Chapter 12

C hapter 12

We kept watch at the tavern for the rest of the day, until the gloomy daylight drifted toward the blackness of night. I was careful to keep our conversation focused on the case. Mr. Denning shared that he’d been led to The Nag’s Head by a contact who’d had dealings with Higgs before, and I held my breath, thinking he might know about Wily’s connection to our thief. But he said nothing of it, only detailing some of Higgs’s past crimes.

“Petty theft and homebreaking, for the most part,” he said as the serving maid lit the lamps around the taproom, chasing away the growing shadows. “He’s spent the last few years in and out of Newgate.”

I frowned. “Anything violent?”

“Not that I could tell.”

A group of rowdy sailors spilled through the front door, and Mr. Denning took a pretend swig of his ale as he inspected them. He had a better view of the front, while my vantage point included the kitchen and back entrance. He shook his head. Still no Higgs.

“Does it not strike you as odd?” I asked, moving my spoon about the stew I’d barely touched. Next time I sat through a long surveillance, I would bring my own provisions.

“What, precisely?”

“That Higgs has no record of violent crimes,” I said, “and yet he not only threatened us with a pistol but also struck Sir Reginald.”

Mr. Denning looked thoughtful. “Perhaps he was desperate. Desperate people are unpredictable.”

“Perhaps.” I was unconvinced.

The tavern grew increasingly crowded, with dockworkers and sailors coming in search of a drink. And the later it grew, the more leering looks the men sent my way, even with Mr. Denning right beside me.

I did not think he had noticed until I realized his chair had slowly shifted, blocking me from most of the room. That, and the fact that his jaw tightened more and more with every whistle sent my way.

“I think I’ve become somewhat of a liability,” I said under my breath. “I should leave and let you continue to keep watch.”

Except I did not want to go. The longer we stayed, the more certain I grew that Higgs would walk in at any moment and we could end this.

But Mr. Denning shook his head. “You cannot go by yourself. Not at this time of night.”

“Neither can I stay,” I pointed out. “I am drawing far too much attention. And you needn’t worry; this is not the first time I’ve traveled through London after dark.”

“But—” Then his eyes caught on something behind me. Or someone. He straightened.

I froze, not wanting to turn and give away our interest. “Is it him?”

“I cannot tell for sure,” he said. “Stay here.”

Before I could point out that I was the one who had seen Higgs before and, therefore, would be able to identify him, Mr. Denning had slipped away into the rambunctious press of tavern-goers. I could not help a quick glance over my shoulder, watching Mr. Denning’s lean shoulders work through the crowd. He headed for a table in the corner, shadowed and out of the way. I could just make out two figures seated there. What had he seen to provoke his suspicion?

“What’s a pretty thing like yourself doing here alone?”

My attention snapped back in a heartbeat. A rangy, disheveled man had slid into Mr. Denning’s vacated chair, grinning at me with crooked teeth. He ran a hand through his greasy hair, slicking it back against his head.

“My business is my own,” I said, eyes narrowed. “And that seat is taken.”

“Don’t look taken.” He winked, no doubt thinking himself quite the wit.

“My brother is here.” I allowed a threatening note to enter my voice. “He’ll not be pleased.”

“What your brother doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” The man’s eyes roved down over my body, and I resisted the urge to kick his leg.

I stood, intending to go after Mr. Denning.

But the man was quick, on his feet in an instant and blocking my path. “Come now,” he said, his breath reeking of ale. “Give a fellow a chance.” He grasped my forearm in one hand, the other snaking out to catch my waist. He pulled me against him, eyes dark with desire.

My pulse hammered in my ears, but I remained calm. I’d prepared for this. Jack had insisted on teaching me a dozen different ways to escape such a situation. I was readying myself to act—a swift kick to his shin, then a jab at his eyes after his grip on my arms loosened—when the man was jerked roughly away from me.

“What—” But he didn’t get out another word before Mr. Denning’s fist smashed into his nose.

The man collapsed into a shrieking fit, holding his bleeding nose. Everyone turned to look at him, conversations falling off as the fiddler stopped in the middle of his song.

But I could only stare at Mr. Denning, his eyes dangerous as he loomed over the man.

“Don’t you dare touch her,” he growled, his voice a thunderstorm.

