Bedford Street Brigade 01 - Where the Lady Belongs (4 page)

Cora looked up as the first raindrop hit her face. “Yes, maybe we should go in.”

They walked toward the house but had to run the last few steps when the rain fell in earnest.

“Oh, that was close,” Cora said, brushing off a few drops of rain from the sleeve of her dress. “Did you get wet?” she asked him.

“No, we made it in time.”

“Do you want me to get some tea? It won’t take long.”

“No,” he said, sitting on a sofa. “Just come and sit with me.”

Cora moved toward him, but his voice stopped her.

“Do you have another sketch?”

Cora nodded, then went for one of the copies she’d made in case they needed extras. When she reached the sofa, she handed it to him, then sat down beside him.

For several minutes he studied the sketch as if he’d never seen it before, then he dropped his hand to his lap and let the drawing lie there.

“Do you see anything new?” she asked, taking the drawing from his fingers and holding it up in front of her.

Mack shook his head. “No, it’s the same as before. The same face. The same scar on his cheek. The same inexpensive suit. The same hand holding the same pistol. Everything’s the same, and there’s nothing there to give us a clue as to who he is.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Eventually you’ll show it to someone who will recognize him.”

“Yes, but how long will it take before that happens?”

“Patience, Mack.” She lifted the sketch up before her again. Maybe there was something she’d forgotten to put in.

She studied it but found nothing missing.

“What’s that?” Mack said, pointing to the very bottom of the sketch.

“That’s the gunman’s suit pocket,” she answered.

“What’s that in his pocket?”

“It was a folded newspaper. It was wrinkled and smudged and looked to be months old,” Cora said. “I only remember it because I couldn’t help but wonder why the man had a newspaper that was so out of date.”

Mack grabbed the sketch from her hand and sat forward. “Do you remember anything about the paper? Which paper was it? The
Times
?”

“No. It wasn’t any paper I’d ever heard of before. It was the
Northern Sun.
Or
Moon.
Or—”

“
Star
,” Mack finished for her. Was it the
Northern Star
?”

“Yes, that’s what it was. Does that help?”

Mack clasped his hands on her upper arms and kissed her hard. “Yes, Cora. It helps. It helps a great deal.”

And he kissed her again.

C
ora had only ever heard the word before. She didn’t know what the term meant, or what the movement’s purpose was. Now she did. She also knew who’d killed Sir George Grey’s Undersecretary. Frederick Blake—an avowed Chartist.

Blake was reported to be a staunch follower of Feargus O’Connor, the leader of the Chartist movement. O’Connor advocated strikes and physical violence, and when the Chartist movement was defeated, several of its more outspoken members became bitter and vowed for vengeance. Frederick Blake was undoubtedly one of those.

Defeat of the movement caused a festering of discontent and hostility. Hopefully, Mack would locate Mr. Blake and the crime would be solved. Until then, Cora had no choice but to stay where she was.

Maybe today he would catch him.

Cora filled two plates with midday snacks, then put them in the hampers they used to set them outside. Rain had fallen steadily all morning, and Cora knew both Hugh and Jack would be thankful for warm coffee and a bite to eat.

She waited until the rain slowed, then carried the two hampers to the front of the house. She gave one of them to Harper and took the other to the garden. A part of her would be very glad when she could go farther. Maybe on a walk through Hyde Park. Maybe just shopping. Another part of her dreaded the day when that would happen. That would signal that the killer had been found, and that she would no longer be living here. That she would no longer see Mack, or if she did, it would be seldom.

Cora carried the hamper to the gate and pushed back the bolt. “Do you have the back-of-the-house duty today, Jack? Or is it you, Hugh?”

“No, miss. It’s me. Jack. Did you take pity on the two of us and bring us a mug of hot coffee?”

“I did. I heard your teeth chattering all the way in the kitchen.”

“Oh, you’re a dear.”

Cora took the hamper to the usual spot and set it down. Then she darted back inside the gate and pushed the bolt shut. She didn’t leave immediately but stood to talk to Jack for a moment.

