Farah’s snort turned into a reluctant laugh. “Don’t be charming. It doesn’t suit you.”
The glimmer in his blue eye became a twinkle, the curve of his mouth lifted a little too far to be called a smirk anymore. But a smile? Almost … “No one’s ever accused me of being charming before.”
“You don’t say.” Lord, were they—flirting?
Madame Sandrine’s swishing skirts announced her arrival. “Here we are! The latest in Parisian fashion.” She selected a particularly thin bit of lace chemise in the palest shade of lavender from her cart, stocked with everything from corsets to drawers, stockings, garters, and nightgowns that barely covered enough to deserve the name. “This would go with these stockings—”
“Wrap one of everything,” Dorian ordered.
Farah imagined her dumbfounded look was just as ridiculous as the seamstress’s. “But, that’s a small fortune in underthings, for which I really have no need.”
“As it so happens, I have a small fortune to spend on underthings.”
Madame Sandrine’s throaty laugh set Farah’s teeth on edge. She reached into the cart and picked up a long sheer gown comprised of fine black lace.
Farah didn’t miss the tightening of her husband’s features.
Perhaps these would push him over the edge, entice him to “defile” her again. A blush climbed up her cheeks as Farah imagined herself in nothing but this bit of lace, drawing the lustful mismatched gaze of her husband. The garment was almost more indecent than being naked. Something a mistress would wear. Or a prostitute.
A horrific realization seized her, and Farah gasped, letting the garment slip from her fingers before she covered her suddenly burning eyes with both hands.
Prostitute. “Gemma!” she groaned. Tears squeezed from her clenched eyelids as she considered all the terrors the woman faced in her absence. Farah had promised the poor prostitute that she’d be there before her release from Scotland Yard. That she would help her escape the clutches of Edmond Druthers. She’d been so busy what with getting drugged, kidnapped, and subsequently married, that she’d all but forgotten. “What have I done?”
“What are you talking about?” Dorian’s voice was closer, alert, and concerned. “What’s the matter?
Slowly, Farah lowered her hands, revealing the wide form now towering in front of her. A dark notion swirled in the periphery of her moral conscience. Her husband was none other than the formidable and notorious Blackheart of Ben More. His name struck fear into the hearts of the most hardened criminals, to say nothing of his menacing features and powerful frame.
She only hoped that her outlaw husband would be willing to place his ill-gotten skills at her disposal. Sucking a bracing breath into her lungs, she prepared to speak the words that might just strike her final alliance with the devil. “Dorian, I need your help.”
* * *
A silent, expectant aura lifted the fine hairs on the back of Dorian’s neck as he surveyed the foul-smelling mists of the London docks. He didn’t have time for this. Furthermore, he didn’t like bringing Farah here. The dangers of the London neighborhood of Wapping didn’t exactly rival that of Whitechapel, but one didn’t bring their treasures here and hope to keep them. At least not at this hour of the early morning with all the river pirates and smugglers making use of the dark wharfs along the Thames.
Three things kept his shoulders relaxed as he strolled down Wapping High Street with Farah beside him.
The first was the thick copper hair, wide shoulders, and long stride of Christopher Argent, who guarded Farah’s other side. Dorian’s London assassin had the eyes of a hawk and the reflexes of a mongoose. Nothing would leap from the shadows that Argent didn’t see coming.
The second was that Murdoch flanked Farah and, despite his stout frame and advanced years, he was handy with a pistol or two. Though Dorian saved pistols as a last resort, as they tended to rouse the coppers if fired within the city. No need for that, tonight. Or ever.
The third, and most important, was that he remained Dorian Blackwell, and he owned the interest, goods, and loyalties of more than half the dock smugglers and river pirates along the Thames. This was his world. Not because he belonged here, but because he ruled here. Anyone they’d likely meet would either owe him fealty, money, or blood. And if someone stepped in his path, he’d collect his due.
If the Thames was a river of filth and sewage, Wapping High Street was a river of brick and stone. The structures here were comprised mostly of moldy warehouses and crumbling manufacturing buildings made obsolete by the new industrial revolution. The cobbles shone blue from the full moon, as street lamps were spaced much less liberally here than back on the lively Strand or in wealthy Mayfair. The moonlight never reached the deep alleys or narrow roads that led from the thoroughfare out to the docks.
This was a place for men who lived in shadows. Men like him.
Dorian glanced down at his wife. Her upswept ringlets glowed in the moonlight like a silver beacon against the seedy grime barely concealed by the night. He should not have brought her. Should have insisted she stay back in the safety of his terrace.
They shouldn’t be here at all, chasing after errant prostitutes. They’d interviewed over a dozen between Queen’s Head Alley and where they now stood on the corner of Brewhouse Lane. Farah had offered them coin, resources, and a place to sleep for any information about her friend Gemma Warlow.
Dorian couldn’t understand her grim determination. There were too many prostitutes to save. Too many orphans and urchins to house. Too many of the wretched and starving to feed. Chances were they’d go to all this trouble and the whore would run back to her master the moment her bruises healed and the man called her to him with a flippant apology.