be quite silly of you to remain home.”

He frowned, looking at her somewhat warily. “You haven’t anything planned, have you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“James Langdon spoke to me at the club the other day. Naturally, he was courteous. There was still the hint of the suggestion that I was lax in allowing my sister to run around the slums of the city.”

She sighed, shaking her head. “It isn’t his place to comment.”

“His interest is on his uncle’s behalf.”

“Justin, we’ve spent our lives respecting one another’s intelligence—and choices.”

“And I feel that I’ve failed you as your brother.”