Hale figured he’d finally lost his bleedin’ mind.
All those blows he’d taken to the head during his fighting career had decided to take their toll.
He’d gotten a tip from one of the men he had watching the city for Molly’s return. Apparently, her last place of residence had been Gregor Dune’s place, though how she had gotten mixed up with Dune was beyond Hale. That she would risk having Claire in the vicinity of the violent madman made Hale’s blood boil.
He had been hanging around outside the tenant house for two days. He had never been a spiritual man, but prayers had been falling steadily from his lips as he watched for some sign of Molly’s return. His eyes burned from staring intently across the street, and his chest ached from intermittently forgetting to breathe whenever someone new approached the pimp house. Each day that passed with no sign of his former lover left him more and more certain she was gone from London for good. And with her, his baby girl.
At the moment, however, it was not someone arriving, but someone leaving—or trying to leave—that drew his attention and his disbelief.
The ruckus across the street was not unusual in itself. Conflict broke out regularly in this part of town. When the man dressed as a dandy in faded velvets and dingy lace exited the tenant house with his young companion, he had been looking around with the cautious eye of a man accustomed to the potential dangers of such an area. And the lad seemed intent upon keeping his head hunched between his shoulders as though the weight of his oversize wool hat was too much for him, though his pace was quickened by the dandy’s firm hand on his narrow shoulder.
They had almost reached the street, when some of Gregor Dune’s hired thugs strolled out to greet them. It was terrible odds, with three rangy brutes against the dandy and his boy.
To Hale’s surprise, the dandy immediately wrapped his hand around the boy’s wrist and stepped forward to face Dune’s hirelings with a casual, arrogant attitude. Hale snorted at the man’s stupidity. The bloke’s fancy clothes were about to be ruined beyond repair. Hale didn’t doubt the outcome of the scuffle one bit, and the scene didn’t much interest him at first.
But when the first thug made a lunging dive, the dandy stepped easily aside, giving the other man a swift shove that sent him stumbling past him with misdirected momentum. All the while he kept up a steady stream of chatter. As the one thug went stumbling, the other two circled around to come at the man and boy from opposite sides. The dandy gave the lad a shove a bare second before the thugs closed in, forcing the child to the ground as he spun on the ball of one foot to sweep his other leg in a high arc, connecting hard to one man’s temple. Finishing his spin, he brought a swift uppercut to the chin of the other bloke.
Hale stepped away from the tree he had been leaning against. He had seen that combination of moves before. He knew it intimately. The next few punches, kicks, and evasive maneuvers solidified his impression. He had seen this man fight before. But it had not been this man.
“What in damnation?” Hale muttered beneath his breath.
Hale had a gift for recalling the specific techniques, impulses, and styles of every man he had ever fought. The dandy across the street was not who he appeared to be. Hale knew Dell Turner’s fighting style when he saw it. He had trained the man for years, not only in bare-knuckle boxing, but also in the French street fighting style for which Hale had never had much of an affinity. Hale was better with his fists—his size did not lend itself to the agility required for savate. But Dell Turner had taken to the French methods easily and, over time, had developed a sort of hybrid style of his own that combined the kickboxing with bare-knuckle brawling.
In fact, Dell Turner had surpassed Hale in the very variety and inspiration of his skill, yet he still came around Hale’s place to spar on occasion. Hale suspected the man enjoyed the friendly competition as much as he did.
If he wasn’t so confused by Turner’s presence at Molly’s former residence while disguised, he may have enjoyed the fight, especially considering Turner had his work cut out for him as he fought the three men while trying to keep the boy out of it as much as possible.
In the end, however, the boy proved useful as he jumped on one brute’s back just as he was about to take Turner down from behind. The interference managed to buy Turner the time he needed to knock out the other two then finish the third. Then he grabbed his companion by the scruff and dragged the poor mite away from the scene. Turner appeared to be blistering the lad’s ears as they went, though to Hale’s eyes, the young’un did not look the least bit cowed.
A short way down the road, they jumped into a carriage and took off. There was only a moment of indecision as Hale glanced back at the tenant house before he strode to hail a hack of his own and took off after them.
* * *
Portia struggled to catch her breath. She looked to where Dell sat slouched on the opposite seat of the carriage. He was glaring at her with a fierce scowl beneath Robert French’s makeup.
“I told you to stay down, dammit.”
“The man would have struck you from behind. You needed me, and I helped,” she snapped back, not particularly in the mood for his guff. “Admit it. Despite your obvious fighting skills—very impressive, by the way—you would have ended up losing that one if I hadn’t interfered.”
“Those men could have broken you in two,” he growled stubbornly.
“But they didn’t. I keep telling you we make a wonderful partnership. Didn’t we get some useful information from Suzanne? I would say that is the important thing.”
He snorted and turned to look out the carriage window. As if ignoring her would have some effect.
Portia would have smiled if she wasn’t so disheartened by what they had discovered.
Molly Andrews had indeed left her young daughter in Suzanne’s keeping. Apparently, she had promised to return after a couple of days. Those days turned to a week and more while Suzanne shuffled the child between the various whores under Gregor Dune’s keeping, so they could all keep working while concealing the child’s presence.