Another man rushed him from behind, face twisted in menace.

“Denning!” I cried.

Mr. Denning spun, ducking the oncoming attack and using the man’s own momentum to send him crashing into our table.

The crowd was jeering and shouting, and a few ruffians were forcing their way through the gathering, revenge in their eyes. Apparently, our new friends were popular.

Mr. Denning saw them too. He grabbed his hat from where it had fallen to the floor, then swept up behind me. “I think it’s time we were going,” he said in my ear as his hand pressed into my lower back, urging me forward.

I threw a glance behind us as he jerked open the front door. The two men he’d fought still lay moaning on the ground, the remnants of our paltry dinner scattered about. But then we were out onto the dark street, strangely quiet after the ear-shattering din of the tavern.

“Can you run?” he asked, taking my hand.

I came to myself. “Yes.”

We broke into a sprint, me struggling to keep pace with Mr. Denning’s longer strides, and were halfway down the street before our pursuers burst out onto the street after us.

“There they are!” one of them cried.

A sudden blackness gaped to our right—a small lane. I pulled on Mr. Denning’s hand, and he followed me without hesitation, the two of us dashing into the dark together.

Until he skittered to a halt, stopping me with him. The lane ended abruptly just ahead, closed off by the thick stone walls of a warehouse.

Shouts echoed behind us, and figures appeared against the moonlight at the end of the street.

“We need to hide,” he said in a whisper, barely winded by our run.

I searched our surroundings, hoping to spot a wagon or crate to crouch behind. There was nothing. Footsteps behind us, voices growing louder—

Mr. Denning took me roughly by the shoulders and pushed me backward. My back met a rickety wooden door, the overhanging stone around it encasing us in deep shadow.

I could barely see his face, so I felt more than saw his finger move to his lips, urging quiet. But I could not have spoken even if I wanted to. My heart seemed to have taken up permanent residence in my throat, beating with a ferocity that left my mind muddled and my knees weak.

His body pressed against mine, keeping me between him and the door. His hands moved to my waist, holding me firmly, and I swore I could feel the heat of his skin through my stays. My own hands were trapped against his chest, and he ducked his head to hover beside mine, crowding my space.

Considering what that scoundrel in the tavern had attempted to do, I should have felt panicked, intruded upon. But I didn’t. Instead, all I could think of was how Mr. Denning smelled of smoke and salt, how his strong frame molded around mine, protecting me.

Footsteps and shouts from the street. “This way!”

My pulse leaped yet again as they came closer, into the lane. We both held our breath, the two of us frozen together.

If the fools had thought to bring a lantern, they would have seen us in an instant. But the men ran right by, all clearly deep in their cups by their slurred shouts and stumbles. Mr. Denning’s fingers dug into my waist, holding me tight.

The men seemed as surprised as we had been at the dead end, though their language was decidedly less appropriate. Cursing, they hurried back the way they’d come.

“Split up,” one man ordered, sounding like the least drunk of the bunch. “They’re here somewhere.”

They faded into the night, their voices becoming distant shouts.

We stood there in silence, our ragged breathing filling my ears. Mr. Denning waited another moment, his jaw brushing my hair, the wool of his jacket warm against my cheek. A whirlwind, deep and engulfing, swept up through me, claiming my chest. I did not recognize the feeling. I had no name for it.

He leaned back, glancing both ways before stepping away without looking at me. The chilly night air swept in, a sharp contrast to the blood that raced hot through my veins.

“Come on,” he murmured.

We crept back to the start of the lane. We could still hear the shouts of our pursuers, seeming to come from every direction. How many blasted friends did that reprobate have?

“We could make another run for it,” I whispered.

As if the weather had a sense of humor, it began to rain as the words left my mouth. I gasped, the cold raindrops splashing against my face.

Mr. Denning pulled me under the eaves of a nearby house, jaw set rather grimly. “We need to lie low for a couple of hours.”

“Where?” I managed. I did not bother to protest because he was right. We would never make it back to Covent Garden without being seen—or soaked to the bone.

“I know a place.” He held out his hand again.

I did not hesitate. I went with him.

His hand was warm and reassuring in mine as he led me down the street, waiting at each corner and checking for drunken vigilantes before guiding me across. He changed direction twice when we heard shouts yet again, but he never spoke, and I followed his lead.

