A Talent for Trouble (11 page)

“You want some of your money back?” Sam asked, holding up the bills.

“No, and put that away before anyone sees it. It'll do you little good if it gets stolen.”

“Nobody steals from me.”

The boy's spunk caused Grayson's lips to curl. He pulled his hand from his pocket, stepped forward, and pressed more money into Sam's outstretched hand. “Use that wisely, and if you ever need assistance, I'm renting a house on Fifth Avenue. Just ask for the English lord and someone will direct you to me.”

“Why?”

“Pardon?”

“Why would you help someone like me?”

That was a difficult question to answer. But the truth suddenly smacked him in the face. He needed to seek redemption. Perhaps, just perhaps, if he tried to help even one unfortunate soul, he'd find a small measure of peace.

“Mister, are you all right?”

Grayson forced a smile. “I'm fine, Sam. Now, hide that money, and remember, if you need help—”

“Fifth Avenue, English lord,” Sam finished for him.

“Good boy,” Grayson said, swinging up on top of Spot. He looked down. “You didn't happen to notice any Chinese men on the streets out there, did you?”

“They're all over the place.”

“Wonderful,” Grayson muttered.

“Where do you need to go?”

“Broadway.”

“I could show you a shortcut where you wouldn't run into any of those men.”

Grayson smiled, held out his hand, and pulled Sam up behind
him. They were soon traveling through one back alley after another, Sam regularly calling instructions.

By the time they reached Broadway, Grayson's anxiety level had reached an all-time high, and he could only pray Felicia had made it out of the slums safely.

He'd hated to let her out of his sight, but he'd had little choice in the matter, since he didn't want anyone to know of their association. If he'd stayed with her, he would have only drawn more attention to her.

“You can set me down here, sir,” Sam said, breaking into Grayson's thoughts.

Grayson brought Spot to a halt and felt Sam slide off the horse. He looked down. “How will you get back?”

“Not to worry,” Sam said. “I'll just jump on an omnibus, seeing as how I have some spare money.”

Grayson reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, surprised when Sam shook his head.

“You already paid me plenty.”

“That was for fetching my horse. Besides, you'll draw less notice if you pay your fare with coins. No one expects a street boy to be carrying around a bunch of bills.”

Sam hesitated for a moment and then, almost reluctantly, held out his hand. Grayson dropped the coins into it and smiled, but his smile faded when he found himself wondering how often Sam found something to smile about.

“Thank you, sir. My sisters will appreciate having a decent meal, and the money you gave me will last us awhile.”

Grayson closed his eyes for a moment and then slowly opened them. “You have sisters?”

“I do, sir, two. Both younger than me.” He puffed out his thin chest. “I've been taking care of them ever since my parents got killed down at the mill.”

“Do you have a home?”

“We used to rent a room, but the landlady threw us out when my parents died.”

“Did no one think to send you to an orphanage?”

“We're better off on the streets.”

Pain sliced through Grayson at the injustice life offered some. He took a deep breath. “Not all orphanages are bad, Sam. My sister and her husband just opened one on the outskirts of the city. I have a feeling you might like it there.”

Sam's eyes grew round. “Is your sister Lady Eliza?”

“You've heard of her?”

Sam ignored the question. “That's why you said to ask for an English lord. You really are one.”

“Yes, I am, whether I want to be or not.”

“You don't like being a fancy gentleman?”

“Not particularly.”

“But . . . haven't you got a house and plenty of money?”

Grayson actually had five houses—or maybe it was six—not that he was going to admit that to the poverty-stricken boy gazing up at him. “I do have a house and money.”

“Then you should be happy,” Sam said. “Someday I'm going to have me a house, or at least a room of my own, and rooms for my sisters. I'm going to get a job at the mill once I get taller.”

Shame burrowed into Grayson's soul. He'd thought he'd matured greatly during his years in China, but in reality, the boy standing by him, who was little more than a child, shouldered more responsibilities than Grayson had ever managed.

It was humbling, being faced with the reality of his true character.

He'd allowed himself to be pulled into a brawl with little consideration of the consequences. He was apparently still capable of whining about having been born an aristocrat.

