“I don’t care.” Gerard sat across from her, grateful for the larger vehicle. But the distance didn’t help much. Now that she was out of public view, the little countess sat like a proper lady, her hands on the knob of a walking stick she must have picked up on her way out. “You’re the one hiding behind that ridiculous garb. I’d just as soon shoot anyone who approached you.”
“Are you carrying a pistol?” she asked with interest.
“I am. And a knife, if you’re thinking bloodthirsty thoughts. But like you, I prefer a brass-handled walking stick and my fists.” In fact, his fists were itching to plant themselves in her stepfather’s fatuous face. That didn’t help his humor.
“I shall attempt to stay out of trouble,” she said soberly. “I do appreciate all you’ve done, even if it is in the interest of a reward I fear you’ll never see.”
“Rainford is investigating the terms of the reward. I have legitimately found you and your sister. We can arrange to meet Mortimer and White in some safe place with authorities present. It’s your desire to marry the wretch that is causing complications.” He sounded stiff, even to himself.
“I apologize. But even should we split the reward, I still need another level of protection before I will feel safe once you have left for London. I know of no other means to make Mortimer go away.” She almost sounded regretful.
He’d like to test the knob she was clutching to see if it gave off vibrations like the map she’d drawn, but he didn’t feel inclined to explain his curiosity. It wasn’t as if he sensed much on anything else he touched, so perhaps it was only Iona’s fears he felt.
He wanted to feel her happiness the next time he touched an object of hers.
That twisted his gut. Was she sensing his unhappiness?
He wasn’t a man prone to noticing the sentiments of others. He brushed off his own now. “We’ll talk to the lawyers, see what they say.”
The lawyers were less than helpful. They agreed to draw up a strict settlement document as requested, but admitted there was very little they could do to Mortimer unless he physically abducted one of his stepdaughters. And then it was up to the criminal courts, which wasn’t their bailiwick.
They agreed to ask about Iona’s request for her letters patent, but they didn’t seem optimistic that it would be accomplished any time soon.
Clenching his teeth, Gerard sent Iona from the solicitor’s office in the company of a bevy of maids. For a few coins, the women agreed to lead the drably-garbed lady down to the slums Iona insisted on visiting. Recalling her comment about urchins following the carriage, Gerard sent a message to Dare’s driver. Then he folded up his top hat, borrowed a cloak, and left the building from the rear. Taking alleys and cutting corners to the more crowded thoroughfare, he easily caught up with the sauntering women and passed them as if they weren’t there.
Lady Iona seemed to be enjoying herself, chattering with uneducated servants as if they were the queen’s court. He supposed her sensitivities allowed her to react to how the women felt as much as she did to their words. That would be a useful ability, although as with all Malcolm gifts, there had to be a drawback.
As far as he could tell, his gift was singularly useless, and voices in his head were a distinct drawback.
He left Iona flitting about the shops while he turned down the narrow alley Dare called a wynd—for obvious reasons. The towering tenements had been built along the side of a steep hill on a path fit only for wandering cattle. Gerard removed a glove and circumspectly brushed his hand over ancient stones and ornaments but nothing interesting leapt out at him. He assumed his encounter with Iona’s map was a fluke.
Zane was already at the construction site, talking to Andrew Blair, Phoebe’s husband, and a man holding what appeared to be blueprints. Gerard acknowledged them with a gesture but left them talking while he wandered into the littered lot that had once held several old tenements. Remnants of the ancient foundation remained, along with construction debris. The medallion in his pocket made no comment.
He kicked the rubble about, looking for anything besides stone and brick. He sensed Iona’s arrival before he saw her. It was as if the universe shifted subtly—sound became more acute, light brightened. He heard her converse with Zane as he hadn’t heard the male conversation earlier. He knew when she approached, although he hadn’t noticed the foreman strolling the perimeter until he looked up now.
“Lord Dare says hundreds of people, including Lady Phoebe and her mother, once lived here,” she said in amazement, removing her fake spectacles and putting them in her pocket. “And Mr. Blair started the project after Lady Phoebe’s building collapsed. They had a dreadful time finding housing for all the tenants. I cannot even begin to imagine the immensity of such an undertaking.” She crouched down to examine a pile of crumbling old brick.
“You’ll get filthy,” Gerard warned.
She shot him one of those bright smiles that smote his hard heart with a thousand darts.
“Have you ever smoked a bee’s nest out of a tree? Sheared a sheep? A little brick dust is nothing. I am smelling something interesting here.” She poked the dirt beneath the bricks.
“Besides a urinal?” he asked in derision. But he crouched down beside her and used a sharp piece of wood to dig a little deeper.
She chuckled and let him dig. “I generally only smell live people, as a bee would sense live flowers. Dead ones hold no interest. But every so often—a child’s loved blanket, a bride’s hand-stitched linen—I can smell emotion embedded in an object. Perhaps a little bit of our souls? I am not smelling love, though, but a murkier sensation, perhaps some
