Page 28

“No, no. We are leaving within a fortnight. I shall offer payment to you in the morning. Now, if you will excuse me,” Abram said, continuing on his trek to the door of his building.

The man cleared his throat. “Yes, well… We’ve spoken about this before. At this point, I shall have to release the rooms.”

Obviously, the man was confused. He likely saw many tenants and had mistaken him for Rowan. They were of like build, though Rowan was substantially heftier and wore a beard. Perhaps he enjoyed the drink. Given the landlord’s appearance, overindulgences were likely. “Certainly, I shall see to it first thing,” Abram replied. No sense in arguing with someone over something so minor.

“May you have a restful evening, my lord,” the landlord said, apparently satisfied with the promise no matter how muddled his mind.

Abram merely grunted. It was late. He had wandered around for hours… again. Searching for Rowan. He was beginning to wonder if there was any point. Though he was frustrated, he did not regret his decision to track Rowan. He was sure the man would have done the same for him, even if his job hadn’t depended on it. Abram considered if the man may have been more successful, likely only requiring a matter of hours to find a wayward Abram.

Before heading into his own apartment, he knocked on Rowan’s door once more. Without thinking, he tried the knob for the first time. When the door snicked open, he peered inside the darkened space. It was after dark, and only the light of the moon lit the space.

There was no one there, as Abram had suspected, but the room was a mess. The table was overturned, the bed linens strewn about, and there were papers everywhere.

Abram walked into the space, found a candle on the floor, and quickly sought out a match with which to light it. As the flickering golden glow illuminated the small room, he considered there might have been a scuffle.

Rowan’s clothing was still in the room. There were travel bags and the chest familiar to Abram that had accompanied the valet to all the destinations they had traversed. The sight dashed the notion of Rowan returning to Ireland. He would not have left without any of his belongings.

Abram set the candle in a safe space, away from any item the flame might have caught, then righted the table and picked up a few items from the floor, piling them all on the bed.

Was it possible someone had wrestled with Rowan? Taken him? But for what reason?

Abram turned around, facing the door in order to retrieve the candle. From the corner of his eye, he caught a shadow against the door. The tail of a coat was still visible. Someone was watching him.

He picked up the candle, then placed it on the recently-set-up table. Moving aside, out of plain view, he doubled back along the wall. In one smooth movement, he jumped out and over the threshold, grabbing a man by the collar just as the scant villain attempted to escape.

“Got you!” Abram exclaimed in a hushed whisper, still holding the collar of the coat. He yanked back—hard—causing the man to fall against him. He did not weigh enough to even knock Abram off-balance.

Abram used his other arm to wrap around the rather slim waist. “You are not going anywhere,” he proclaimed.

A wince escaped Abram’s captive, arms and legs flailing to escape. Abram continued to hold on to him.

“What business do you have here? And why have you taken my servant?” he snapped. His skin grew tight and blood coursed through him, a moment of exhilaration that soundly bolstered his ability to hold tight.

“It’s me, Mr. Fain.” The winded, feminine voice was one he recognized.

He stopped fighting abruptly, a spike of concern punching through and causing even more sweat to form on his brow. There was no possible way this man was… “Miss Gray,” he gasped.

“Yes, now please. Release me,” the voice came again.

He did as he’d been asked and took a step back. When the man… Rather, when Miss Orris Gray turned, he could see the soft curve of her face, the full lips topped with a cupid’s bow and the deep brown of her eyes, a complement to her umber skin. She was still just as beautiful when dressed as a man. She wore a bibbed cap, black coat, and trousers. She even had a cravat elegantly tied about her neck. Her normally pinned high braids were clasped at her nape and flowing down her back. “What on earth are you doing here? At this hour? You could be seen… You would be ruined.” She would be cut off and cast out no matter where she was, but especially in prime and proper London.

“I was not supposed to be seen. I reviewed the ledgers to find where your payment had been sent so I could find you. That I may help you,” she said, her breath still uneven and her voice pitched higher. Her eyes were wide with what must have been fear.

He had so many questions, none of them forming in his mind with immediate answers. “Miss Gray, please. Come inside before you are seen. Or overheard. There is no mistaking that voice of yours, is there?” Abram stood aside and allowed her to enter, despite the face of the viscount with his veiled threat forming in his mind.

Fortunately, she acquiesced and came inside Rowan’s room. “I am sorry, Mr. Fain. Or should I call you something else?”

Abram closed the door behind them and leaned against it. Thankfully, no one else on their floor had opened their doors. Perhaps she could have missed anyone’s scrutiny. “What? Call me something else?” Abram’s heart pounded behind his ribcage, the sound of blood rushing through his ears. How could she know his name was something other than Aldridge Fain? She had only seen him at her home, well, aside from the dress shoppe. And there, he had spoken to no one.

“I have been following you. I heard the innkeeper call you ‘my lord.’ There is only one reason for that. You must not be just a painter. You are a member of society. But why would you lie to us? To my family?” She crossed her arms over her chest, which was a very flattering shape without the yards of clothing and padding from corsets and muslin and every other contraption known to man.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, not ready to admit he had been soundly caught in a scheme of his own making.

Orris rolled her eyes, the expression as close to exasperation as one could get. “Sir, I would have you know yours is not the only case my sisters and I have solved since we have been here. Your disguise has not even been flawlessly executed. Your demeanor and everything about you says you are a man of means. Not that you could not acquire wealth with how well you paint, but your clothing, your mannerisms, all suggest a member of society. So, who are you, really?” She leaned against the table and stared at him, as if he were some puzzle she had managed to just about solve, but she was missing some crucial pieces.

Abram ran a hand over the back of his neck and walked across the room, stopping in front of the windows overlooking the streets of London. “I am the second-born son of a duke in Ireland. I have been traveling for some time cultivating my painting skills and learning more about art than I should have done, given my father’s distaste for the finer things in life. In fact, my valet and I were set to return once done with your painting. My given name is Abram McQueen.”

Though he kept his voice even, there was a wellspring of guilt swirling in his gut as he recounted his selfish journey of self-discovery. Had he returned home before, perhaps Rowan would not be in such a position. Speaking his truth informed him. He had not considered anyone other than himself.