Chapter Five

“I will not need your services this evening. I am holding a dinner party, and Miss Delaney will be in my company until late. You can take yourself off. Just be sure and return by morning.”

Morning? James twitched at Boyd’s words and hoped his expression remained impassive. Dinner parties, as he well knew, did not as a rule last all night. What about the hours between? What would happen to Miss Delaney—Catherine—after the guests went home?

Ah, but he had no say in that, much as his heart might wish for one. But since their exchange early this morning, he’d felt protective toward her, far too protective.

He could only accept his orders. He stood in the entry hall where Boyd had delivered them and watched the tradesmen and women bustling in. One of them, obviously a seamstress, came leading two steamies laden with fabrics, ribbons, and other finery.

He needed to go back to headquarters for a conversation with Tate. But he didn’t have to like abandoning Catherine to whatever fate Boyd had in mind.

He nodded, threaded his way out through those arriving and into the rain. It still pissed down as it had most the night. He’d had little to do but listen to it while he stood at his post throughout the dark hours. After Miss Delaney stopped weeping, and he assumed she slept, he’d heard little else.

Despite the rain it felt good to be out of that place. He paused on the sidewalk, looked up at the grand facade, and found Miss Delaney’s window. How must she feel knowing she couldn’t leave? For if he wanted to, he could quit.

She could not.

He wouldn’t quit, though, he silently promised himself and her. It would feel far too much akin to deserting her. He wasn’t quite sure what had taken place between them in the sitting room early this morning when she’d reached out and anchored herself to him—or him to her. Some intimacy beyond describing.

James never shared intimacies with women, other than prostitutes. He’d grown into male adulthood looking like a monster, which repelled ladies rather than attracted them.

Miss Delaney might well be a prostitute, he reminded himself. At least, she admitted to being bought—the very definition of prostitution. He would dearly love to know her story, for she bore no resemblance to any doxy he’d ever seen.

She’ll be busy all the day and evening, he reminded himself now, with fittings and then a great, fancy dinner party.

But what after? The devil whispered to him: What then?

He cursed softly, tucked his head well down, and slogged off through the rain. He had his orders, damn it.

Headquarters lay on Niagara Street in an old, crumbling building that had escaped the fires back in ’12. Tate always said the place might well benefit from burning, but Tate pumped a lot of his profits back into the community and had little to spare for beautification projects.

Once the shipping offices of a lumber baron, the place now crouched in a moldering pile, all weathered gray wood and dull windows. It looked and felt better inside. Tate had his office on the ground floor along with supply and weapons rooms. Upstairs slept the men in his employ who had nowhere else to stay. Out back lay what Tate called “Kilter’s kennels.”

The kennels had grown slowly, one abandoned dog and then two. Tate—his heart as big as his Irish fists—could not bring himself to deny them refuge. James built the wire enclosures with his own hands, bought the rugs, bowls, and feed out of his own pocket. Now there were ten cages and a larger enclosure where rough doctoring took place.

At first James looked after his rescues alone. Gradually, others in Tate’s employ began to take part. Now someone was always on hand to let the animals out, and to feed or clean up after them.

“I’m running a fecking dog nursery here,” Tate complained, but he hadn’t put his foot down about it, not once.

James’ fellow members of security had even accompanied him on raids a few times, either to rescue animals in need or mete out retribution. Of course there were always those, like Drappot, who called him soft for what he did.

“They’re hounds, Kilter—animals,” Drappot had jeered more than once. “Put here for mankind to use any way we will.”

James didn’t believe that. No one had been put in the world to be ill-used. Thinking on it, he pictured Miss Delaney again, her eyes wide and filled with dread.

And of all the men he didn’t want to meet, who should he encounter now on his way to the kennels?

Drappot, built like a fireplug, was probably as wide as he stood tall, and all of it muscle. He had a sharp, ferrety face, dark eyes, and a shock of blond hair rumored to be bleached. Off the streets like most of Tate’s crew, he had a tendency to fight dirty, and Tate had spoken to him several times about throwing his weight around in bars when off duty. He had a mean streak, too, that loved to ridicule others. He particularly enjoyed mocking James.

Someday he’ll push me too far, James had once warned Tate. And I’ll take him apart piece by piece. But it hadn’t happened yet.

Now Drappot greeted him with a glower and the words, “Damn dog of yours barked half the night, Kilter. I thought about coming down and strangling it.”

