What if he had a use for her?
His cock twitched.
Notthatuse.
At the end of his report, the Bow Street Runner had asked how Jamie wanted to proceed. He’d delayed his reply, weighing whether or not to let the matter of Mollie Rafferty drop. But he understood now that he was being disingenuous with himself. He’d raised the dead, and though fourteen years had passed, he needed to know how, why, and what happened to her.
Tonight, he’d met just the person to find the answers to those questions.
Convincing her to agree would be an entirely different matter.
Chapter Five
The lead inHortense’s hand pulled taut and yanked her to an abrupt halt.
A now familiar frustration took flight inside her. This was the tenth stop in the last fifty feet. She’d been counting. Who knew such a little dog could be so strong and so very curious?
She was accustomed to an economy of movement that involved traveling from one place to another in as efficient a way as possible. The little terrier—and his bold nose—had other ideas, which involved exploring interesting scents to his thorough satisfaction and then relieving himself on them. She’d taken to calling him Sir Bacon, due to his penchant for the savory meat and his aristocratic upbringing. For a blue-blooded pet, however, he certainly displayed a variety of uncouth manners.
Speaking of aristocrats, it was from Lady Fortescue’s Mayfair townhouse they were now returning. An unproductive trip, to say the least, for Sir Bacon remained at her side, his tiny legs matching her longer stride five steps to her one, when he was walking and not sniffing. The terrier’s energy was boundless, as was his bladder, for last night he’d piddled twice on her bedroom floor and once on the bed. Truth told, she hadn’t minded him so much once he’d settled and curled next to her in sleep.
What did bother her exceedingly was that Lady Fortescue hadn’t been in to receive him today. The woman wasn’t even in London. She’d up and sped off to her Hampstead estate and wouldn’t return for an indeterminate number of days. This fact had been relayed to her by a kitchen maid who hadn’t bothered hiding her delight.
Initially, Hortense had shrugged at the unexpected development—she could collect payment another day—and extended the dog’s lead toward the maid. With a decided shake of her head, the girl took a hasty step backward, then another for good measure. “Oh, no. With ’er ladyship gone, I don’t fancy cleanin’ up after this scoundrel.”
The kitchen door had closed in Hortense’s dumbfounded face, and that was it. Sir Bacon would remain her charge for the foreseeable future. She spared a glance for the terrier. He did possess a certain charm with his short, jaunty stride and proud bearing.
His nose drew him to a stop. Yet again. “Oh, Sir Bacon. Can’t you see number eleven is just ahead?”
She calculated a distance of one hundred feet to her destination. Which meant twenty vexatious stops between here and there.
Of a sudden, a feeling prickled across her skin. She glanced about until she found a pair of eyes steadily trained upon her from across the street. Crouched into a nondescript corner, the boy was scruffy and clothed in rags and unlikely to be given a second glance, precisely as all eels wanted it. Having caught her attention, he unfolded his lanky form and stood. Then he tipped his cap and scurried off, the message sent. Doyle expected a tax payment tonight.
She had his tax. A small brass horse rearing on its hind legs—Doyle had a penchant for both brass and horses—that looked to receive the dusting feathers but twice a year. In other words, such a bauble wasn’t likely to be missed by Winthrop.
A quiver of ice shot through her. But for how long? How long could she keep this up? How many times would “this time” be the last time?
In front of the boardinghouse, she noted a magnificent dapple-gray horse, whose reins were being held by a rather smart groom, drawing the eye of every passerby. Such an animal wasn’t often seen in these parts.
Her gut churned. It was a sight more familiar in locales like, say, Mayfair and St. James’s Square.
Intrigued, but mostly suspicious, she decided to enter the boardinghouse by the main front door, instead of taking the alley entrance directly to her rooms. She was reaching for the handle when the door swung inward. Dead center in the opening stood Mrs. Hayhurst, tall, erect, and dressed in her customary head-to-toe black. What wasn’t usual was the frantic look in her eyes. “You have a caller,” she said, her voice a rushed whisper.
“Oh?” Hortense remained calm for the sake of the other woman.
Mrs. Hayhurst’s gaze dropped. “What is this?”
“A dog.” She’d known this confrontation was coming.
“But…but why is ithere?” The landlady’s eyes narrowed. “While I do tolerate your eccentric requests and odd hours, a mongrel in my house is quite out of the—”
Hortense held up a hand to stay the remainder of Mrs. Hayhurst’s scold. “This mongrel is Sir Bacon. You and I will speak about him—and fitting recompense—later.”
The other woman exhaled aharrumph, but an avaricious glint had entered her gaze atfitting recompense. Sir Bacon’s stay could be negotiated for a price. Hortense suppressed a sigh. The world could be such a predictable place.
“Now,” she said, “you were saying about this caller?”
Mrs. Hayhurst blinked, and the harried look returned. Her voice lowered a confidential octave. “’Tis agentlemancaller. I’ve shown him into the communal drawing room.”