“Oh,” Jack said on a sigh. “You brought some of those strawberry-filled pastries from last night. Did you make those, Cora?”

Cora smiled. “I did.”

“They’re my favorite. What are we having tonight?”

“I believe Mrs. Ramesdale was just taking a peach pie out of the oven when I left the kitchen.”

“Oh, Quinn will think he died and went to heaven.”

“Have you seen or heard from Mack today?” she asked. He was gone before she rose this morning and hadn’t come home all day.

“He stopped by earlier and said he’d probably be late. He said he had some errands to run, then he’d be home.”

“Did his errands involve Mr. Blake?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. But don’t worry. Mack knows what he’s doing.”

“I know, but—”

“Miss Lane!” Harper rushed from the house to the terrace. “Come quickly.”

Cora rushed into the house. “What is it, Harper?”

“It’s Mr. Wallace, miss. He’s been hurt.”

Cora didn’t wait for Harper to say more but ran to the foyer. Quinn and two men Cora hadn’t met before were carrying Mack up the stairs.

Cora rushed to catch up with them but didn’t get a glimpse of Mack until they reached the top of the stairs.

His body was bloody and bruised, his face almost beyond recognition. One eye was swollen shut; the other had a nasty cut angling below it. His mouth was split and swollen, and bruises covered his jaw on both sides.

“Bring him in here.” Cora rushed ahead of them to turn down his bed. “Harper, have Mrs. Ramesdale send up warm water and cloths.” She looked at Quinn. “Has someone sent for a doctor?”

“He should be here shortly.”

Cora helped Quinn and the other two men undress Mack, then put a clean nightshirt over his head. Several ugly red marks and purple bruises were already forming on his middle. He probably had some cracked or broken ribs.

She hoped it wasn’t anything more serious.

“Briggs,” Quinn ordered. “Watch the front with Hugh. Keep an eye on the street and everyone who goes by. Roarke, help Jack in the back.”

The two men left the room as Harper entered with the doctor.

“What have we here?” the doctor said, looking to where Mack lay on the bed. “I see Mr. Wallace had a disagreement with some nasty fellows.”

Cora’s glare darted to the doctor. How could he be so glib? She knew her expression contained a look of incredulity.

“Well, miss. Usually when I get called to Mr. Wallace’s residence, it’s to take out a bullet or sew up a knife wound. This isn’t a routine wound.”

Cora swallowed. “I see.”

“Yes, well let’s have a look here. Wash his face while I look at the rest of him.”

Cora rinsed a cloth in water and gently dabbed at Mack’s face. The blood was easy to wash off. The bruises, however, didn’t disappear.

Once or twice Mack moaned, then shifted as if trying to escape the pain. Cora quickly lifted her cloth, thinking she was the cause of his agony.

“It’s not you who’s causing him pain, miss. It’s me.” The doctor straightened, then pulled the covers back over Mack’s torso. “Mr. Wallace has some cracked ribs. They’ll have to be bound. As to the rest of him, there’s not much I can do except leave some salve that will help his cuts and bruises.”

The doctor checked Mack’s face, then felt his head. “He has a nasty bump on the back of his head. When he wakes he’ll have one hell of an aching head. None of the cuts on his face are bad enough, though, that they need sewing.”

A wave of relief washed over her. It wasn’t until she swayed that she realized Quinn had his hand at her elbow.

“Thank you, Doctor,” she said. “I’ll go below and get fresh water while you and Quinn bind Mr. Wallace’s ribs. Mrs. Ramesdale will have tea and dessert waiting for you.”

“Thank you, miss. It shouldn’t take long. I’ll leave the salve you’re to use on Mr. Wallace. Call if you need me further.”

“Yes. Thank you, Doctor.”

Cora quickly left the room. She had to before Quinn saw her tears. To see Mack hurt so badly was more than she was able to handle. To know that when he awoke he would be in a great deal of pain wasn’t something she wanted to consider.

Usually when I get called to Mr. Wallace’s residence, it’s to take out a bullet or sew up a knife wound.