Finally, after a quarter of an hour, he stopped before a line of small, rough townhouses. They sagged to one side as if held up by pure hope, the shutters splintered and windows dirty. But the door before us was newly painted, candlelight reaching out to us from underneath, and he pulled it open, ushering me inside.

“Where are we?” I asked as he shut the door behind us. I took in the cramped corridor, narrow stairs leading upward.

He swept his hat from his head. “It’s safe,” he assured me, not answering my question.

“Nathaniel?” a female voice called from another room.

“Come.” He moved toward the open door at the end of the corridor. “Meet my parents.”

His parents? I managed to convince my feet to move and followed him to the kitchen, where a woman stood beside a small hearth, stirring a bubbling pot. I paused in the doorway. She had fair hair touched with gray, a plump figure, and a wide smile as she spotted her son.

“I wasn’t expecting you today,” she exclaimed, Mr. Denning swooping in on her and kissing her cheek. “I thought you were working.”

“I was,” he said. “We ran into a spot of trouble and needed a place to hide.”

“We?” Her eyes flicked to me, then widened. “Oh!”

I bobbed a curtsy. “Ma’am.”

She stared at me another moment, then back at Mr. Denning. I got the distinct impression this was not a common occurrence. “What have you done to get this poor girl into trouble?”

“‘This poor girl’ hardly needs my help to find trouble,” he said dryly. “She does well enough on her own.”

Mrs. Denning whacked her son with a kitchen rag. “Hush, you. Now be polite, Nathaniel, and introduce me.”

Mr. Denning grinned and waved a hand from his mother to me. “Mother, meet Miss Verity Travers. Miss Travers, my mother, Miriam Denning.”

She came to me and took my hand, her hold gentle. “I am very pleased to meet you.”

“Thank you for taking us in,” I said, a bit taken aback at her friendliness.

“I could hardly send you off into this rain,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

“Near to starving.” Nathaniel—no, Mr. Denning—peered into the pot. “I do think the cook at that tavern was trying to poison us.”

Mrs. Denning tutted. “Go and keep your father company. Supper will be ready in a few minutes.”

I followed Mr. Denning to a tiny sitting room, squashed with two armchairs, a small sofa, and overflowing bookshelves. An older gentleman with silver hair sat by the narrow fireplace, a thick blanket tucked over his lap. He glanced up from his book, curiosity in his eyes as he took me in.

“Who is this, Nathaniel?” he asked, lowering the book to his lap. He wore spectacles, which he removed with shaking hands.

“Miss Travers, meet my father, George Denning,” Nathaniel said. It was difficult to think of him as anything but Nathaniel now, what with his parents’ voices in my head. “Father, this is Miss Verity Travers.”

I dipped into another curtsy. “Mr. Denning.”

The older Mr. Denning smiled widely, and it was clear from whom Nathaniel had inherited his broad grin. “A pleasure, Miss Travers. Do come sit, please.”

I hesitated, casting Nathaniel a questioning glance. How long would we be staying? I did not mind warm fires and cozy rooms as a generality, but neither did I wish to take over his parents’ home for longer than necessary. He offered a short shrug, not having an answer for me.

So, I sat on the small sofa across from the older Mr. Denning, Nathaniel taking the spot beside me. The room wasn’t overly warm, but when his arm brushed mine, it seemed like the fire flared against my skin.

“I must say, this a surprise.” Mr. Denning leaned forward. “Nathaniel never mentioned he had befriended any beautiful young ladies.”

Nathaniel ignored the sly insinuation in his father’s words. “Miss Travers has been assisting me with a case.”

“Assisting you?” I narrowed my eyes. “That is one way to phrase it.”

He gave a short laugh, propping his elbow on the arm of the sofa. “I tried to pick the least offensive.”

“Ha,” I said wryly.

Mr. Denning looked back and forth between the two of us. “I must admit to some confusion.”

I paused, then realized there was nothing for it. “Your son and I happen to be investigating the same theft.”

He glanced in surprise at Nathaniel, who only shrugged. “It’s a modern world, Father,” he said quite soberly. “Ladies investigate crimes now, and we must learn to live with it.”

