Love Between the Lines (2 page)

“
My name’s Kendall,” he said, giving a true variation of his identity. “And this is Mr. Brinker. But tell me, Miss, ah…”

“
I’m Drury,” she said.

Could he have mistaken who she was? No. Now he recalled that was her real name. Trudy Tildon was her nom de plume.
“Miss Drury. What about the girls who’ll be duped before you get the story?”

“
They seem to be reappearing just fine. Silly things. Any girl who is idiot enough to go with a stranger just about deserves to get nabbed,” she said.

“
I say, that’s dreadful. Not every girl is so cynical about—” Brinker began hotly. He shut up when Gideon nudged him with his foot.

She held up her hands to stop his protest.
“I am not serious, Mr. Brinker. You’re right. No one deserves that fate. I aim to stop them.” Her lush mouth thinned, and Gideon decided he believed her. Good. Trudy Tildon had the reputation as something of a reformer.

He
’d spent enough time around newsmen to know that the ones who actually cared about their subjects wrote better stories. He was looking for sound reasons to hire her—the heart-racing energy still coursed through him and he didn’t want to offer her a position for the wrong reasons.

“
What will you do?” he asked.

“
Now? I’ll go see the captain.”

“
The police?”

“
Yeah. We have a deal. They don’t reveal where they got the tip and they get the description of another little player.” She nodded, then glanced at Brinker and added shyly, “I don’t simply want to go to the captain just so the police will be beholden to me, sir. I know the man and his ilk are scum.”

“
Do allow us to accompany you to the police station, Miss Drury,” Gideon said firmly. “And I can show them this.” He flipped open the book to show the drawing he’d made.

She leaned forward to look at the picture and gave a low whistle. He felt her breath on his bare hand and his attention shifted from concerns about villains and even, for a change, newspapers.

“Oh my.” She touched the picture with a tentative forefinger, then straightened. “You’re good.”

She gave Brinker a charming smile.
The woman seemed determined to break the manservant’s stolid stone-faced disapproval. Gideon considered telling her she’d have a better chance storming and capturing the Tower of London.

“
You won’t write anything about that kidnapping attempt that just occurred?” He wanted her to turn those big blue eyes in his direction again. “It was most definitely a crime.”

She shook her head, still looking at Brinker.
“I’m not going to write up a big piece yet, but I’d love to do one on the brave young Englishmen stepping in where New Yorkers didn’t bother. That’ll rile up the readers. They’ll write letters indignantly defending New Yorkers or deploring the indifference running rampant in the city. How about you tell me what you’re doing here at the waterfront?”

Gideon pretended not to hear her question.
“Your story won’t work. There weren’t any New Yorkers in this restaurant. Other than your assistant and the waiters, and they are apparently aware of your scheme.”

She swallowed the last of her coffee.
“True. I might somehow mention the first incident. That time no one did a thing.”

“
Last time?” Gideon felt a surge of annoyance. This woman was an idiot.

“
About a week ago. I drew a stupid one, a different guy, of course. He managed to get me out of here, dragging me right across the cobblestones.” She waved out the window to show where it happened. “But even before he gets me in the carriage, his paws are down my front, ripping my blouse.”

“
Good God. Didn’t anyone stop him?”

“
I told you, no. I ended up using this on him.” She pulled a small rubber bludgeon from her pocket and put it on the table. “And then Oyster—who’s supposed to grab on to the back of the carriage—got in on the act and broke the idiot’s leg, which was too bad. When he woke up, he howled so much he couldn’t answer questions before the police arrived.”

Gideon still eyed the bludgeon.
“That little thing isn’t going to keep you safe, Miss Drury.”

“
Don’t forget the element of surprise. They think their knockout drops have done the trick. More than that, I’ve got a gun too.” She drew a small pearl-handled revolver from another pocket and plunked it on the table.

Gideon frowned at her.
Really it was a wonder the woman lasted a day on the streets of a big city. “You ought to treat a revolver with the proper respect or you’ll be the one with the extra hole.”

“
That’s no problem. Oyster showed me how easy it would be to get it away from me, so I never load the thing. And it’s not like I’m going to go into any buildings with them. Not without Oyster, anyway.”

“
Oyster is your young man?” He seriously doubted it and furthermore it was none of his business. But the woman didn’t seem to take offense.

She opened the portmanteau again and put away the revolver.
“He’s my hired muscle, as the toughs around here call it.” After buckling the bag, she reached into her gown’s capacious pocket—the woman must carry a day’s supplies for mayhem about her person—and withdrew a man’s big gold watch. She flipped it open. “I’m giving him another five minutes; then I’m going to the Harbor Unit office.”

