Page 8 of In Bed with the Earl

He’d hand it to the other man: he made no outward reaction to the state of Malcom’s dress ... or to the stench clinging to his garments or the dusty, sad conditions of this East London office. Of course, Steele, even having climbed out of East London and having established a new life for himself, couldn’t truly divest himself of this place.

“Steele,” Malcom said, with mock joviality. “I would offer you a brandy, but alas, I’m afraid in these parts we don’t have such luxuries to hand out.” To underscore that very point, Malcom fished a small flask from his pocket, another token of his time in the sewers. Taking a swig of the harsh whiskey, he wiped a hand over the back of his mouth, and held out the flask in a taunting dare.

Steele lifted a palm in a polite declination.

Malcom’s lips curved in a jeering grin, and he took another deliberate drink, and then tucked his flask into one of the many pockets lining his wool jacket.

The steely-eyed detective took in Malcom’s every movement, lingering briefly on the clever pocketed garment donned by every tosher in London. Garments all different in their texture but similar for the purpose they served.

“There are matters of some import I would speak to you about.” Steele at last let his arms fall to his sides and revealed a thick folder he held in his fingers.

Malcom forced himself to not linger his focus on the folder. To do so would reveal a weakness. Instead, he smiled coolly. “Ah, I’d offer you a seat, but alas, I fear I don’t have one that would suit a fancy swell such as yourself.”

Expressionless, Steele assessed the stack of wood crates lining the floor before collecting a solid egg-transport box. “This will do,” he said, despite Malcom’s disdain. The man didn’t shrink from the discomforts of Malcom’s office the way any other man of the law would and did.

Either way, the detective had overstayed his welcome. Nothing good could come from his being here. “Ah, but you see, I’m not offering you a seat,” Malcom drawled, folding his arms at his chest. “That would suggest you intend to stay some time, and yet, I’ve no interest in entertaining you ... or anyone.”

“I understand my presence here is no doubt uncomfortable.”

Malcom snorted. “Getting chewed up by sewer rats is uncomfortable. Having you here as unwanted company? An easy annoyance to be dispensed of.” With that, Malcom started for the door.

“Does the Hope Foundling Hospital mean anything to you?” the other man asked, refusing to budge from his spot on the bloodstained floorboards.

“Nothing,” Malcom said automatically. And it didn’t. There were any number of those hellish institutions, those holding places for children who would eventually be turned loose as pickpockets and whores. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?” He clasped the door handle.

“What of the names Sparky and Penge?”

Malcom paused; those names whispered forward. Vaguely familiar ... and yet ... not. Feeling the other man’s eyes burning into his nape, Malcom took a path over to the desk he’d made out of an inverted phaeton wheel.

“I don’t know them. I’ve never heard of them or of your hospital.”

“How did you come to be here, Mr. North?”

“The same way as the rest of London’s orphans.” Rotted luck and even more ill fortune. “Alas,” Malcom said icily, “if you’ve come for philosophical discussions, you’re better served returning to the nobs you rub shoulders with now.”

Steele, however, was unrelenting. “Ah, but you are not quite like the rest of London’s orphans, are you?” Malcom didn’t move. “You don’t have the rough Cockney of one from these parts.”

The other man wasn’t going anywhere. It was not, however, the first time Malcom had been mocked or called out for the quality of his speech. He faced Steele once more. “Neither do you,” he pointed out.

“I was rescued and raised as the adopted son of an earl.”

The question came through clearer than if he’d spoken it aloud: How could they account for Malcom’s proper English?

“Is that why you’ve come?” Malcom goaded. “To trade stories with a fellow street urchin similar to yourself?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Allow me to disabuse you of that notion. If you’re looking to find someone like yourself? You’re going to want to try Mayfair.”

Steele pounced. “And are you familiar with Mayfair?”

Malcom silently cursed himself for revealing too much. The detective was searching for a street thief, then. “The only places I rob, Steele, are the sewers, where anything is free for the taking.” As long as a man was brave enough—or stupid enough—to go claim it.

“I wasn’t suggesting that you were committing theft.”

“Am I familiar with Mayfair? No. Do I take cream in my tea? Don’t drink the stuff. Should we move on to another polite topic? Weather, perhaps? Rain. Enjoying more of it than usual in our sunny old England.”

Giving no outward reaction to that baiting, Steele snapped open the previously ignored folder in his hands. He sifted through several pages and then extended one sheet of parchment across the phaeton wheel. “Is this familiar to you?”

Making no attempt to take the page, Malcom dipped his gaze slightly enough so he could scan the information written there while keeping an eye on the detective.

126 MAYFAIR

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