Though Suzanne had a liking for the little girl, the others she called on to watch the child did not, and soon enough she had no one willing to share responsibility.
When Gregor Dune learned the child’s presence was keeping one of his molls off the street, he beat Suzanne bloody. The evidence of that was still clear in the woman’s swollen, split lip and the purple bruises turning to green that graced her face and encircled her throat. The man had clearly not pulled any of his punches.
And then he had taken Claire away.
That had been four days ago.
Portia’s stomach had been twisted in knots since learning that the pimp had taken possession of the girl. When Suzanne admitted tearfully that he intended to sell the child on the docks, Dell had questioned her for more detail, but she had nothing more to offer.
Then, to their supreme luck, Gregor Dune himself arrived to interrupt their interview.
Dell wasted no time in using some violent and clever ways of getting the man to talk. It seemed the bully pimp did not have much tolerance for pain, and Portia could not bring herself to feel sorry for him after seeing what he had done to Suzanne. It took only a few blows from Dell and the press of a knife to his throat for the man to spit out the information.
One more swift punch to the face knocked the pimp out, but apparently not long enough, considering his goons had caught up to them so quickly.
Still, they had gotten away, and marvelously as far as Portia was concerned, though she did worry for Suzanne’s fate. Dune was likely to turn his fists back on her. She needed to find a way to help the woman as soon as possible.
But she couldn’t think long on that right now. Claire was her most pressing priority.
“Do you know this man Gregor Dune named? Bricken?” she asked as she pulled her woolen cap off and released her long braid from where it was coiled tight atop her head. The pins holding the braid in place had been jabbing into her skull for hours. It was a relief to let her hair fall in the single plait down her back.
“I do,” Dell answered gruffly.
She did not like the tone of his voice, and she met his gaze. “And?”
“Not much is known about him other than he is deeply involved in the international black market.”
“What on earth could someone like that want with a small child?”
The change in Dell’s expression sent a flash of dread through her. “It’s possible he extended his business to child labor rings.”
Portia was afraid to ask, but had to know. “And what exactly does that entail?”
“Sometimes stray children—orphans, runaways, those unfortunate enough to be vulnerable for picking—are collected and sold to factories or worse. Here and overseas.”
“That is horrific,” Portia exclaimed. “Those poor children.”
Dell said nothing, but she read his feelings in his eyes. She saw anger there and fear, but also a sad resignation.
“How can such a thing happen in this day and age?”
“There will always be monsters willing to prey upon the weak and unprotected. That is why most children who run the streets become part of a gang. For security. Most learn quickly that the violence and danger inherent in gang life is generally preferable to being alone and vulnerable.”
Portia thought of Thomas. She wondered if he had been alone when Turner had found him a home away from the gangs, he had said.
But what of Claire?
Portia pictured the image of the little girl as Hale had drawn her. So small and pretty. Practically still a baby.
“Molly never had any intention of coming back for her daughter, did she?” She asked the question quietly, disgusted by the thought of a mother abandoning her child in such a way.
Dell gave her an unreadable look, but replied, “I doubt it.”
“We are going after her,” she said with conviction, suddenly worried that Dell’s jaded perspective may decide it was a lost cause.
His gaze narrowed.
“Yes,” he said finally. “We are.”
The carriage had reached Honeycutt’s. Neither of them said anything as they made their way into the narrow brownstone. Once in the hall, Dell gave a shout. “Morley.”
The little man came running from the back of the house. After casting an unreadable glance toward Portia, he asked, “What is it, Mr. Turner?”
“I need to get urgent messages to everyone we know on the docks. We need detailed information on Troy Bricken’s activities over the last week. Where are his headquarters these days? Whom has he been talking to? What ships, if any, has he shown interest in? Then we need those ships’ manifests, their planned routes and scheduled departures. Everything. And we need it now.”
“Yes, sir.” Morley turned without even acknowledging Portia and rushed back into the shadows.
At some point, that small man was going to have to accept her presence, but not today, it would seem.
For several breaths, she and Dell stood in the hall, staring at each other. She felt her chest constrict with pride and admiration for him. He would do absolutely everything in his power to save Claire.
“What plans do you have this evening?” Dell asked her.
And he was still willing to have her as part of it.
“A dinner party, but I can—”
“No,” he interrupted with a gruff expression. “Go to your party. This may take some time.”
“There may not be much time,” Portia whispered sadly.
“We have to hope Bricken has not shipped her off yet, but four days…”
“Even if he has, we may still be able to track her, right?”
“We will do our best.”
Portia fought against the lump in her throat. “She must be so scared.”
“Do not think of that,” he muttered. “It serves no purpose.”
Before she could respond, the front door smashed against the wall with a thunderous bang. Dell swept her around behind him before she even had a chance to glance at what had caused the explosive intrusion.
A man rushed inside, roaring, “You’ve got thirty seconds to explain what interest you have in Gregor Dune’s place and why the fuck you are dressed in that damned costume.”