When she glanced at the door, she sighed and there was a slight tightening of her mouth.
Miss Drury was worried about her hired muscle.

“
You should have an escort while you’re near the docks.”

She glanced at him.
“True. I expect Bill the waiter will go with me to the harbor police. It’s not far.”

“
We would be pleased to accompany you.”

She laughed.
“No offense to you, Mr. Kendall, but that would make twice today I walked out with a strange man. Only it would be two men this time, and now I’m not playing Nancy Naïve.”

He couldn
’t help smiling. Brinker looked thoroughly nettled.

Less than a minute later, Oyster
slunk into the restaurant, hunched, hands pushed into his shabby trousers. He might have been the family dog feeling guilty about stealing a joint from the dining room table. “’Fraid I lost him, miss.”

He gave the two men an incurious glance, grabbed a chair next to her
, and slumped down into it. “Ah well, my fault.” She patted his big shoulder. “Your knee is still bad. Probably should have let well enough alone.”

Oyster
’s heavy brows relaxed and the near smile touched his face.

That man, thought Gideon, is in love with a crazy woman
. God help the poor blighter. “So now your assistant has returned, Miss Tildon, shall we be going?” Gideon said.

She didn
’t flinch, but the smile faltered. She’d heard what he’d called her. A few seconds passed and she asked, “How did you know?”

“
I’ve seen an engraving of you.”

She frowned.
“Bah. They’re supposed to make them look only slightly like me.” She shoved back her chair and stood. Of course Gideon rose as well.

A writer
who didn’t like the idea of fame was an anomaly. “Aren’t you supposed to be the star?” he asked. “The articles are all about you and your experiences, after all.”

She gave him a hard stare.
“And how am I supposed to write more of the same if everyone knows my face?”

He had to soothe her ruffled feathers.
“You’re obviously adept at disguises. The likeness isn’t profound and you’re wearing a bonnet in the etching. The illustration from your series on the foundling hospital had captured your eyes, rather. And really, how many other women would take on this sort of job?”

“
You’d be surprised,” she said dryly. “I’ve met a few.”

Brinker, who
’d of course also stood when she jumped up, wore a quizzical expression as he looked back and forth between Gideon and Miss Drury.

“
You’re taken aback, Brinker. I thought you knew this young lady was Trudy Tildon.”

“
The one you…” Brinker cleared his throat. “The one whose material you were reading the other day.”

“
You were reading one of my stories? Which one? Oh, you said. The foundling hospital.” Very odd that she was so flustered.

“
I’ve read several. I’m always interested in reading stories from the States.”

“
Why’s that?”

Gideon should have said something then. Perhaps he should
have hinted at possibilities of employment with Langham Publishing, home of publications ranging from the monthly
Ladies Home and House
to the
Daily Clarion
. But she’d been less than forthcoming about her pen name, so he didn’t feel guilty about keeping his own counsel for the time being. Hell, he needed all the weapons he could get. That smile of hers, not to mention the way she’d knocked into him, literally and figuratively, made him want to keep quiet for now.

She probably had the standard reporter
’s attitude about publishers. They were the enemy in her world, powerful and arbitrary forces that didn’t interact with lowly journalists unless there was trouble. He shrugged. “I’m on holiday, I have some free time, and I wanted to do some reading. Shall we go?” he said, and he held the door for Miss Drury, who didn’t look at him as she passed.

They walked through the busy streets away from the wharf. Lizzy and Oyster led the strange little procession, the two Brits trailing behind.
“What’s the story with the English idiots? Why’re they hanging around?”

She shrugged.
“One’s sketched a good picture of the suspect.”

“
Betcha we can’t shake them,” he said, gloomy. He sniffed and spat. “How come you ain’t pestering them with questions like you always do?”

“
Later.” She moved closer to him. “I have a feeling about these guys. They know too much and they’re kind of, I don’t know what to call it. Slippery.”

He nodded.

“First, work. Then we’ll figure what to do with them.”

“
Not me. You think they’re slippery? I’ll just run them off.”

“
Thanks. I’ll let you know.”

Lizzy would go straight to Kelly again. The coppers at the South Street
’s first precinct were too busy for her.

Captain Kelly was a decent enough copper, and it paid to stay on his good side.

And then what? She had enough money to buy Oyster and herself lunch, but not much more than that. Trudy Tildon worked as a stringer, paid by the inch. Newspapers didn’t want women hanging around. Why they’d want idiots like Sully on staff, and not her… No, she wouldn’t fall into the usual mood of useless rage, because, after all, it made sense. An editor wouldn’t want to risk the life of a female.

