“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let us tackle problems as they arise.” He held the candle aloft and gave her figure his full consideration. “The first being how you might slip outside without me gawping at your charming trousers.”
Chapter 3
Dante stood amid the shadows opposite Babington’s house in Great Russell Street and watched Miss Sands climb into the carriage. It had taken sheer strength of will not to race across the narrow thoroughfare and punch the fellow trying to coax her back to the ballroom. Breaking the rake’s clammy hands would draw undue attention. Still, Dante had been about to intervene when Daventry’s man—a beast of a fellow named Bower—climbed down from atop his box and escorted the lady to safety.
With Bower acting as coachman, Daventry would receive a full account of Miss Sands’ whereabouts. Hence the reason Dante insisted on using his conveyance to ferry her to Cornhill tomorrow.
Strange he felt a tug in his chest as the carriage rattled away.
Strange he felt an odd connection to an innocent.
But they had both lost their mothers long ago. Both suffered at the hands of a conniving devil, suffered lasting effects from their traumas. Both had secrets.
Dante strode to his carriage, parked on nearby Caroline Street. Sharp shook himself awake, surprised his master had left the soiree before midnight, but presumed Dante had a rendezvous elsewhere.
“To Mrs Stanworth’s ball or Madame Babette’s, sir?”
“Neither. Take me home, Sharp.”
“Home?” The coachman’s chin dropped. “Home, sir?”
Dante didn’t venture home until his eyelids were heavy, his bones weak and weary, and he could barely stand.
He hesitated. The need to question Daventry about Miss Sands’ background was like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Gut instinct said Miss Sands had a hidden agenda, a compelling reason for stalking after him in the dark, and he’d not rest until he’d uncovered her secret.
“Take me to Little Chelsea. I wish to call upon Sloane.”
Sloane lived in a palatial pleasure dome, a place where Dante might easily silence his demons. They often drank until dawn, laughed so hard the euphoria lasted until midday. But Sloane had recently married, and a scene of devoted domesticity would likely make Dante retch. The same was true of Ashwood and Cole—married men with no interest in drinking and gambling and tupping lightskirts.
And so—like the moment Miss Sands sobbed in his arms and every fibre of his being fought against the intrusion—Dante had nowhere to go, nowhere to seek solace.
Well, there was a place where a man might forget his troubles.
“On second thoughts, take me to the White Boar.”
Sharp shifted nervously in the seat. “But you were there three nights ago, sir. Muscles take time to heal, to repair.”
Dante snorted. “After winning twice, do you think I’m due a beating?”
The White Boar was a noisy backstreet tavern near Leicester Square, its dank cellar a fighting house lit by medieval-style sconces and supervised by toothless men with thick necks. The den remained open throughout the night and was frequented by drunken bucks out to settle stupid wagers and prize-fighters looking for any face to pummel.
“Sir, your hands are still bruised, and it pays to rest between bouts.”
“I’ll rest when I’m dead.” He wouldn’t have long to wait, not when he was one step closer to finding the bastard who’d shot a helpless woman in front of her eight-year-old son. “I’m confident that won’t be tonight.”
Sharp’s sigh rang with concern. He gripped the reins and straightened in his seat. “One day soon I’ll be ferrying your coffin to the cemetery, to an unconsecrated burial ground for doomed souls.”
“The resurrectionists are always on the lookout for prime male specimens. I shall save you the trouble, have them collect my body before it’s thrown into a pit.”
“Happen you shouldn’t tempt fate. One day you might find a reason to live, and then you’ll be sorry.”
“Hardly.” Dante yanked open the carriage door. “I live for one thing and one thing only, Sharp, and it’s not for the day you stop complaining.”
No. Dante refused
to die before finding the murdering bastard who killed his parents. And when he did, by God, he would make him pay.
* * *