Brock shook Kimpton’s hand. They hung back behind the ladies. “Any more word on Harlowe?” he asked softly.
“Nothing. The trail has gone cold.”
Inside the Theatre Royal, Brock gently set Ginny’s left hand on his right arm and led her up one side of the double staircase from the vestibule. The notion that he could appear in public with her struck him with renewed veneration as they worked their way up through the throng of theatergoers to the boxes under the Corinthian rotunda.
Griston’s box stood empty when they arrived. Brock stepped away, allowing the women to visit while Kimpton departed for refreshments.
“I’m terribly worried,” Lady Kimpton said.
Brock’s gaze moved from the mob below to the frown covering Ginny’s face. “Surely you don’t believe Corinne will—”
“Of course not,” Lorelei interrupted her. “She would never desert Nathaniel. He’s just a babe. Still, hiding my concern becomes more difficult by the day.”
“Suppose the girls and I come for a visit tomorrow?” She glanced at Brock, a smile hovering her lips. “After our safeguarding instructions. Say, two o’clock?”
“Yes. Corinne does enjoy watching Irene with the children. That child is a natural.”
“I came to the conclusion earlier today that my firstborn is considerably older than my own age of nine and twenty.”
Lady Kimpton’s laughter filled the box. “Good heavens, I believe you have the right of it.”
Ginny’s own laugh followed. The curtains moved aside, and Kimpton appeared, his hands laden with glasses. “What did I miss? Still no Griston?”
The same thought occurred to Brock.
Eighteen
L
oren hovered deep within the confines of his brougham and pulled out his watch. The low light made it difficult to read the timepiece, but clearly he was going to be late meeting Lady Maudsley and her parents. Damn Vlasic Markov to hell and back. Meeting in the Almonry, or anywhere in St. Martin of the Fields, under the cloak of nightfall was in bad form. Markov’s timing couldn’t be worse.
Farcle was watching the Maudsley house, and Sid was dumping Harlowe. Left with no choice, Loren was forced into using one of the footmen of his mother’s hiring. The only good thing about the location was its six-minute trek to the theatre.
“Are ye sure this is the direction we’re to be takin’, m’lord?”
Of course, Loren couldn’t tell him yes. That would go straight back to his mother. “Circle up behind the Abbey,” Loren told him. “We must have missed the turn a couple of streets back.” The carriage rocked with a sharp lurch.
The door crashed in, nearly toppling the low-lit lantern from its hook. Before Loren could pull out his pistol, a hand reached in and grabbed him by his snowy starched cravat and yanked him out, felling him to the mucked ground. The stench alone was enough to kill a grown man.
“It appears we’re still missing our child bride.” The heavy menacing accent bordered on mockery.
Loren gathered his fury about him. “Well, you certainly are doing well in thwarting my efforts. You know very well, the opportunity has not presented itself—” A fist caught him beneath the chin, and he bit his tongue, giving him a mouthful of blood. He spat it out, leaving behind a metallic aftertaste. The crinkle of leaves stirred to a deafening level that turned Loren’s stomach.
“’Tis your responsibility to create opportunity,debilné. You’ve been paid.”
He spat out more blood and rubbed his jaw. “Not completely.”
A boot jammed his ribs. “Perhaps not ever. Perhaps I shall take care of the matter myself. I could not do worse.”
Loren groaned.
Another well-placed kick, this one to the head, had Loren unable to distinguish between the night and consciousness. “Heed my warning.”
It took Loren a few moments to realize he was lying in the street of one of the worst rookeries in London. With monumental effort, he struggled to his feet, looking about for his footman. He located him on the other side of the rig, out cold. He certainly couldn’t be seen the rest of this night. His cravat was crushed beyond repair, his evening wear mucked with God knew what, his face bloodied and swelling. Blinding rage consumed him at Markov’s stupidity.
Crawling to his feet, Loren located the footman and dragged him into the carriage. He thought he might faint with the throbbing pain in his ribs. He returned to the house and tossed the reins to a groom and limped up to his room. Farcle entered a moment later.
Loren lowered himself in a chair, wincing.