At least Tooley
, who physically resembled an apologetic cocker spaniel, didn’t feed her that common line about how women couldn’t be accurate enough to be journalists.

She glanced over her shoulder at the stiff-necked Mr. Brinker
’s pale English face with its chilly eyes and slightly receding chin. When he noticed her, his silent disapproval issued the sort of challenge she couldn’t resist. She would get him to smile at her. The younger, taller Mr. Kendall was far better looking, which meant he was safe from her.

She didn
’t think much of good-looking men with easy smiles. They might make a girl’s heart beat faster, but so did a walk down a dark alley. If forced to choose, she’d pick the alley because at least there was a potential story at the other end.

And what was she doing, thinking about men in such a manner, when she should be setting her mind to work in the proper direction? Their accents had done it. Took her out of her workaday life into the classier world—a life she didn
’t miss until she stumbled across it by accident. No wonder she wanted to run away instead of hang around and poke at them with questions.

At her side, Oyster whistled softly under his breath. He was a champion whistler and liked to stay in practice, doing trills and octaves.
The gentlemen behind them talked quietly and she wanted to tell Oyster to hush so she could hear, but the rest of the street noises would drown them out anyway.

“
Gonna try again?” Oyster asked after a while.

“
Unless someone comes up with a better plan. Hiring one of the ladies of the night isn’t going to work.” The working women she’d approached claimed they didn’t know anything about the women gone missing and occasionally bobbing up again. None of their own had been taken. “Besides, Tooley thinks it’s the direct experience that sells the story. The crazy fool wants me to go into one of the houses of ill repute, says that’s where I’d end up anyway if I get into the carriage.”

“
Worse’n crazy and don’t you do it,” Oyster said. “What’s next? I’m still hungry.”

“
You’re always hungry.”

“
Maybe we can get those two Brits to take us somewheres good for food.”

She imagined herself giving Mr. Brinker a tour of New York. Not just the seamy bits, but walking through Central Park. He probably wouldn
’t smile, but he might unbend enough to tell her about his own—oh, blast. She couldn’t recall the name. If it wasn’t in her city, she was hazy on the name. Some big park in London.

They stopped in a cluster at a corner, waiting for the officer with the whistle to stop traffic long enough for them to cross.

Then she recalled. “Hyde Park,” she said aloud.

“
Lovely spot,” Mr. Kendall responded at once. “When you should visit London, I’d be pleased to show you. Do you travel, Miss Drury?”

She
’d done a story about the orphan train and followed some of the kids out to Kansas. She’d written about the working conditions in a Mexican mine. “Some.” She didn’t want to talk about herself—she’d done too much of that already today. “So tell me, Mr. Kendall, why are you gentlemen hanging around the docks? What do you do?”

“
I assume, because you’re an American, you’re asking me how I earn my daily bread?”

“
I suppose that’s what I meant.” She’d shift the conversation to him. She liked listening to people talk about themselves, even if she didn’t entirely believe their stories.

“
I do a little of this and that,” he said.

Fine. She didn
’t mind a tough interview. “Are you in New York for business?”

“
And pleasure as well.” The flirtatious smile was unmistakable.

“
I do hope you enjoy yourself,” she said, firmly closing the door on the idea she might form any part of his pleasure.

“
Perhaps you could be our guide around New York.”

Even though she
’d just imagined such a thing herself, she shook her head. “I’m afraid I’m far too busy at the moment. I must get some work done if I can’t pursue that big story today. I have rent to pay.”

“
What else do you do?”

“
Some other writing,” she said vaguely. No need to mention the peppery series she also turned out for the Adventure Stories dime novels. She wrote under the name Pete Devlin—and estimated she was the third Devlin in the long-running series. Journalism it wasn’t.

“
Your family doesn’t mind your choice of profession?”

She hated that question and gave one of her usual nonanswers.
“Does your family mind yours?”

“
Some of them do. Very much,” he said with the disarming smile. “But because I pay their bills, they tend not to complain.”

She couldn
’t help it. This Mr. Kendall made her laugh. She looked over at Mr. Brinker, who was pretending not to listen, and at Oyster, whose lips were puckered, back in his own whistling world. “All right, since you asked so nicely, I believe my mother is secretly proud of me, and my father is appalled. What do your parents think of you?”

“
Mine are dead.” He inched closer to her. “So your father and mother are poorly matched in temperament as well as upbringing?” he asked casually.

Oh no. The hair on the back of her neck rose. He knew far too much.

The policeman briskly pointed at the crowd on the corner to get going—yet Lizzy stood and stared at Kendall until Oyster gave her a nudge and they all crossed the avenue. “All right, mister, spill the rest of it. What more do you know about me?”

