Wicked Earl Seeks Proper Heiress Read online

  “Miss?” Jackson’s ugly face peered at her from the gloom. “Are you sure you want to go on?”

  Averil, who preferred “miss” to “my lady” when she was in the East End, nodded brusquely. “Of course. Is it far now?”

  Averil had received news from her old nanny. She’d written that fifteen years ago Averil’s mother had ended up in a gaming house called The Tin Soldier, and that was where Jackson was taking her now.

  “A few streets. Stay close, miss. Lots of pickpockets about.”

  She let him lead the way, keeping close behind his musty-smelling coat. She told herself that she must not lose heart or hope. If her sister was here, somewhere, then she must be found. Before it was too late. The fact that it might already be too late was not something she wanted to dwell on.

  The Tin Soldier had been more than just a gaming house. Although Jackson wouldn’t tell her exactly what, Averil imagined it catered to more than just dice and cards. There would be women, women who, like her mother, had fallen upon hard times. This was the place where her mother had spent her final months, before she was taken to the infirmary and died. Averil knew that, whatever awful things she learned at The Tin Soldier, she could not ignore this new clue. Not if she wanted to find her sister.

  “I understand why you want to find her, Averil, but some things are better left alone.”

  Beth had said that to her the other day, her small face etched with creases as she worried about her charge. If Beth knew where she was right now . . . But thankfully Beth was tucked up in bed and did not even realize that Averil had left the house. She had become adept at telling lies and creeping about, and although she didn’t enjoy deceiving Beth she knew she could not abandon her sister.

  “Got a penny, lady?”

  Startled, she looked down at the dirty elfin face peering up at her. A moment later more children appeared. Jackson yelled out. They began to run around her, circling her tighter and tighter, and laughing as she tried to escape them. They tugged at her shawl and her skirts, probably searching for a purse. Where was Jackson? Averil looked about her wildly, and saw the back of him as he hurried away. “Jackson!” she called out, just as she lost her balance, falling down onto the hard cobbles, scraping her knees and knocking all of the air out of her lungs.

  For a moment she lay dazed, hearing the children running off into the deeper shadows. She lifted her head, and her eyes darted around the gloomy courtyard. What she saw did not give her much confidence in her own safety. There were people standing and sitting, a couple of them lying down, intoxicated or sleeping or both, but none of them were Jackson. Realizing that it was not safe to show weakness in this place, she began to struggle to her feet. Her skirts were torn, and her knees stung, and when she put her gloved hand down to support herself as she stood, it sank into something wet and horrible.

  A strong hand slipped under her arm and another about her waist, hoisting her upright so quickly her head spun.

  “Are you injured, madam?”

  His voice was deep and soft, but she could hear by his accent that this was no local inhabitant of the East End. He was a gentleman.

  Averil looked up.

  For a moment she could not believe her own eyes. She blinked and looked again.

  It was him. The man she dreamed of in the night. The man she’d so foolishly told her friends at Miss Debenham’s she was going to marry.

  “Lady Averil Martindale,” the earl of Southbrook said, fixing her with his dark, hooded gaze. “This is turning into a most unexpected evening.”

  Averil knew she was staring. She couldn’t help it. She felt quite giddy. “What . . . what are you doing here?” she blurted out. And then, realizing he must be here to visit the establishment behind her—he was a man with a reputation after all—she flushed hotly with embarrassment.

  He seemed amused. Those same hooded, dark eyes surveyed her with interest.

  “What are you doing here, Lady Averil?”

  He was wearing a plain coat over his clothing but it was impeccably cut, and she caught a glimpse of an emerald-green waistcoat. His unfashionably long dark hair brushed his broad shoulders but it suited him. Gave him a certain air that women must find fascinating. As well as his scar, of course.

  Despite herself, Averil’s gaze went to it. That curving scar that puckered the skin of his left cheek, drawing down the corner of his eye before vanishing into his hairline. One could only imagine what such an injury must have looked like before it healed, and how close it had come to blinding him.

