“It isn’t your problem,” she whispered.
“What?” Clarence snapped. He tore his gaze away from the shadow on the doorstep to glance at her.
“Nothing. I shall leave you to your guest,” she drawled but made it no further than the doorway before her wrist was captured in her father’s cruel grip.
“Answer it,” he snapped.
“No,” she replied firmly. “Do it yourself.”
“Answer it, Poppy. If they get me, I am no good to you. I cannot provide a roof over your head, or put food on the table.”
“Ha,” she snorted. “You can only provide a hovel over my head, and are so brave and strong that not only would you hit a woman, but you are incapable of even answering your own front door to sort out your own problems. Answer the damned door yourself because I certainly shall not.”
“Poppy,” he growled, but she didn’t wait around to hear anything else he had to say. Once in the kitchen she closed the door to the hallway and waited.
The bag as only a few feet away and positively burned into her conscience. She couldn’t leave the house without it because if she didn’t have the bag’s contents there was no point in leaving the house. She needed that money now. As soon as she had a roof over her head, and a job that could provide for her, she could return whatever was left to her cousin, Peter, the rightful owner of the money, and could then explain her situation to him. She was positive he wouldn’t mind, and would understand her predicament given her sorry state her father had gotten himself into. Until then she had to fend for herself.
She jumped when the knocking suddenly stopped and was swiftly followed by the heavy thumps of Clarence’s feet on the stairs. Taking the golden opportunity that had suddenly opened up for her, she quickly removed the bag from the kitchen cupboard before she collected her precious belongings from under the stairs. With a furtive glance up the stairs, she hurried toward the back door. She suspected that Clarence would be looking out of the front window to see who the caller was, but didn’t really care. At some point, he would know she had left. What was the point in lingering to say goodbye?
Before she had second thoughts, she donned her shawl and quickly let herself out of the house. Once on the doorstep she glanced up and down the long row of houses and considered which way to go first. One thing that was apparent was that she had to leave the destitution of the area because if she crossed the paths of those pick-pockets, and they realised what was in her bag she was doomed before her new, unexpectedly independent life could really even begin.
Taking a deep breath, she hurriedly left the hovel and took the path that would take her in the opposite direction to the park.
CHAPTER SIX
The swirling water flowed quickly and began to bubble right in the centre. Luke gasped at the sight of booted feet floating steadily toward him. The feet turned into dark coloured trousers and a sodden shirt rendered almost see-through by the grubby water, but they weren’t his feet. They belonged to someone else. His feet wouldn’t move. He was cold – so very cold, but couldn’t get out of the water. He couldn’t speak; couldn’t breathe past the suffocating chill that threatened to suck him under. Curiously he reached out a hand to stop the body from floating away. He had no idea why but it was imperative he stops that body from leaving. His hand reached out but everything within him was screaming at him to leave it alone. Don’t touch it. He couldn’t help whoever it was, but his hand reached out anyway. Slowly, he drew the shoulder up and out of the water, and watched in horror as the body flipped over. A cry locked in his throat as he looked straight into the blank, lifeless eyes of the beautiful woman called Poppy.
Luke sat bolt upright in bed and swore. It had been five days since he had left her in the park and each night he had been haunted by that blasted dream that had come out of nowhere and stayed. He wiped a thin sheen of sweat off his forehead and willed his senses to settle. It took him a moment to wake up and realise that he was in his bedroom at his lodgings, perfectly safe, and all alone. When he did, he wished he hadn’t.
Was the dream an omen of events yet to come? Had the stunningly gorgeous, yet mysteriously alluring woman been murdered only he had yet to find the body?
“God, I hope not,” he whispered into the night. “Poppy, where are you?”
He closed his eyes on a silent prayer that wasn’t the case, and Poppy was alive somewhere. Whatever had happened to her, Luke suspected that he was going to have to tear London apart before he could understand the rather curious hold the woman appeared to have on him. He hated anyone having such a profound effect on him while at the same time leaving him with so many questions that he wasn’t quite sure where to start to get all the answers he needed. Still, he wasn’t a member of the Star Elite for nothing. If he had to use every ounce of experience the last eight years had brought him, and plunge into the very dregs of society who populated London, he would find Poppy Cleghorne again. When he did eventually find her, he would bloody well satisfy his curiosity before he very firmly put her out of his mind once and for all.
Because of his disturbed sleep he was tired and grumpy when he slumped at the kitchen table the following morning. Lathering a large chunk of bread liberally with butter, he tucked in hungrily and only threw the briefest of glances at Barnaby, who stormed into the kitchen as though the hounds from Hell were nipping at his heels.
“News?”
“I’ll say,” Barnaby snorted and slapped a broadsheet on the table in front of him.
Luke’s brows lifted but when Barnaby poured himself a drink and slumped into the chair opposite without speaking, he reached out and flipped the broadsheet over so he could read what had incensed his friend so much.
“Lord Ingleby Dead. Joshua Samson found strangled.” Luke pursed his lips and took another sip of his wine. “Who identified him?”
“Simon,” Barnaby sighed. “He has had one of the house staff at Ingleby’s house confirm it last night.”
“He didn’t get the relatives to identify him?”
Barnaby threw him a warning look. “Simon wanted someone else to confirm the identity before he informs the family formally later this morning.” Barnaby leaned his elbows on the table and landed a look on Luke that warned him trouble was afoot. “Joshua Samson is one of Raymond Trent’s connections.”
“Trent is connected to Sayers,” Luke mused thoughtfully with a nod.
“I know.”
“Is Jeb and Josh still keeping watch on Trent’s place; The Riverside Club?” He watched Marcus sit beside him and shoved the butter toward his colleague when Marcus ripped a chunk off the loaf on the table between them.
“Yep, and they saw Samson there talking to Trent the night he died. They didn’t get to hear what was said, but it appeared to be a friendly chat before you ask. There was someone else with Samson who was not altogether friendly. He left not long after Samson. There were too many people coming and going, or something, I don’t know. Anyway, nobody realised they had gone until it was too late.” Barnaby nodded to the broadsheet. “Keep reading. Take a look at that at the bottom of the page.”