“
That your father is old New York society, your mother is second generation from Eastern Europe.”

“
And Jewish,” she added bitterly. “Don’t forget that.”

“
I suspected but wasn’t certain. That could explain why your father never thrived in business.”

“
What’s going on?” Panic starting to bubble through her. “Why do you know about me? Have you been following me?” Tooley warned her she’d make enemies with her sort of stories. She was used to red-faced, cursing men, nothing subtle like spying sneaks.

He put a reassuring hand on her arm
, and she remembered how strong he’d been when he’d caught her. His muscular shoulder had been hard enough to leave her cheek tingling when she collided with him.

“
Miss Drury, please believe me—I’m not following you, and our meeting is entirely a coincidence. But I did read several of your articles and grew curious about you, so I asked some questions. Rather the way you might, I imagine. Curiosity is the basis of many of your stories, I’d wager?”

How does it feel to be in the line of fire after five years of targeting other people?
he might have been asking, and a shiver went down her back. She came to an abrupt halt, swiveled on her heel to face him outright and stare into the amused hazel eyes. “What do you want?” she demanded.

He seemed to ponder the question.
“Will you allow me to take you and your associate out to lunch?”

Oyster would be pleased. She
’d aim for a place that had lots of food he liked.

Her eyes went automatically to the stony profile of Mr. Brinker.

“We could invite Brinker, if you like.” He leaned close and whispered, “But he’s as close-minded a stickler as any upper-crust old lady, Miss Drury. Don’t waste your time trying to charm him.”

“
I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, but knew her cheeks burned. Stupid blushing. She had been exposed to all sorts of horrors over the last five years, and yet good-looking young men like this Kendall could make her blush.

At least she
’d learned how to deflect their nonsense. “If I agree, what would we talk about over lunch?”

He started walking again.
“Whatever you wish.”

She trotted to catch up.
“Why you’re visiting this country?”

“
If you like.”

“
Your family?”

“
Entirely up to you.”

“
Why they dislike your profession?”

He gave a small bow.

“Why you’re so interested in my stories?”

“
If you prefer.”

As those heavy-lidded hazel eyes met hers, she had to look away and when she glanced
back, he still watched with his mouth quirked in amusement. He had regular features, an unremarkable nose, a slightly overlarge mouth, a good chin—all that should have added up to ordinary handsome, but a spark of something more made him almost too good-looking. Probably the simple fact that he knew he was handsome gave him confidence.

Their conversation felt very much like flirtation
, and she was glad when they arrived at the brick building with the blue gas fixture out front.

Lizzy hadn
’t had a chance to talk to Mr. Brinker yet. She’d get her questions answered and then get rid of these two as soon as she could. After they paid for lunch. Lizzy wasn’t about to turn down a free meal.

What a pity—the desk sergeant was Wilkins, which meant Oyster should probably wait in the front and not go beyond the low wooden gate.

Oyster knew, of course, and he lounged against the wall, but the other two men followed her to the tall desk.

“Come to suck off the captain again?” Wilkins said when he caught sight of her. “He could use a little servicing.”

Lovely, simply
peachy. This was how it started last time when Oyster got in trouble. Lizzy rolled her eyes and was trying to think of a way to tell Wilkins to go service himself, when a cold voice cut the silence.

“
Good Lord. Is this how the police treat innocent members of the public?” Mr. Kendall’s cultured English voice was brittle with contempt. “With obscene insults?”

She expected Wilkins to respond by demanding in his best bully-boy voice they state their business or be gone, but the fat sergeant only
straightened his back, then said, “Now, sir, just a bit of fun. Miss here knows that.”

“
I fail to see anything amusing about your crudity, and no young lady deserves your notion of fun, Sergeant.”

She choked back a startled laugh and stared at the floor in front of her as if too mortified to speak. Too bad she couldn
’t blush on demand. This Kendall was quite the impressive figure when he puffed himself up. She risked a sidelong look at him. His affable hazel eyes were icy, and everything about him—from the arms folded across his chest to the tilt of his well-groomed head—exuded the sort of arrogance arising from actual power. Even Mr. Brinker, who was obviously his social superior, looked mildly impressed.

Wilkins hustled off to find the captain
, and Kendall glared after him. She half expected the Englishman to drop the act once Wilkins disappeared, but he remained standing, shoulders back, a sneer of disgust on his face.

“
He’s not as bad as some of the others,” she said at last to break the tension.

“
My God, I have been gone a long time,” he muttered and did seem to relax slightly, sliding back into his easy good nature. “What would you do if I wasn’t here? Ignore him?”

“
If there are other people listening, I try to come up with something better,” she said. “Usually some hint about inadequacy works to shift the attention to him.”