It was past time he grew up.

“Is something the matter, sir?”

Grayson shook himself out of his thoughts. “Nothing of any great importance. Now then, I have nothing with which to write this down, so you'll need to listen carefully to what I'm about to say.”

“I don't read real well, sir, so I'd have to listen anyways.”

Another bout of shame descended. He'd always taken his education for granted.

“Right, you can't read well,” he muttered. “We'll have to do something about that.”

“Sir?”

Grayson leaned forward on Spot. “I want you to seek out my sister, but I can't recall her actual address, so you'll need to go to that big church down the way, the one with the lovely stained-glass windows.”

“Reverend Fraser's church?”

“That's the one, but he won't be there.”

“I know. He just got married.”

“You are aware of everything that goes on, aren't you?”

Sam grinned. “Sometimes it comes in handy.”

“I imagine it does,” Grayson replied, unable to help grinning back at the boy. “Anyways, go there and tell them Grayson Sumner sent you. That will get you access to my sister, and she'll get you and your sisters off the street and settled.”

“I heard there's no room right now at that orphanage.”

“My sister will make room for you and your sisters,” Grayson said. “I'll tell her to expect you.”

“That's kind of you, Mr. Sumner.”

Grayson's heart ached as he looked at the boy watching him now so earnestly. The boy's life was beyond difficult, and yet he still minded his manners. It was clear he was an intelligent lad, and Grayson swore then and there he'd do whatever was in his power to help him. But first, he needed to get to Felicia.

“I don't remember the last time anyone called me kind,” he
finally muttered before he leaned farther over his horse and held out his hand. Sam looked completely delighted as he shook it. “I have your word you'll seek out my sister?”

“I'll do my best to find her.”

It wasn't a promise, but it would have to do.

“See that you try your hardest,” Grayson said, “and now, I have to be on my way. I need to ascertain that a good friend hasn't landed herself in more trouble.”

“Miss Felicia?”

“You know her?”

“She roams the streets, looking for the needy and for stray orphans.”

Grayson frowned. “If you know that, why didn't you let her find you?”

Sam shifted on his feet. “She just started looking for orphans a few months back, but everyone knows she's one of those religious ladies. I don't like when they try to lecture me.”

“Felicia tried to lecture you? That doesn't sound like her.”

“Not Miss Felicia—some of the other ladies. But that's why I never approached her.”

“May I assume one of those ladies said something distasteful to you?”

“Just one, she called me the spawn of . . . Well, it doesn't really matter. But I didn't like that at all, and then . . . she tried to dump water over my head. She said it would cure me of any evil lurking inside me.”

“I hate to tell you this, Sam, but you're going to encounter nutty people throughout your life,” Grayson said. “That one lady doesn't represent all people of faith. Felicia's a wonderful lady and remarkably good.”

“Why was she singing in that pub if she's so good?”

“You heard her?”

“The whole street heard her. It was horrible.”

“If you ever run into her, you might want to keep that information to yourself.”

“My pa always taught me to treat girls with respect,” Sam said. “I would never tell her she can't sing.”

“You're a better man than I.”

“You told her she couldn't sing?”

“Well, yes, but strangely enough, it seemed she liked hearing it from me.”

“She's a bit of an odd duck.”

Grayson laughed. “Speaking of Felicia, though, I do need to find her.”

“She'll be fine,” Sam said. “I saw the men from the theater get into her cart. They're good men, and they won't let her come to any harm.”

“How do you know that?”

Sam shrugged. “The men at the theater have been real kind to me and my sisters. They even let us sleep in the theater when it gets cold outside, and they offered to let us sleep there all the time, but I'm not keen on having my sisters live in such a . . . different place.”

“We'll have to work on finding you a normal place to live, Sam,” Grayson said before he tightened his grip on the reins. “Make certain you look up my sister. She'll be expecting you.”

Sam grinned, nodded, and then spun around, disappearing a moment later down an alley. Grayson stared after him for a long moment, hoping the boy was good for his word. Otherwise, he would be forced to intervene, whether Sam wanted his assistance or not.

