Page 52 of Tempting the Scoundrel
When Fiona and Lottie had found him that way, he’d been too sharp with them. Lottie—bless her—had patted his shoulder, took her sister’s hand, and left.
Hours later, Thorne had cleaned himself up, dressed, and went to check on his wife.
Empty room. Scattered papers. Her mess, or someone else’s?
Thorne pounded down the hall, finally spotting one of his men. “Clements,” he said sharply, aware that he must have looked half-mad. At that moment, he didn’t bloody well give a damn. “Lady Alexandra isn’t in her room.” The other man sputtered some response that was more like a panicked gargle. “Spit it out, man. Where is she?”
“She’s at the orphanage,” another voice said wryly.
Thorne whirled to see O’Sullivan coming out of his offices. The factotum looked at Clements and dismissed him with a nod.
“Someone is supposed to be guarding her,” Thorne said. “At all times.”
He’d looked all night for some sign of Whelan, but found nothing. He’d gone to Whelan’s favorite pubs, his preferred gin palaces and gaming hells—everywhere except the one place Thorne dared not set foot in: the cellar where he’d spent his nightmares. So he had circled the old neighborhood in the Nichol, sizing up the decrepit building where he’d lost his soul. He’d bought it from the landlord, paid as much as it took, but he left it there to rot. He wished he had burned it to the ground. Salted the earth. Let the pigeons shit on its ashes.
But over the years, all he’d wanted to do was forget.
O’Sullivan removed his spectacles and buffed them clean with his shirt. “If you wished to keep her locked in there, you ought to have told me otherwise. I wasn’t aware she was our prisoner.”
Thorne felt a stirring of irritation. “Don’t be an idiot.”
“Don’t threaten Clements like he’s a prison guard and not an employee,” O’Sullivan said sharply, sliding his spectacles up his nose. “Your piece is safe. Left her with Sofia and a gaggle of delighted children.”
Sofia was the only reason O’Sullivan was standing in front of him and not lying dead in a ditch. Thorne remembered the day Whelan lined up all his lads for some nob to make his choice from the lot. Thorne had been fourteen; O’Sullivan had been twelve—and he had a pretty face that attracted the wrong sort.
Whelan had sold O’Sullivan that day.
Thorne spent three years searching for the toff who had bought his friend. As luck would have it, a girl came to him one night in the Nichol and told him. O’Sullivan had been kept in the Earl of Sunderland’s house for three years, and he was under lock and key in the earl’s London residence.
By the time Thorne finally got around to freeing O’Sullivan, his friend had scars covering most of his body, but at least he had his damned life.
Years later, when Sofia came to the Brimstone and asked for help going into hiding, Thorne and O’Sullivan didn’t ask questions. They hid her. Now her identity was that of Mrs. Ainsley, manager of the home for children.
“Did you manage ten words to Sofia,” Thorne asked, “or am I being too generous?”
“Don’t start,” O’Sullivan said with a warning tone.
“Haven’t even. She’s a looker. Got a kind heart. She saved your arse from the Earl of Sunderland all those years ago. Problem?”
“About twenty of them, at minimum,” O’Sullivan muttered. He slid his spectacles up his nose and sighed. “Go to your wife, Thorne. I’ll handle business here.”
Thorne clapped O’Sullivan on the shoulder and headed to the orphanage.
When the maid let him inside, he smiled at the delighted chattering of children in another room. The orphanage had been filled with laughter since Sofia took over. Before Thorne owned the building, it was run by Mrs. Foley, who reeked of gin and spent half her day fucking soused. Thorne’s first order of business had been booting her out on her arse.
Sofia had done a miracle here. The children had thrived under her management.
Just before he reached the sitting room, Thorne heard Alex’s laugh. Thorne peered inside to find his wife helping Sofia herd the children into some semblance of order. He braced his shoulder against the door and took in the sight of her. Her golden hair was coming loose from her chignon, and her eyes were alight with joy. With a jolt, he realized he hadn’t seen her look that happy since Gretna, when the blacksmith had bound their hands with ribbon. After their train journey, she had been weary and rumpled, but her smile had been the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Still was.
But this one wasn’t for him.
“Mrs. Ainsley always tells us a story before school,” a little girl said to Alex. “Right, Mrs. Ainsley?”
“Children,” Sofia was saying. “We really must get you ready. Oh my goodness, Mary, those pastries have made your hands all sticky. Come here, darling.”
“One story,” Lottie said, flopping into the armchair. Her boot laces were still untied. “Please, Mrs. Thorne?”
Alex shook her head and let out a gusty laugh that made Thorne’s chest tighten. “Very well,” she agreed, kneeling to tie Lottie’s laces. “Are there any requests?”
