CHAPTER5
Portia Fairhaven, the Countess of Blakewell.
Wolf’s mystery woman had a name.
A title as well, just as he had suspected.
And she also had some bastard in her life who had dared to raise his hand against her. A cowardly bully she was doing her utmost to protect. Secrets. He’d had damned well enough of those. His missing brother was filled with them, and now the one woman he could not shake free from his thoughts was doing everything in her power to keep them.
She’d made an error of judgment however, when she’d fled him at Bellingham and Co. Because he had followed her. After hastily making certain the carriage would continue awaiting Lily and that Sleepy Tom would escort her safely back to The Sinner’s Palace, Wolf had hastily hired a hack and begun his pursuit.
His efforts had ultimately led him to where he was at this moment. Which was a rather precarious position indeed. Wolf was situated in the dark shadows of Lady Blakewell’s library, watching the fire burn itself out in the grate as he lurked amongst the massive draperies adorning the mullioned windows. It had been a number of years since he had last gone about housebreaking, but like so many skills in life, once it was acquired, it was not easily forgotten. And so, he had stolen into the quiet of Blakewell House with relative ease, even for a man of his impressive size.
Aye, he thought with a rueful grin as he passed a hand over his jaw, his last attempt at playing ken cracker, as housebreakers were commonly known in the rookeries, had been as a much smaller lad. Stealing about the halls in the darkness was a damned sight easier when a cove wasn’t large enough to nearly fill a bloody doorframe. However, he’d been pleased to discover his old trusted tools, the jemmy, roundabout, and screw which had always stood him in good stead were where he had left them when he had sworn he’d no longer dabble in the forbidden art of thievery.
As he waited for the familiar sounds of the household settling in for the night, he told his conscience he was not exactly breaking his promise to himself to forego housebreaking. After all, he had not found his way beneath Portia’s roof—through a less-than-prohibitive door below stairs, as it happened—to steal from her. Rather, he had come to offer her his aid. The sight of the purple-red bruise marring her otherwise creamy cheek had filled him with protective fury. The urge to find the man who would so ill use her and give him the drubbing of the century had been strong.
But Portia had fled before he could offer her his help. And it was because he well understood she could be in some manner of danger, and that the bastard who had struck her and left his mark upon her silken skin could be in residence as well, that he had chosen to execute this rather unorthodox means of seeking an audience with her hours later.
His booted feet offered up a pang of irritation as he continued his vigil at the window, prepared to bolt behind the voluminous tapestry if necessary. It should not be long now before he could make his escape and quietly climb the stairs leading to the private quarters. He could not afford for any of the servants to discover him and send for the watch. Wolf and his siblings had a number of charleys whose palms were kept slickly greased by Sutton coin to make certain the law did not interfere in their business. But no need to tempt fate and find himself cast into the hulks. No stirrings or footsteps had been heard for some time.
If he’d had a glim to cast light over his pocket watch, he might have known the time. A ticking mantel clock gave him the barest indication the hour was likely well past midnight. Early morning, and time for the last of the lingering servants to be abed so they might be rested for the next day’s work. Thank Christ his brothers had not required his aid in watching the floor this evening at The Sinner’s Palace.
His eyes were well-attuned to the low light flickering from the fireplace. Enough that when he decided to move at last, he was able to cross the sumptuous carpets unencumbered by the maze of heavy furniture scattered throughout the chamber. He had just reached the door with the intention he would seek Portia’s chamber when a flickering glow beneath alerted him to the unexpected presence of another.
Fuck!
The vicious oath tore through his mind as Wolf searched frantically for a place where he could hide himself. There was nothing near enough—the blasted windows were on the opposite side of the chamber. The best he could manage was to hunker behind a damned chair, but even that would be—
The door opened, cutting his thoughts in half.
But the figure who entered the library, holding a lone candle aloft to illuminate the way, was not at all who Wolf had expected.
He released the breath he had not realized he had been holding as his gaze met that of a young lad’s. The boy froze, eyes going wide as he took in what was undoubtedly the imposing height and size of a fully grown man he had not expected to be lurking in the library at this hour of the morning.
“Who are you, sir?” the lad asked, his voice giving away his fear with a slight hitch, which matched the tremble in his small hand as the candle bobbled.
A child.
He hadn’t anticipated such an interruption.
Slowly, he stepped forward, then sank on his haunches so he and the boy were at eye level.
Wolf pressed a finger to his own lips, signaling for the lad to remain quiet. “I am a friend, lad. Not a foe. You needn’t fear me.”
The boy blinked, tilting his head to one side as he considered Wolf in the curious manner only a child could possess. “Why should I fear you?”
Why indeed?
It was apparent the youth before him had never been given cause to fret over housebreakers or other manner of criminals.
“You shouldn’t,” he repeated, keeping his voice as quiet and calm as possible. “I’m here as a guest.”
That was a lie, but he hoped the lad was not clever enough to know the difference. All he needed was to suitably distract the boy and then find his way to Portia’s chamber so that he could speak with her and determine what the bloody hell was happening. He needed to know why she had come to The Sinner’s Palace, who had dared to strike her, and where he was going to hide that particular scoundrel’s body.
But enough murderous thoughts for now. There was an innocent lad watching him with wide, attentive eyes.
“What manner of guest? I was not aware Mama had any guests in residence,” he said. “When Aunt Jane comes up to Town, Mama always tells me.”
Mama.
This lad was likely Portia’s son, then. The resemblance was suddenly apparent to him, even in the glow of the lone candle. She was a widow, so of course she would have had children. The notion that she was a mother made an odd warmth creep into his chest. She had a child. Perhaps more than one, even. But it was this particular one, with hair the same color as hers and his solemn expression and glittering green eyes, that was currently Wolf’s to distract.
He raised a brow. “Do I look like Aunt Jane to you, lad?”
The boy shook his head. “No, sir. You do not. Aunt Jane is a lady, for one thing. For another, she is not nearly as tall or as large and hairy.”
Wolf nearly bit out a bark of laughter at the child’s unfettered observation. He supposed it was true enough, though he fancied he had never before been referred to as large and hairy. He reckoned he was in need of a sound shave, but some whiskers on his jaw had never perturbed him. Indeed, it only served to make him appear more menacing to his foes. Also, he was dreadfully lazy in the morning, a shortcoming he willingly owned. Nights were when he came to life. They always had been. It was why remaining on the floor at The Sinner’s Palace through the evening into the early hours of the morning had never proven a particular hardship for Wolf.
“It is fortunate indeed that your Aunt Jane and I do not bear any resemblance to one another,” he managed.