That thought took Grayson aback. He'd never been one to involve himself in the lives of others. For one, because he was an aristocrat, people usually gave him a wide berth, and for two, well, he didn't really know how to go about assisting people.

He had the sneaky suspicion his new attitude was a direct result of being in close contact with Felicia.

He nudged Spot out into the street, anxious now to locate the exasperating woman.

It didn't take him long to find her.

She was sitting on the seat of her pony cart in front of Theodore Wilder's private investigation office, poor Thor already asleep in his tracks, his bedraggled mane blowing in the breeze. The gentlemen from the theater were seemingly doing their best to entertain her, because Felicia was laughing quite enthusiastically as one of the men gestured wildly with his hands.

Grayson urged Spot forward and pulled to a halt right in front of Felicia, who looked up and sent him a smile that caused his mind to go numb.

“There you are, Grayson,” she exclaimed. “I was beginning to worry.”

The very idea that Felicia was worrying about his welfare had a chunk of the ice surrounding his heart melting ever so slightly. Before he could so much as think of a response, though, the door to Theodore Wilder's office opened, and Theodore and his wife, Arabella, rushed out, both of them brandishing pistols pointed at the now somber men in the cart.

“Get away from Miss Murdock,” Arabella Wilder snarled, “or I swear I'll see you dead.”

F
elicia strolled down the hallway of Theodore Wilder's investigation office, pausing for a moment to allow Arabella Wilder time to catch up with her. “Do you think it might have been a slight overreaction, threatening to shoot those poor gentlemen from the theater?”

Arabella stopped by her side, grinned, and flicked back a strand of golden hair that had evidently escaped her pins while she'd been racing around trying to shoot people. “How was I to know those gentlemen hadn't abducted you and stolen your gowns?”

“I doubt gentlemen bent on abduction would direct their victim to park in front of a private investigator's office.”

“A valid point,” Theodore Wilder said, striding up to join them. He moved next to his wife, placed a kiss on her forehead, and then smiled. “Although, I must admit, the fact that they were wearing your clothing was somewhat suspicious, Felicia.”

“I found that suspicious as well.”

Felicia glanced past Theodore and found Grayson walking
through the door, his expression once again a bit disgruntled. He really was a moody sort of gentleman.

“You'll be happy to learn I was finally able to flag down a carriage for hire,” he said as he joined them, “even though I was forced to pay the driver an exorbitant sum in order to convince him to cart men dressed as women back to the theater. He wasn't convinced by my explanation for their appearance.” Grayson shook his head. “I'm not even sure I was convinced. And it didn't help when one of the men kept crying.”

Felicia waved that comment aside with a flick of her hand. “The reason they were wearing my old gowns was because they're about ready to begin rehearsals for a new production, a bit of a farce. They were waiting for me to return to the theater so they could express their appreciation over my donation to their cause, and they also wanted me to see how well my dresses fit them.” She blew out a breath. “As for why the one man was crying, I would think that would be obvious. Everyone knows theatrical people are a somewhat dramatic lot, and considering they'd just faced down two crazy people shoving guns their way, I'm not surprised in the least one of them dissolved into tears. I would have done exactly the same thing.”

Grayson suddenly stepped closer to her, reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and scrubbed at a smear of grime staining her sleeve. He released a grunt as he continued scrubbing. “You didn't cry a single tear back in the pub, and believe me, you were in more danger there than those men were from Theodore and Arabella.”

“You two have gotten yourself embroiled in something concerning, haven't you?” Theodore asked.

“You could say that,” Grayson muttered before he stopped scrubbing at Felicia's sleeve. “I'm only making it worse. I'm afraid this new frock of yours is damaged beyond repair.”

Felicia glanced down. “It's a pity, to be sure, but I think I
knew it was headed for the ragbag the moment all that ale spilled over me.”

“Perhaps our first order of business is finding you something dry to wear,” Arabella said. “Unfortunately, I don't believe I have a spare gown here at the office.”