  Apart from the scar his face was handsome enough if a little severe. With his thin aristocratic nose, lips in a firm line, and that dark, secretive gaze, he could easily be any gentleman of wealth and breeding. But with the scar he became something else entirely.

  Now that he had helped her to her feet he should have released her, but he was still holding her, his arm about her, the warm press of his palm against the small of her back, while his other hand gripped her elbow to steady her. He was so close he stole the air from her lungs, which was a rather dramatic thought for Averil, but she tended to have dramatic thoughts around the earl. Carefully, she stepped back and he dropped the grip he had upon her.

  “Are you hurt?” he said curiously.

  He was much taller than her five foot two inches, and she found she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.

  “No. I am not hurt. I . . . Jackson is here somewhere. He will take me home.”

  “Jackson?” The eyebrows rose.

  Of course, thought Averil, he would think the worst! Her gray eyes flashed. “He’s my . . .” Averil wondered how she could explain Jackson to the earl. “He’s a detective. Of sorts. I am trying to find someone who is missing, and he is helping me.”

  The earl considered. “This isn’t a safe place, Lady Averil.”

  “I am perfectly safe and I know what I’m doing,” she said sharply. “Why should it be any more dangerous for me than for you, my lord? And yet here you are wandering the streets.”

  His brows came down into a frown. “I am used to ‘wandering the streets,’ as you call it. And if you think you are perfectly safe then you are either a fool or extremely naïve.”

  “I am neither. Now, if you will excuse me . . .”

  Averil tried to take a step away from him but a pain shot through her knee. It was so severe that it made her cry out and stumble, almost falling again.

  “Come here.” Through a wave of dizziness she heard the earl, and felt his arms catch her up again. But this time he didn’t stop at steadying her, he actually lifted her, cradling her in his arms as if she were a feather.

  Averil tried to see his expression, but they were walking away from the courtyard and he was just a silhouette against the street lamp. The ache in her knee was beginning to subside, and she was able to consider that this might not be a very good idea. The earl had a reputation, and although Averil wasn’t entirely sure what that reputation consisted of, she knew he was rarely invited into society. Something he had done had made him very much persona non grata.

  Lord Martindale, Averil’s father, had been completely respectable, and by cutting himself and Averil off from her mother, he had retained the respect of the society he moved in. Not so Lady Anastasia Martindale. She’d become a social outcast, and her shadow had followed Averil all her life. So what was it that the earl of Southbrook had done to earn society’s disapproval?

  Averil knew if she was any other young lady she would remove herself from his company forthwith, or her own reputation, already vulnerable, would be damaged perhaps beyond repair. But Averil had other things on her mind.

  “Where are you taking me, my lord?” she said in what she hoped was a firm voice. “I think you should put me down. Jackson will—”

  “I am taking you to my coach, Lady Averil.”

  “Oh no, please!” Suddenly she’d remembered why she was here and clutched his coat, peering up at him anxiously. “Please, Lord Southbrook. Jackson was taking me
to a place called The Tin Soldier where my-my . . . I need to go there. I have an appointment with someone called Sally and if I don’t do it now then it may be too late.”

  Her voice caught and to her horror tears filled her eyes. Good Lord, she must not cry in front of him!

  He was watching her uneasily, probably thinking the exact same thing, and then he sighed. “We are very close to The Tin Soldier,” he said in that deep, soft voice that seemed to ripple over her skin in the most sensuous way. “I can take you there. As a matter of fact, I have some business there myself.”

  She lowered her lashes. “Thank you,” she said more calmly. “I am most grateful to you, Lord Southbrook.”

  “My pleasure, Lady Averil,” he replied with mockery.

  She glared at him and by the quirk of his mouth she knew he found her behavior amusing. “Please put me down. I can walk.”

  “Can you?” He deliberated and then lowered her feet toward the cobbles.

  Of course, when she tried to walk, Averil found she was in too much pain, and he lifted her again with a long-suffering sigh.

