Upon arrival at the hotel, he all but ran the entire way to their rooms, attracting not one but several shocked glances. He heard someone titter, “That cannot possibly beRansom—the devil-may-care duke?”
They could all go hang.
“Maggie, I’m back!” Rhys strode into her suite. “I have some news…”
He trailed off at the sight of Hypatia and Newton on the settee. Their heads both whipped in his direction, and ice coated his gut.
Hypatia’s eyes were red-rimmed, Newton’s framed by lines of worry.
“What’s happened?” Rhys demanded. “Where’s Maggie?”
“She left,” Hypatia said faintly. It was then that he saw the note crumpled in her lap. “She’s gone to look for the treasure on her own.”
36
With her childkidnapped and lover gone off to wed another woman, Maggie supposed she could have given into despair. Or had a fit of the vapors. Neither, however, was in her nature.
When the going gets rough, a Goode keeps going.
Ma had lived and died by those words. By God, so would Maggie.
She didn’t blame Rhys for his decision; she understood why he had to do what he had to do. Ultimately, she agreed with it. If it came to choosing between Glory’s life and her own happiness, she knew what she’d choose…even if it meant losing the man she loved forever.
Even heartbreak couldn’t distract her from the reality, however: Rhys’s plan was not foolproof. If Sweeney knew about the treasure, then he might also know its supposed worth—which was well beyond what Rhys could get by marrying the American heiress.
As a former businesswoman, Maggie understood about costs and benefits. By reneging on the armistice, Sweeney was openly disrespecting Tessa and risking her wrath. The cost to him was great…which meant the benefits had to be bigger.
What if Sweeney wouldn’t settle for less than the jewels?
Thus, the treasure remained the key. And Maggie still had two days to find it.
After Rhys left for the Sharpes’ this morning, she pleaded a megrim to Hypatia and went to her room. She’d changed into one of her old dresses and departed the suite discreetly, hailing a hackney to take her back to Limehouse.
She didn’t have any new ideas. What she had was some money, a copy she’d made of the Chinese characters, and determination fueled by a mother’s love.
She started canvassing the neighborhood again, going beyond what they’d covered earlier. She would go through every tavern, lodging house, and, yes, brothel in order to get her daughter back.
She worked for hours and had no luck. The men she spoke with either told her what she already knew—“Plum Forest burned down”—or they didn’t speak to her at all. She continued onward.
As dusk fell, the darkening streets filled with dockside laborers and sailors out for an evening’s entertainment. Whores paraded through the throng, their painted faces and scantily clad figures drawing unsavory types like magnets. Maggie kept her head down low as she scouted the next street.
It was crammed with bawdy houses and lodging houses that looked like they rented chambers by the hour. Some couples didn’t even bother with privacy; she could see figures doing the upright in the shadowed alleyways off the main way. Steeling herself, she prepared to go forth.
A ruckus stopped her.
Turning, she saw a pair of adolescents ganging up on an elderly Chinese vendor a few yards away. They pushed over his chestnut cart, and he shouted at them in his native tongue as his long-handled pan flew to the ground, his livelihood spilling from it and scattering over the dirt-packed street. They jeered at him, shoving him as he tried to collect his fallen goods.
The wise thing to do would be to move on, mind her own business like all the other passers-by were doing. Yet a dam of rage broke inside her: she wasdonewith bullies and bastards. With those who’d hurt and take advantage of others just because they could. Most of all, she was done with feeling powerless.
She ran toward them, picking up the fallen pan along the way.
She arrived at the old man’s side. “Leave himbe.”
One of the youths, a husky brute-in-the-making, laughed. “Look ’ere, now we got a pretty dove. Maybe we should pluck ’er as well as the Chinaman.”
“You’re not plucking anyone.” Her grip tightened on the handle of the heavy pan. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, picking on an old man.”
“Yes, Mama.” The mocking reply came from the second youth, who had a case of spots and a belligerent attitude. He pointed at the vendor. “Now ’and o’er your purse, Chinaman, if you know what’s good for you.”