Theodore smiled. “You know, I think we might just have a spare gown lying around here.” He walked down the hallway and opened a door that appeared to lead to a broom closet.

“Really, darling, I don't think Felicia will be too keen to wear what you're searching for in there,” Arabella said, pitching her voice a little louder when Theodore disappeared into the closet.

“Why won't I be keen to wear it?”

“Because it's an opera gown, one I wore when Agatha solicited my assistance in tracking down a story.”

“And a gown you should never wear again, seeing that it managed to land you in jail,” Theodore said, backing out of the closet with an overabundance of fabric clutched in his hand. He walked back to Felicia and handed it to her. “There's a powder room at the end of the hall and to the right. We'll be in the room right across from it when you've finished changing.”

Felicia shook out the gown. “It's . . . lovely?”

“Almost reminds me of some of those gowns you gave to the theater,” Grayson muttered.

“Honestly, Grayson, my gowns weren't this bad.” She lifted her chin. “Now, if everyone will excuse me, I'll be right back.” She headed down the hallway, the stiffness of the skirt of her gown, now having dried just a bit, making it somewhat difficult to walk. She reached the powder room and shut the door behind her, jumping in fright at the sight that met her gaze in the mirror, until she realized it was her reflection. She peered closer and grinned.

She looked deranged.

Her hair was matted to her head, bits of dirt were clinging
to her face, held there by remnants of ale, and her gown was filthy and splattered with what appeared to be specks of blood.

It was no wonder the men from the theater had insisted on accompanying her off Mott Street. She looked as if she'd suffered a traumatic experience.

It took her several minutes to wash her hands and face in the sink and then get out of her ruined garments. It took even longer to get into the monstrosity that was the opera gown. It might have helped if she had a maid, or Arabella, for that matter, to assist her, but she knew Arabella would be hard-pressed to keep a straight face in the midst of such a disaster, so she struggled to reach the buttons in the back and moved to the mirror, giving her appearance a critical look.

If anything, she now looked more frightful than when she'd first entered the room.

The opera dress billowed around her, which was perfectly fine since she'd been wearing billowing styles for years, but the bodice . . . It did not leave much to the imagination. She took a deep breath and blanched when a part of her body that was meant to be kept strictly out of sight almost spilled out of the gown.

She grabbed a pretty green hand towel by the sink and stuffed it over her exposed skin.

There, one problem managed.

She tilted her head and settled her attention on her hair. Pins were sticking out at odd angles, and when she reached up to shove them back into place, she discovered that her hair was incredibly unpleasant to the touch. She picked up a brush lying on a nearby table, thought better of using it, and set it back down. She didn't want to ruin Arabella's brush, and besides, she doubted even the sturdiest of brushes would be up for the task of taming the disaster on her head.

There was no help for it—she would just have to leave well
enough alone, and it wasn't as if Grayson hadn't already seen her deplorable condition.

That notion had her eyes growing wide before she backed away from the mirror and busied herself with bundling her ruined gown into a ball. She could not allow herself to dwell on thoughts of Grayson, or to wonder what the gentleman might think of her appearance. After what she'd witnessed today, it was clear she'd been right all along—he was a dangerous man.

He wasn't simply dangerous—he was lethal—and it was clear there was much more to him than she'd imagined.

It would serve her well to remember that, and it was past time she got some answers as to exactly who he was and exactly what he might have gotten her involved in.

She straightened her spine, opened the door, and trudged across the hallway to the room Theodore had indicated, the dragging skirts of her gown impeding her progress. She edged through the door but came to an abrupt halt when she saw Grayson, Theodore, and Arabella sitting on the far side of the room, all looking her way and all looking remarkably guilty.

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Were you talking about me?”

“My, don't you look delightful.” Arabella nodded to Theodore and Grayson. “Doesn't she look delightful?”

Theodore sent her a rather weak smile, while Grayson just looked at her with his mouth hanging open as if he had no words at his disposal to describe her appearance.

Felicia hitched up her skirt just a touch and made for the nearest chair, sinking into it and then taking a moment to pummel the fabric of the skirt that had puffed up around her the moment her behind hit the seat of the chair. Finally managing to beat the skirt into submission, she folded her hands in her lap and turned her attention to Arabella.