I knew he was teasing, but my defenses still rose. “And it would be a better world if such an idea were not so opposed. Ladies have much to offer and little chance to do so.”

Mr. Denning sat back in his chair, eyeing me curiously. “I don’t disagree, Miss Travers. But is it not dangerous, the work you do?”

A flash of memory, a bolt of fear through my heart. My eyes flitted to Nathaniel’s, and his expression shifted infinitesimally. But before I could respond, Mrs. Denning bustled into the sitting room, holding a tray filled with steaming bowls and a loaf of freshly baked bread.

“This will taste a mite better than whatever you ate at that tavern,” she said, setting down the tray. “Miss Travers, you shall have to excuse our informality. We are accustomed to eating round the fire.”

That was curious, considering I’d seen a perfectly adequate table inside the kitchen, but I did not protest as she pressed a bowl of steaming soup into my hands. I took a bite. It was simple but delicious, bursting with seasoned meat and tender vegetables.

“Now,” she said, handing Nathaniel a bowl, “am I allowed to ask what brought you both here?”

I cast Nathaniel an appraising look. “Unfortunately, I must admit that your son was right. It was my fault that trouble found us tonight.”

Nathaniel made a noise of disagreement as he settled back on the sofa with his soup. “Trouble found us, but it was hardly your fault. One must instead blame the drunken lecher who decided to lay his hands on a woman.”

Pride filled Mrs. Denning’s eyes as she looked at her son. “I am hardly surprised. Nathaniel never could let an insult to a lady pass without consequence. Why, when he was only eight years old, he challenged a man on the street to a duel in my defense.”

“Did he now?” I said, curiosity rising.

“Mother,” Nathaniel said warningly.

She seemed not to notice, smiling in remembrance. “The man had knocked into me and spilled the contents of my basket. Nathaniel could not abide the rudeness. Oh, I can still picture him, demanding an apology or satisfaction.”

“Truly?” I turned to look at Nathaniel with an impish smile. “A champion of women indeed.” I barely restrained myself from adding Sir Chivalry .

Nathaniel ran a hand over his face. “Surely there are other less embarrassing topics for us to discuss.”

“No, no,” I said, laughing. “I am quite content.”

“What is that you are reading, Father?” Nathaniel asked loudly, turning the subject himself. Mrs. Denning and I exchanged a grin but allowed it.

“ Tom Jones ,” Mr. Denning said.

Nathaniel sighed. “Again?”

“One can never read a favorite novel too many times,” Mr. Denning said, completely undeterred.

“ Tom Jones is written by Henry Fielding, is it not?” I asked.

Mr. Denning looked pleased at my comment. “It is indeed! You know your authors, Miss Travers.”

“Generally not,” I said as Mrs. Denning seated herself after serving everyone. “I haven’t read the book. But I know a fair bit about the Fielding brothers.”

Nathaniel eyed me appraisingly. “Do you, now?”

It seemed there was a challenge in his words. “Yes, I find them rather fascinating.”

“And why is that?” Mrs. Denning asked, seeming to have forgotten her own bowl of soup.

“Henry Fielding founded the Bow Street officers,” I explained. “He did much to promote London’s police force, though in truth, I am much more interested in his brother, John.”

“The Blind Beak,” Nathaniel said with a grin.

“Yes!” I said, perhaps a bit too excitedly. But how often did I get the chance to speak of my interests?

“The Blind Beak?” Mrs. Denning repeated in bewilderment. “What on earth are you two on about?”

“John Fielding took over as magistrate after his brother, Henry, died,” Nathaniel explained.

“John was blind,” I added, “but had a keen ear. It was said he could recognize upward of three thousand criminals just from their voices alone.”

“Indeed?” Mr. Denning looked rightfully impressed.

“A useful skill to have, I imagine.” Nathaniel winked at me. “Not unlike your own, Miss Travers.”

“Mine?” I asked skeptically. Was he teasing me?

“Your sketches,” he said. “Your ability to remember faces and re-create them. I’ve never seen anything like it. It is—” He stopped suddenly, seeming to remember we were not alone. “It is exceptional.”

My cheeks pricked, no doubt pink. “Thank you.”

He turned back to his father, and I had to take a breath. We were acquaintances. Partners, at best. No matter how my body reacted to him.

Nothing good would come from allowing myself to think otherwise.