“Then why are ye searchin’ for ’er?”
Because of the dreams, he could say.
They had started after he’d been wounded at the Battle of the Nive. A head wound that had carried him close to death... until the dreams of a beautiful woman with his own dark hair, a womanin danger, had forced him back to life.
Even though all around her was blurry and unfocused in that way of dreams, her face was clear to him. He could see the woman laughing and hear her singing. He’d recognized her—hismother.
The sound of her music filled him with joy and a sense of peace... until the dream changed. Her song turned to screams. Screams that haunted him.
He couldn’t see the threat, but he always felt her fear. He would startle awake with his heart pounding in his chest and an overwhelming sense thathehad betrayed her.
The singing woman, his mother—a woman he’d never known—called out to him. He didn’t know her name or if she was alive or dead, but he had to learn her story. Nor did the dream leave after he’d healed. He’d wake, sweating and shaken in his camp cot. He knew he’d shouted out in his sleep. He could see it in the faces of those who served beside him. It wasn’t unusual for men at war to cry out from night terrors. It was unusual forhimto show any sign of weakness.
Once Napoleon had been vanquished, Beck had resigned his commission and turned himself over to a new quest. The name Dervil and the color of evergreen were his only two certain memories of where he’d spent the beginningyears of his life until he was roughly six years of age. That was when the Marquess of Middlebury’s man, Olin Winstead, had appeared one day to take him away.
That was also the day that Madam had slipped and mentioned that Beck was Middlebury’s bastard. Otherwise Beck wouldn’t have known. For her error, Winstead had backhanded her and warned her to “shut her mouth.”
The action had shocked Beck. No one had ever touched Madam or spoken to her so rudely in Beck’s presence. Her power was omnipotent. Beck remembered that Dervil had surged forward to protect her but Madam had warned him back. That had seemed even stranger to young Beck. He’d witnessed Madam turning Dervil loose on other men for much smaller offenses.
Winstead had then grabbed Beck by the scruff of the neck and marched him out of the evergreen house. In the waiting coach, he’d told Beck that he was never to speak the marquess’s name or ask questions. “Else I’ll track you down and cut out your tongue.”
Beck had believed the threat. He’d seen the man hit Madam. That meant he was more powerful than she was, and she had ruled Beck’s life.
Winstead had also claimed that “Beck” was a humiliating name. Apparently Madam had shared that the ladies called him that name because he was at the beck and call of the house. “You should have a man’s name,” Winstead had said. He’d thought for a bit and then said, “Beckett. Beckett Steele. Yes, that is it,” he’d said,“because you’ll need to be as strong as steel to survive what life is going to throw at you.”
He’d been right. Life had not been easy.
Winstead had delivered Beck to Faircote, a school for lads as miserable as he was but who had families. Even the bastards, of which there were several, had fathers who gave them their surnames. Beck had no one—until that moment in a field hospital when the singing woman began haunting him.
Now he was desperate to find her.
The whore’s gaze narrowed. “Ye aren’t goin’ to tell me yer reasons, are ye?”
“Thank you for your time.” He turned back to the door. Opened it.
“She’s probably dead,” the whore said.
He knew that.
“Most of us aren’t good mothers,” she added, another warning. “We can’t be.”
He walked out the door.
The brothel was busy. He could hear sounds of men having the “edge” taken off of them, as the whore had described it. There were cruder terms, but Beck liked hers.
He had to wait by the entrance as a group of giggling young drunkards charged into the house, stumbling over each other as they hurried in. At last he could step outside and was thankful for the chill in the damp night air and breathing room.
The hour was coming on midnight. Beck debated continuing to the other two brothels. He had to be up early in the morning. He’d fallen into an interesting line of work. There werepeople looking for their missing loved ones who could use the skills he had developed from his own search.
So far, he’d rescued a rector’s daughter who had been kidnapped by a jilted swain, found a beloved elderly parent who, in a befuddled state, had wandered off, and tracked down a young ingrate who had disappeared from his university and his family to live a rake’s life in Amsterdam. Tomorrow he was to call upon a wealthy merchant who wished him to discover the name of his much younger wife’s lover.
The work wasn’t necessarily savory, but it was proving lucrative. So much so that Beck found that instead of payment, he sometimes asked for favors. There was power in having wealthy, well-connected people in his debt. Considering his father, the Marquess of Middlebury, was one of the most important men in Society’s hierarchy, he might need that power.
One more, he promised himself. The brothel was close, just down the street. Then he could turn in for the night.
Stifling a yawn, he set his wide-brimmed hat on his head, left the house’s lighted step, and started down the dark street. The darkness didn’t bother him. He’d become used to it. Besides, he could see the porch light of—what was it called? Mrs. Elderberry’s. The name made him smile. It sounded benign for a bawdy house—
A beefy hand came out of a passageway between two buildings and yanked him into the shadows.