“So, what were the three of you talking about before I entered the room?”

“The weather?”

That didn't even deserve a quirk of one of her still-sticky brows. “Did Grayson tell you I went to a pub?”

Arabella winced. “He might have mentioned it.”

“Did he explain that I only went in there because I was helping a poor elderly gentleman who'd lost his balance due to a hole in the sidewalk?”

“He wasn't exactly clear about that.”

Felicia narrowed her eyes at Grayson before she turned back to Arabella. “Did he tell you about the whiskey?”

“Well, ah, yes.”

Felicia lifted her chin. “I know it wasn't exactly responsible for me to try the whiskey, but there were extenuating circumstances that prodded me to act a little rashly.”

Grayson shook his head. “I think she believes I was behind those ‘extenuating circumstances,' but I didn't think she'd actually take a large gulp of the stuff after I insisted she doesn't drink whiskey.”

“I did spit it out.”

“True, all over the floor,” Grayson muttered. “I must say, that did take me by surprise.”

Arabella looked at Felicia, then at Grayson, then shook her head even as she smiled. “I must admit I might have felt compelled to do the exact same thing, Felicia, especially if Grayson was sounding somewhat high-handed when he made his declaration.”

Grayson frowned. “She doesn't need to be encouraged, Arabella. If you're forgetting, she entered a pub, unescorted except for some elderly gentleman she'd never seen in her life, and instead of getting him settled and taking her leave, she sat down with him at a table filled with men.” He glared at Felicia. “You're
lucky I was following you, or else you might not have gotten out of there unscathed.”

“But she didn't get out of there unscathed,” Arabella pointed out. “Look at her. She's a mess—as are you, in case you've neglected to realize it.”

Felicia felt Grayson's gaze on her once again, but when she turned her head to meet it, she didn't find him looking at her face. He seemed to be staring at the towel she'd shoved into her bodice.

“Do you know there's a towel stuffed right . . . er . . . well . . . there?” he asked as he waved a hand toward her bodice.

Felicia felt her cheeks heat but was spared a response when Theodore suddenly scooted his chair closer to Arabella, let out what sounded remarkably like a laugh disguised as a cough behind his hand, and then cleared his throat. “While stuffed towels are certainly a riveting topic of conversation, may I suggest we finally get around to an explanation of why the two of you are really here?”

“I'm afraid Grayson will have to answer that,” Felicia admitted. “I'm somewhat confused as to what actually happened back on Mott Street, except I believe it has something to do with two Chinese men and Grayson's past.”

Right before her eyes, Theodore became all business as he leaned forward and settled his attention on Grayson. “You'll need to start at the beginning.”

Grayson took the next few minutes to fill Theodore and Arabella in on what had occurred, glossing over Felicia's singing abilities, or lack thereof, which had her feeling slightly warm and fuzzy all over. He could have easily used the singing incident to add a bit of humor to his story, but he was keeping the particulars to himself, which seemed to her to be his way of protecting her yet again, if only from an embarrassing situation.

He was a complicated gentleman, one she didn't understand
in the least, but he'd stepped up and defended her honor in the pub, carried her out of a rat-infested alley, and before that, told her the truth about her singing. All of those things combined were enough to turn any girl's head, but . . . she wasn't a girl anymore. She was a woman grown, and she needed to keep her attention on the conversation at hand, and remember she'd only recently gotten over a painful disappointment. She had no business even considering forming feelings for another gentleman, no matter that her heart sometimes ignored her head.

“If I'm going to help you,” Theodore said, dragging Felicia rapidly out of her disturbing thoughts and back to reality, “you're going to have to explain to me—in exceeding detail, mind you—what happened in China.”

Grayson slid a glance to Felicia, then to Arabella, and finally back to Theodore. “Perhaps we should repair to your private office and leave the ladies to chat about more pleasant matters.”

Felicia pushed herself out of her chair and plopped her hands on her voluminous skirts. “You can't leave me in the dark now, not after what happened back at the pub.”