  “I should take you straight to the coach,” he said sternly.

  “No! I must see Sally. You don’t understand how important it is. I may not get another opportunity like this, and . . .” Her voice trailed off as she fought once more with her emotions.

  “Perhaps if you were to tell me?” he suggested.

  “It is personal.”

  He looked down at her, his dark eyes fixed on her face as if he could read the truth from her expression, and then he said, “Very well. The Tin Soldier it is,” and to her relief set off once more.

  CHAPTER TWO

  * * *

  The Tin Soldier was all lit up like a beacon, or perhaps more appropriately a glowing spider in its web of dark alleys and lanes. Averil thought the noise coming from the tall building was quite jolly. Laughter and singing and voices raised to be heard. Jackson had told her it was still a popular club for London’s rich bohemians, who liked to rub shoulders with the underclasses, and also a popular spot for the serious gamblers who preferred, for one reason or another, not to visit the more well-known clubs—Averil took that to mean that they had been blackballed. Jackson admitted that The Tin Soldier had gone downhill since her mother was here, but Averil imagined the circumstances of the staff and the needs of the customers were much the same, which was probably why her mother had been drawn here, desperate and ill as she was.

  “Sally Jakes, the woman you want to see, runs the place,” Southbrook spoke, adjusting his grip on her. “Are you sure you haven’t changed your mind, Lady Averil? This is hardly the spot for a young woman like you, but I’m sure you already know that.”

  Averil gave him a decided stare. “Of course I haven’t changed my mind. Put me down and I’ll go inside and find her.”

  Another mocking look. “I think not.” And with that he carried her up the stone steps and inside one of the most notorious gambling dens in London.

  Noise and color swirled around her, and her nose twitched with the smells of alcohol and tobacco smoke, as well as other less easily discernible odors. In this room there were people gathered about a small stage, where a woman in a short skirt was singing her heart out, as well as groups seated at tables or standing about. Through a far door she could see another room, where it looked as though the serious gamblers were gathered.

  It was the place to which desperation had driven her mother in the final months of her life. Not back to her father; he had washed his hands of her and put notices in the newspapers to that effect, refusing to pay her debts or help her in any way. Averil understood his bitterness, but she still couldn’t forgive him.

  A girl who appeared to be barely more than a child, dressed in a style of clothing far too old for her, looked up and gasped with surprise when she saw the earl carrying a young lady in his arms.

  “Lady Averil has met with an unfortunate accident,” he said. “However she has an appointment with Mrs. Jakes she wishes to keep.”

  The girl goggled at him a moment and then pulled herself together and pointed toward some narrow stairs. “Up there. Room at the end of the passage. Sal’s waiting for ’er ladyship.”

  The earl looked up the stairs, then looked at Averil, and then he sighed. “You’re getting rather heavy,” he said unflatteringly.

  Averil felt herself flush. “I’m sorry if I’m too fat to be carried. I did tell you to put me down.”

  He looked surprised, and then he grinned in a way that suddenly made him look much younger. And, if Averil hadn’t been so cross and mortified, she would have thought him even more handsome.

  “My dear young lady, you are beautifully formed, and far from being too fat, I find your proportions exactly to my taste.”

  Averil knew her face was on fire as they climbed the stairs, and she couldn’t think of anything to say. It seemed best just to let the subject drop, which she did. As they climbed she was careful to keep her hands away from the greasy-looking banister, and when the earl reached the passage that led from the landing, she made a mental note that he didn’t seem too much out of breath.

  The door they wanted was at the end but there were other doors. Murmurings were coming from behind them, and once a sharp shriek of laughter. “Whatever is afoot is none of our business,” the earl informed her calmly. “When you are in the East End, Lady Averil, it is best to keep your eyes down and to mind your own business. Take my advice and you will be relatively safe.”

  When they reached the door, Averil knocked on it.

