Page 137 of The Rogue's Last Scandal
Chapter 34
“Ido notlike this place.” Francisca’s whisper tickled Graciela’s ear.
From his spot near the door, Juan shushed her.
They were in a part of London a far cry from Mayfair, in all ways. The smell of the sea was stronger here, and the bustle of sordid life outside carried in through the window left open in hopes of hearing the Captain’s approach. The street had been lined with beggars and drunks who’d spilled out of taverns, some of them Shaldon’s men, some of them belonging to the neighborhood crime lord.
In spite of the late hour, the pawn shop below stairs had picked up traffic also, the door slamming and footsteps clomping.
Dios. She didn’t like this place either. It was as bad as the worst port she’d ever encountered.
“Don’t worry, my love.” Charley spoke softly from his position near the window, where he was studying the street below and trying to stay out of view.
“I am not worried,” she lied.
To make these arrangements so quickly, Lord Shaldon had strange bedfellows indeed. And yet this set of rooms was likely a brilliant choice—reasonably clean, in a neighborhood likely riddled with pickpockets and thieves, and near the docks. It might be all a desperate woman with very little ready cash could afford.
Charley shifted, and her nerves roused.
Shouting erupted below on the street, a great din of men cursing and squealing.
“Good God,” Charley said.
“What?” She started toward him and Francisca pulled her back.
“It’s the melee Father promised.”
“How many men did the Captain bring?” she asked.
“I can’t tell who is who from here.”
Lord Shaldon had said they must be prepared for Llewellyn to counter their ruse, either with force or by guile. Apparently, he’d chosen force.
Charley moved from the window, signaled Juan to stay put, and poked his head into the adjoining room. “He’s skirting the fight with a couple of men.”
“No woman with him?” Farnsworth asked.
“No.”
The backstairs creaked as one of Shaldon’s men carried the message down to the pawn shop.
Her valise rested on the small table pushed to the side. A narrow tester bed huddled in a shadowed corner, and nearby stood a dressing table. The only privacy the room accorded was a screened alcove for washing and changing.
Charley took his pistols from the washstand and touched his lips to hers.
“Your dagger?”
She pulled it from the sheath and concealed it under her shawl.
He kissed her again and disappeared behind the screen.
Insides quivering, she took a deep breath to calm herself. They had talked about what she would say, how she might draw out Llewellyn’s guilt, and how she should use the dagger. She had wanted a pistol, but Charley had said he would carry two and share them if need be, but the room was too small and too crowded for too many firearms.
And perhaps he was right.
Heavy steps sounded on the stairs and someone knocked.
“Who is there?” Juan asked.
