Page 29 of Their Master

“Nell?”

“She’s a maid here and she’s been pining for Moira, for all the good it did her. She might know where Moira went.”

Smith nodded his thanks and closed the door behind Julia. He pulled the servant cord and a footman answered his summons so quickly that Smith knew Cecile would be aware of the depth of his displeasure and wanted to do what she could to alleviate it.

Quite frankly, he was more annoyed with himself than anyone else. Why was he chasing after a whore he’d fucked a handful of times?

Why was he about to disrupt a perfectly enjoyable agreement with Luke in anticipation of something that might very well—indeed most likely—would prove to be a mistake?

But Smith knew why he was there, and it infuriated him. He had to be the most predictable man in London—hell, in all of England. Dangle an emotionally distant man or woman in front of him and he was hooked, like a hound on the trail of a fox, unable to rest until he’d brought his quarry to ground.

The door opened and a young woman entered. She was tall—a good deal taller than Smith—and solidly built.

“I’m Nell, sir.” She dropped an awkward curtsey. “Madame Cecile says you want to talk about Moira.”

“Thank you for coming, Nell. Please have a seat.”

“Er, beggin’ your pardon sir, but I’d rather stand.”

“Whatever makes you most comfortable.” He smiled, hoping to put her at ease. “Madame is right; I’m concerned about Moira.”

“Aye, so’m I. She left without sayin’anything.” Her face crumpled and a tear rolled down her cheek and she brushed it aside with a loud sniff. Smith noticed there were dark smudges beneath her large hazel eyes, as if she’d been missing sleep.

He offered her his handkerchief and she stared at it like he was offering her a live cobra.

“Go ahead,” he urged gently.

She took the pristine white square with thick fingered, work-scarred hands that were bigger than Smith’s.

“Do you know what was ailing her?”

Nell shook her head. “I could see that she hurt bad. I knocked on her door when she didn’t come for supper. She didn’t answer until after I’d knocked and knocked and knocked. She wasgray, sir. I haven’t never seen anyone go that color.”

“Does she have friends? Family?” he asked, already knowing the answer, but hoping he might be wrong.

“No, she were alone. She came all the way from,” she paused, her brow furrowing. “Well, I don’t rightly know where. But she said her family was all dead. I met her the first day she came.” She smiled at the memory, but quickly came back to the present and fear flashed in her eyes.

“I’m afraid for her, sir. She won’t take help—even if I knew where to find her—that just isn’t her way.” She met his gaze squarely for the first time. “Can you find her and help her, sir?”

“I’ll find her,” Smith promised.

Whether he could help her would be up to Moira.

Chapter 8

Moira still hurt—both inside and out—but at least she could eat and dress and use the chamber pot without calling for Mrs. Dauntry, her landlady.

“Cracked ribs is wot you got,” the older woman said—at least a dozen times every single day.

As much as Moira hated asking anyone for help, she’d had to ask this time—there’d simply been no choice. She’d been in so much pain—and so scared that she’d suffered internal damage—that listening to Mrs. Dauntry’s incessant babbling was a small price to pay. Well, in addition to the shillings she’d paid her, of course.

Even when Moira was no longer in constant pain, she was still terrified.

After leaving Bernina’s the first thing she’d done upon reaching the relative safety of the dingy room at Pigeon Court was send a message to her brother Robert.

When no answer had come, she’d sent a second message—this one to his landlord, a French émigré who had given Robert a place to stay as a favor to Marie.

It had been two days before she’d received an answer from the landlord: Robert hadn’t been seen in over ten days.

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