Tilly slid into his head, and he shut that door quickly once more. He could not have her, so he needed to make himself understand that. The attraction would wane. It always did, he reminded himself.
Looking around him for a distraction, Ambrose realized he was entering the street his club and The Iris was on. Deciding to check on the door below the stairs yet again, he made his way down into the dark space.
Letting his eyes adjust, Ambrose instantly saw thatsomeone had been there, because they had moved the obstructions blocking the entrance. Running his hand over the lock, he felt the grooves where something had struck at the lock. Leaning closer, he saw there were fresh marks in the iron’s black.
If he’d needed confirmation that whatever was going on in there was still taking place, he had just received it. He had truly begun to believe that it was no longer in use, but this changed everything.
He must tell Tilly because there could be danger for her and those who entered her club. That secret entrance needed to be boarded shut.
A sound to his left had him turning in time to see a man approaching fast. Ambrose saw the long length of wood he held, and ducked as he swung it at his head. It brushed the side of his face and then bounced off his shoulder. Grunting as it forced him back into the door, he didn’t go down, but when he straightened, the man was fleeing.
“Danger and death lay with anyone who interferes. The Hierophant will see to it!” the man yelled before running up the stairs.
Ambrose followed, but he was too late. He’d already disappeared.
His shoulder ached, but rotating it told him that would heal and was not serious—but it could have been. What if Tilly had come down here and encountered that man? The thought made him go cold.
They were going to speak to the Nightingales about it the other day, but the games had been called, and then he’d kissed Tilly, so it had slipped from his mind. But he knew now, after tonight they must seek advice on their next steps to take. He started walking again, this time toward his town house, or a hackney, whichever he found first.
“Good evening, Lord Talbot.”
Ambrose let out an unmanly yelp of surprise as a woman drew level with him.
“Mavis,” he got out in a raspy voice. “What are you doing out here at this time of night?”
“Walking. It’s the best time, as there are fewer people about.”
She wore a shawl around her shoulders over her serviceable dress and a knitted cap on her head.
“Walking helps keep the body healthy, and the mind clear,” she said in that no-nonsense way she had. “Does your mind need clearing, my lord?” She then stepped in front of him as they reached a streetlamp, her eyes going to the side of his face. “What happened to your face, sir?”
“’Tis nothing. Just an encounter with a miscreant.”
She leaned in to study him. “There is blood. Are you in pain?”
“Nothing too bad.” He brushed off her words, never comfortable admitting weakness, which was a failing of his. “I was just out for a walk,” he added. “Please continue on with yours, I am quite well, Mavis.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she fell into step beside him, and to his mortification, slowed her pace. “When were you attacked?”
“It just happened.”
She thought about that but decided not to pursue the matter. “Perhaps a hackney, my lord?”
Pride had him wanting to say he would walk, but he was suddenly weary and his shoulder sore.
“We shall walk until we encounter one, Lord Talbot. And you can tell me what is on your mind,” Mavis said.
The woman who spoke in clipped sentences wanted Ambrose to unburden himself to her.Not bloody likely.
“Why do you think something is on my mind?” Ambrose enquired.
“Well, most noblemen, I have noted, usually are in a carriage at this time of night—unless you are a resident of Crabbett Close, that is. Our noblemen now walk like us.” She sounded proud of that fact.
“I have a few things on my mind, Mavis,” he conceded. “But nothing that you can help me with, unfortunately.”
“I find knitting excellent for calming the mind also.”
“Thank you. Perhaps I shall give that a try,” he said solemnly, knowing that would never happen.