Cora didn’t go to the kitchen like she intended but made her way to Mack’s study, then out the doors onto the terrace, and down the pathway to the bench where she and Mack sat each night. The bench where they talked about their pasts. And shared their hopes for the future.

Mack hadn’t mentioned that they had a future together. She’d been the one to dream they might. Now she wasn’t so sure.

But how could she rise each morning knowing that when he left the house there was a chance he’d come home beaten, or shot, or stabbed? Or that someone would bring his dead body home?

She hadn’t searched for a perfect love only to tragically lose it because of the man’s occupation.

Cora swiped a tear that spilled from her eye, then another. She was being silly—she knew she was—but she couldn’t help but relive the terror she’d felt when she saw Mack’s unconscious body being carried up the stairs. She wasn’t sure she could go through that again.

“Are you all right?”

Cora swept the moisture from her face, then turned to see Quinn walking toward her. “I’m fine. I just needed a moment.”

“That’s all right, Cora. Knowing what can happen in our line of work is never easy.”

“No wonder none of you have married.”

Quinn smiled. “It would take a special woman to be a part of our lives.”

“Do you have regrets?” she asked Quinn, knowing that he must have. Wondering how deeply they affected him.

“We all live with regrets, Cora. I’m sure even you have regrets concerning at least one of the choices you made in the past. But we learn to live with our actions. And minimize our regrets. Otherwise, they consume us.”

Cora considered Quinn’s words and couldn’t argue with anything he’d said. “No wonder Mack considers you such a close friend. He would agree with everything you said.”

Quinn smiled, then reached out his hand to help Cora rise.

“Has the doctor finished?” she asked.

“Yes. He’s having tea and a sandwich Mrs. Ramesdale made for him.”

“I need to go, then.”

“I’ll be up in a while. I want to check with the others first and tell them Mack will be fine.”

Cora nodded, then went back through the house and up the stairs. When she reached Mack’s room, she hesitated before entering. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt as if everything had changed. As if Mack wasn’t the only one who’d been beaten and left for dead.

Cora reapplied the salve the doctor had left to the worst of Mack’s cuts, then placed another cool cloth on his forehead. He was calm now, but Cora knew that could change at any moment. It was as if he fought to regain consciousness, but his mind told him that if and when he woke, the pain would be unbearable.

When she was sure he was as comfortable as he could be, she sat back in her chair.

She battled against a weight that had settled inside her chest when they’d brought Mack’s bruised and beaten body home. A weight that hadn’t been there before. It was as if a window had been opened that allowed her to see the whole picture of what a life with Mack would entail. Not just the exciting parts of helping him with a case he was working on. Or the time at the end of the day when they shared quiet moments alone.

The picture she saw now revealed the parts she’d refused to consider before. The parts she hadn’t known existed.

Her gaze rested on Mack’s face, and she reached for his hand. She almost pulled back when his fingers tightened around hers. But she didn’t. She held his hand and knelt beside the bed so that when he opened his eyes he would see her first and know he was safe.

He shifted in his bed, a little at first, then more. He was waking. His head moved from side to side, and he moaned. Then he held still, as if his mind realized it had endured this intense pain before and knew the best action was to lie still.

Very slowly one eye opened. The one that was swollen shut was unable to move.

“Lie still, Mack,” Cora said, standing at his bedside so that he could see her without having to move his head. “You’re safe now.”

“Do I look as bad as I feel?”

His voice sounded hoarse and raspy, his words were slurred more than just a little, but the one corner of his lips lifted as if he were trying to smile.

“To quote Quinn, you look like hell.”

“That’s how I feel.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Mack sank back against the pillows. “How are you?”

“Me? I wasn’t the one beaten nearly to death.”

The longer Cora spoke, the more choked her voice became. The closer to the surface tears rose. The angrier she became—at Mack, although she wasn’t sure why her anger was focused on him. Yet it was. For some reason she felt as if he’d ruined everything. He’d shattered her dreams and destroyed her heart.

Cora rinsed a cloth in cool, clean water and placed it on his forehead. Mack’s eyes were closed, and she thought he’d fallen asleep again, but he hadn’t. His next words proved it.

“Why do I think you hurt as much as I do?”