The house on Howland Street shared common characteristics with Miss Trimble—the thirty-year-old manager of the sanctuary for waifs and strays. Both presented a rather plain frontage, the red brick building being as dull as the woman’s brown dress and auburn hair. The black iron railings looked as rigid as the set of Miss Trimble’s chin. And yet amid the austere facade stood an extravagant first-floor balcony, a glimmer of sophistication to match Miss Trimble’s cultured air.
“Mr Bower must accompany Miss Sands during her investigations,” said the woman with unforgiving eyes.
Dante inclined his head respectfully. “Miss Sands is to accompany me to Cornhill. You may inform Lucius Daventry that she will remain under my protection for the entire day.”
Miss Trimble surveyed the cut of his coat as if he were an urchin begging for scraps. “Forgive me, Mr D’Angelo, but I cannot let Miss Sands leave without Mr Bower acting as chaperone.”
Chaperone? Miss Sands had survived in the slums for six months. She stalked after rakes in the dark, had seduced him with teasing glimpses of her tight trousers. Daventry was taking his responsibilities a little seriously.
Dante straightened his shoulders. “Miss Trimble, I can kill a man with a single blow. Miss Sands will be perfectly safe in my care.”
The woman glanced disapprovingly at the fresh gash above Dante’s brow bone. “You’re known for your recklessness, sir. You might not care if you live or die, but I have a duty to protect the ladies who reside here. Miss Sands will leave with Mr Bower or she will not leave at all.”
Miss Trimble stared down her pert nose. Hell, Newgate’s hulking guards were less intimidating. This refined spinster spoke as if Miss Sands were a timid wallflower, not a lady who caught villains for a living or embraced rogues in secluded corners of the garden.
“In light of the fact it will take hours to receive Daventry’s permission, I have no choice but to agree to your demands, madam. Bower will accompany us to Cornhill so he might play nursemaid.”
Miss Trimble’s smile was as cold and crisp as a winter’s morn. “Then I shall inform Miss Sands you’re here.”
Dante waited in the drawing room like an eager suitor—except he’d not come with a pretty posy, had sinful and downright wicked thoughts, not honourable notions of courting and marriage.
When Miss Sands entered the room, humming a country ballad and with a light skip in her step, her springtime smile proved infectious. Dante rarely found something to be joyous about at midday, yet he felt an alarming flicker of enthusiasm.
“Mr D’Angelo. I’m pleased to find you’re a man of your word.” Her smile faded the instant she noticed the slight cut above his brow. She rushed forward. “Good heavens! What happened to your eye?” Disregarding propriety, the lady grabbed his hands and examined his knuckles. “Sir, these are fresh bruises. Tell me you didn’t confront Mr Babington with your suspicions.”
Dante stared at her hands, so pale and delicate, while his were an autumn palette of purple and green. The obvious difference held his attention, as did the tenderness of her touch. Still, it brought to mind the memory of his mother’s dainty fingers gripping his tightly while begging for their lives.
“No, Miss Sands. I worked through my frustrations at a fighting den in the cellar of the White Boar.” Perhaps he would revisit the tavern tonight.
“A fighting den?” Cornflower blue eyes scanned his face. “Do you go there often?”
The hint of concern in her voice roused his ire. He did not want her worrying about his welfare. “Does it matter?”
She arched a coy brow. “If you do, and this is the extent of your injuries, perhaps it’s worth me making a wager.”
A laugh burst from his lips. It was the last thing he expected her to say. “A man looks for ways to cope with his demons. I would rather rise to a challenge than lounge about in a laudanum-induced stupor.”
“Better to feel something real,” she agreed, releasing his hands.
“Indeed.”
Pain was real. Pain stoked the flames of vengeance.
“Let me know when you plan to return to the White Boar and I shall accompany you, assuming they allow women to watch men brawl. I cannot work as an agent forever. Gambling on you, sir, might help me secure a nice little nest-egg.”
“You’ve never seen me fight, yet you sound sure I’ll win.”
“As you have no intention of dying just yet, logic says you won’t take unnecessary risks. Therefore, you only fight if you know you can win.”
“Exactly so, Miss Sands.”
He wasn’t an imbecile.
Just a man trying to contain the devil’s wrath.
“We agreed to barter secrets, madam,” he said, steering the subject away from the reasons he eased his distress in the boxing ring. “Now you know one of mine, it’s only fitting you reveal one of yours.”
She straightened the collar of her red wool redingote. “There is something I must tell you, but let us wait until we’re seated in the carriage and you have no choice but to curb your temper.”