  Sally Jakes was waiting. She answered immediately, and when Averil opened it she saw across the comfortably furnished room a seated woman in a neat and unremarkable dress, her flame-colored hair carefully arranged beneath a flutter of lace pinned to the top. The lamp cast a warm glow over the woman and her desk, where she had several heavy-looking ledgers opened out before her.

  “Sit down,” Sally said, without looking up. “I just ’ave to finish this.”

  Averil glanced up at Lord Southbrook and he cleared his throat.

  Sally’s eyes flew upward and she stared a moment in astonishment. And then she smiled. “Lord Southbrook,” she said, with a familiarity Averil found disconcerting. “An unexpected pleasure.”

  Lord Southbrook came forward and deposited Averil in the chair set opposite Sally. “I shall leave Lady Averil with you, Sally. I believe she wishes to speak to you on a private matter and I have some business of my own. Downstairs.”

  Sally put down her pen and wiped her inky fingers carefully on a cloth. “I understand the ’onorable James Blainey is downstairs, my lord. With a young companion.”

  The earl’s face darkened. “Yes.”

  “When I ’eard I was most strict in my instructions concerning the boy.”

  “My thanks.” Lord Southbrook bowed, and with a brief press of his fingers on Averil’s shoulder, left her alone with Sally. As the door closed, the other woman said, in a businesslike voice, “You’ve come about Anna, then?”

  Lady Anastasia Martindale.

  “Yes. She was my mother.”

  This didn’t seem to surprise Sally. “You don’t look much like her,” she said without emotion. Evidently all her smiles had been used up on Lord Southbrook.

  “I hardly remember what she looked like,” Averil answered honestly. “There was no portrait of her. At least, if there was, my father got rid of it.” Her father had been a bitter man after her mother left, and seemed full of regrets.

  Sally nodded. “I remember your ma well from those days. She was beautiful, but a bad picker when it came to men.” She pulled a face. “I worked ’ere then, but I’ve never been one to let my ’eart rule my ’ead, and now I own the place.”

  “You’ve done well.”

  Sally bowed her head in acknowledgment. “I ’ave.”

  Averil chose her words carefully. “I know my mother died not long after she was here . . .”

  “Aye, she did. She was at the
end of her rope by then. The man she’d run off with, he was gone or dead or something. I forget. Anyway she was on ’er own, ’er and the little ’un.”

  “My sister.” Averil leaned forward a little. “I only saw her once. I wondered if you knew what happened to her?”

  She tried not to hold her breath as she waited, tried not to let hope overwhelm her.

  Sally nodded matter-of-factly. “She went to the orphanage at St.Thomas’s. Nowhere else for her to go, no one would take her, poor little mite.”

  Averil took a moment to calm herself. The images in her head were almost too poignant for her to bear but this was not a time to break down. “Do you know her name?”

  “Pansy? Rose? Something like that. Anna called ’er ‘petit coeur’.” Sally smiled, then shrugged. “Sorry, it was a long time ago an’ I try not to think about the old days too much.”

  “Of course, but . . . I’ve been searching for her. I need to find her. I need to know she is alive and-and well.”

  Sally stared at Averil and then she sighed, her shoulders slumping. “I wish I could ’elp you, me dear, I really wish I could. But I can’t.”

  Averil swallowed the lump in her throat.

  Sally reached out and pulled an embroidered bellpull, and a moment later the young girl appeared in the doorway. “Go and fetch Lord Southbrook. Lady Averil is finished now.”

  She picked up her pen again and dipped it into the ink, and Averil was dismissed.

  “No,” she said, using the desk to help her rise to her feet. “I can manage. Don’t fetch him. If you could help me down the stairs . . .?”

  The young girl came forward at a nod from Sally and Averil slipped her arm about the girl’s shoulders. Her knee was very painful but she much preferred the pain to having Lord Southbrook comment on her proportions again. Slowly, very slowly, they made their way down the stairs.

  Rufus pushed his way through the crowd in the card room, ignoring the dark looks and comments. It was a brave man who would tackle him, and usually his scar made even brave men think twice before doing so.