Samuel stilled. The velvety timbre of her voice slid over his skin like the stroke of a palm, leaving shivers in its wake.
“Drat it, Letty, I haven’t time forthis tonight.”
Good Lord, that voice. It was soft, huskier than was usual for a young lady, and so smoky at the edges it made his mouth water for whiskey. Ifshe’dapproached him in the drawing room, he’d have followed her anywhere.
“Letty? Are you in here?”
He froze, breath held as she peered into the gloom, but he was tucked into a corner, hidden by shadows, and her gaze skimmedright over him.
She let out a faint huff when silence was the only reply, then lowered her hood with an impatient tug. He caught a glint of moonlight on a lock of pale hair and leaned forward, eager to see if her face matched thatdecadent voice.
He squinted into the gloom, but most of her face was still lost in shadows.
Curious that a throaty wraith should be creeping about a darkened library in a notorious brothel, but whatever secrets this lady was hiding, they had nothing to do with him. If he could have left without attracting her attention, he would have done so,but as it was…
One by one, the muscles that had pulled taut when she emerged from the darkness loosened. Samuel let his limbs relax against the chair, and prepared to wait.
* * * *
The Pink Pearl was an explosion of light and sound, but the noise faded until there was only the faint crunch of her boots on the grass as Emma drifted through the shadows to the deserted library at the back ofthe townhouse.
She didn’t want to think about how many people would be furious with her if they knew she’d come to the PinkPearl tonight.
She didn’twantto, but her brain rushed merrily along, counting them off, one by one.
Lady Clifford, Lady Crosby, Daniel Brixton, Madame Marchand…
She paused on that last name, a shudder jolting up her spine. One did one’s best not to toy with Madame Marchand, in much the same way one would hesitate before threatening a venomous snake witha sharp stick.
If one couldn’t finish it off with a single blow, it was best not tostrike at all.
Emma slipped through the glass doors, rubbing her gloved hands together to warm them. It was spring in London, but colder than usual. The wind felt like shards of icy needles prickling her skin.
Where in the world were Helena and Caroline? She’d told Helena half-ten, and she was a few minutes late. She’d hoped they’d be waiting for her. If Emma didn’t turn up at Lady Crosby’s soon, Lady Crosby would alert Lady Clifford, Lady Clifford would send Daniel after her, and then there’d be thedevil to pay.
But she was here now, and there was no sense in leaving until she’d gotten what she wanted. It had taken several weeks of patient prodding, but Helena had at last coaxed Caroline Francis into divulging the details of her liaison with Lord Lovell, and Emma was determined to hear the tale directly from Caroline’s lips.
Except “liaison” wasn’t really the right word, was it? Seduction, ruination, and abandonment made it sound ugly indeed, but Caroline’s, er…association with Lord Lovell hadn’t been the stuff of romantic fairy tales.
Far from it.
Emma appreciated accuracy, especially when one hoped to fit an aristocratic rake with a noose for his crimes. Not that seduction and ruination were crimes, of course. Seducing the innocent was a base, detestable thing to do, but it wasn’t, alas, illegal. If it had been, nearly every aristocrat in London would have found his way to the end ofa rope by now.
But Caroline Francis wasn’t Lord Lovell’s first, worst, or only sin.
Kidnapping and murder might prove a trifle more problematic for him, despite his noble blood, but one didn’t march a man off to the gibbet without evidence. The Crown was particular that way, especially when the man in question happened tobe a viscount.
As of yet, there was no proof either Amy Townshend or Kitty Yardley had met a tragic end, or even that a crime had been committed at all. Girls went missing all the time, led astray by some rogue or other, then ruinedand abandoned.
But two missing servant girls, and now the third, Caroline Francis, pointing her accusing finger at Lord Lovell? That was the sort of thing that caught Lady Clifford’s attention. Someone had to hold such men to account, and for better or worse, that task had fallen toEmma this time.
She wouldn’t rest until Lovell’s every foul transgressionwas laid bare.
Both Amy and Kitty had vanished from Lymington House without a trace. How Caroline Francis had escaped their same fates and instead turned up at a London brothel was a mystery. A proper villain didn’t leave a witness—not without a compelling reasonfor doing so.
The library door squeaked open, admitting a narrow shaft of light and the faintest whiff of a scent that still made Emma’s stomach tighten, even five years after she’d escaped the Pink Pearl. It was a precise balance of candle wax, snuff, rose water tempered with a sharp edge of perspiration, and underlying it all a distinctly musky smell.
No other place in London smelled likethe Pink Pearl.