The dogs barked but rarely; many of them were too sick or had been cowed to the point where they didn’t dare make a sound. James didn’t have to ask which dog. He’d brought her in a week ago after catching her master beating her with a chain. James, in a fury—or off kilter, as Drappot would probably deem it—had used the chain on the man before carrying the dog home.

His hearing in court was scheduled for next week.

Now he eyed Drappot and thought, I’d like to see him try and strangle Greta. She had barely even let James near her, since she recovered.

“Sorry about that,” he said with absolutely no regret. “Wouldn’t want you losing any sleep. God knows your disposition shouldn’t get any worse.”

“You ever think that bitch’s master might have beat her for a reason?”

“You ever think about jumping into the river with a sack of bricks tied to your feet?”

“You mean like your ma should have done to you when you were born so ugly?”

It was just a taunt, James reminded himself: Drappot knew very well James hadn’t been born like this.

Drappot smirked. “That why you kilt her? Because she let you live?”

“What’s going on here?”

James knew that voice with its rich Irish brogue. He twitched in response but didn’t break eye contact with Drappot even when Tate strolled up to join them where they stood.

Drappot answered the boss, “That new bitch of his yapped all night, Tate. Never tell me you didn’t hear it.”

“A deaf man could have heard it,” Tate replied.

James did look at him then. “Sorry, Tate. I’m sure she’ll calm down in a day or so.”

“Calm down or get shot,” Drappot said.

“Now, Samuel,” Tate soothed, “sure the beast is hurtin’, scared and alone. She’ll settle soon.”

“Not soon enough, Tate. I don’t know why you tolerate it. Not fair to the rest of us.”

“I’m sorry to hear you think so, Samuel, but you know if you’re not happy staying here you have only to go. Plenty of rooms in this city. I’m that sure you could find somewhere.”

“I’ll give it some thought,” Drappot retorted, clearly annoyed, “and think about taking my services elsewhere also.”

Tate crooned, “You just do that, if you feel you must. I’d be sorry to see you go—you’re a valuable member of staff—but you do what you will.” A glint came into Tate’s eye. “Just as I do.”

Drappot snorted and stalked off.

“‘Valuable member of staff’?” James echoed then.

“So he is, think what you will. The man’s a badger on certain jobs and relentless on hunting people down.” Tate eyed James. “And the dog did bark most the night. I think one of the lads came down and tried to calm her—Relsky, probably.”

It would be Relsky, James reflected; the big Russian had a soft heart.

“She doesn’t like the dark,” James said helplessly. “And she’s little more than a pup.”

“I know.” Tate’s hand came down on James’ shoulder. “Best perhaps to farm her out, if anyone will take her.”

James always tried to place his dogs once they recovered. He didn’t think Greta ready for that but didn’t say so. Instead he asked his boss, “Come and see her with me now?”

“All right,” Tate assented. “I have a few minutes. New client coming in, though, after.”

The yard looked depressing in the driving rain. Six of James’ wire kennels were occupied, with Greta in the largest of them. A big dog with a grizzled brindle coat, she stood nearly chest high on James if she got up on her feet. She rarely did, but preferred to crouch and growl.

The other dogs all ran to the doors of their enclosures when James and Tate approached, some wagging their tails, if they had them. One or two were ready to leave; James had an ongoing active search for likely homes.

He now went about distributing a pat here, a gentle caress there, where welcome, along with soft words. As always, his heart filled in this company. These creatures didn’t care what he looked like. His mutilated face meant nothing to them.

Lastly he approached Greta’s cage. She hunkered low, lifted her lips, and growled at him. When he moved closer, the growl heightened to a snarl.

“You may have a problem there,” Tate opined.

“She’s still healing. Give her some time, eh, Tate?”

“I may have a mass exodus of employees soon.”

James went down on his heels at the door of Greta’s kennel and gazed at her unhappily. “Is there hope for you, girl?” he asked softly. “If so, you’re going to have to let me in.”

Greta flattened her ears and rolled her eyes.

“Speak to her again,” Tate urged. “I’m after thinking she likes the sound of your voice.”

“Sweet girl, pretty girl. I’ll not let anything bad happen to you again, so I promise.”

Tate clucked his tongue. “Careful, laddie, not to make promises you can’t keep.”

“I’ll keep it,” James vowed. “Just you wait and see.”