A Rakes Guide to Pleasure (Somerhart 2)

"It's blocks away. Call for your damned carriage. 'At's what it's for."

Sparing a haughty glare for the little urchin, Hart raised a hand. As the sound of horseshoes against stone drew closer, Stimp's eyes grew brighter. He struggled to remain expressionlessly unimpressed, but he was only a child after all. His big brown eyes glimmered with joy, and Hart had to hold back a snort. The boy fought hard for his dignity, and Hart would let him have it.

"In," he ordered as the wheels slowed to a halt. The boy jumped in, agile as a cat. "Push up that little hatch there and tell the driver where to go."

Stimp needed no further prompting. He took over directing the carriage, opened all the windows and settled into the cush­ions, lap blanket pulled high against the breeze he'd created.

He shouted instructions several times. The carriage turned left and right and right again, then seemed to go through the same motions once more. Hart was certain the journey was rather longer than strictly required.

"What do you know?" he asked Stimp.

"Whoever he is, he's a stranger 'round here. A big fellow. Closemouthed but not good at keeping hid."

"The same man who paid you for information last month?"

"The same. And he come back last night too, dumb as you please. I chased him off and followed him. Wasn't sure you'd want the constables involved."

Hart shrugged, unsure himself.

"He went straight to a tavern, drunk himself into a mean stupor, and he's been snoring it off at this lodging 'ouse ever since."

Hart tugged his watch free. "It's three in the afternoon."

"He drank 'til seven this morning." He was impressed with the lad's fortitude. "You must be tired, Stimp."

The little shoulders shrugged, though his eyes shown with pleasure again. "Spying ain't exactly hauling coal." The boy's eyebrow rose in a startlingly accurate impression of Hart's favorite expression. "It's practically gentlemen's work, isn't it, guv?"

Hart found himself holding back another smile. No wonder the street rat reminded him of Lady Denmore. Insolent to the core. "I'm not entirely sure I trust you, Stimp."

The boy's laughter rang like a bell as they finally jerked to a stop.

When Hart stepped down, he found himself at the door­way of a rambling three-story structure that seemed to stretch on for the entire block. Stimp darted past him and through the propped-open door. Sparks began to race over Hart's skin as he followed through narrow halls. The air was just as cold as it had been outside, but it was thicker here, tainted with bodies and old, bad cooking. He took care not to brush against the mottled gray walls.

What the hell did this man living in cold and filth have to do with Emma? His anger was sharpened and magnified by his doubts about her. This man was no ordinary thief. There was something else going on, something to do with gambling, he didn't doubt. Idiot woman.

He ran up the stairs after Stimp, around a corner and into an even darker hallway. Stimp slid to a stop in front of a bat­tered brown door. Hart waited for the boy's nod before he smashed the door open with the flat of his hand.

Two men looked up from sleeping pads and caught sight of Hart's face. They'd scrambled up and out the door within three heartbeats, abandoning the third man curled into the corner.

Hart picked his way through a maze of stained, rumpled blankets and nudged the man with his boot.

"That's 'im," Stimp offered as Hart nudged again, much harder this time. The man stirred and gin fumes wafted up like pungent smoke.

"Christ."

"If he's from the country, he's likely no

t used to that brew."

Grimacing at the idea, Hart leaned down and grabbed a fistful of the man's shirt. Whatever stained it was dry at least. A good shake roused the drunk bastard, but his eyelids fluttered closed as soon as Hart stopped shaking. "Wake up, you thieving wretch."

"Ernnh," was the only reply.

"Damn it." He yanked the man to his feet, rather unsuc­cessfully. "Either stand or I'll drag you down the stairs." He had to get the man out into the fresh air. Hell, he had to get himself out into the fresh air, the combination of gin and stale sweat and God knew what else was making his eyes water.

He dragged the man across the room and down the hall, thankful when he woke enough to slide his feet beneath him to bear some of the weight.

"Stairs," Hart warned before he pulled him, thunking, down the steps.