Then Child pointed through the window beside him. “There it is—on the corner of an even narrower lane that must lead to Haymarket.”
Therese leaned forward to look. The sign—gold letters on a black board—was mounted flat against the bare brick wall above an unprepossessing black-painted door. Munns must have spotted it; the carriage slowed and pulled into the curb, more or less opposite the place.
Her footman dropped down and opened the carriage door. Therese gathered her reticule.
Child’s hand landed on her sleeve. “Therese—please!”
She shot him an aggravated, distinctly warning look, slid her arm free, and proceeded to step down from the carriage.
Child followed, but she didn’t wait. Head high, she sailed across the street.
Behind her, Child softly cursed and strode after her.
She halted in front of the black-painted door, grasped the heavy knocker, and banged it peremptorily.
She released the knocker and listened. After only a few seconds, lumbering footsteps approached on the other side of the door.
From behind her, Child muttered, “At least let me—”
The door swung open, and Therese found herself staring at the unlovely visage of a man who, judging from his cauliflower ear and misshapen nose, she took to be a retired pugilist. He certainly had the brawn.
The big man regarded her in patent surprise.
Before he could recover, she tipped her head higher and, in imperious tones, stated, “I am the Countess of Alverton. I understand my brother—Mr. Martin Cynster—is currently under this roof.”
Boldly, she stepped forward. Startled, the doorman—if that was what he was—all but leapt back.
Grimly determined, she swept over the threshold, forcing the man to squeeze back against the wall of the long corridor beyond the door. She glided on. Glancing to right and left, she saw dim, unlit reception rooms; all had the air of being unoccupied. She slowed.
“’Ere!” The pugilist had found his voice. “You can’t just barge in ’ere!”
“I already have.” She swung to face him. “Take me to my brother immediately!”
She was accustomed to managing staff and had no trouble investing her words with whiplike authority.
The doorman eyed her, then looked at Child, who had stepped through the door in her wake. Then the big man shook his head, closed the door, and lumbered forward. “I don’t get paid to deal with lords ’nd ladies,” he muttered. “The boss’ll have to deal with this hisself.”
Therese nodded approvingly. “A very wise decision.” As he drew level with her, she demanded, “Now, if you please, where is my brother?”
With an unexpectedly graceful half bow, the doorman gestured down the corridor, then stepped past her and took the lead.
Therese followed. Child, who had remained obligingly silent since they’d entered, brought up the rear. At the end of the corridor, a set of carpeted stairs led up to the first floor. There, another long corridor mirrored the one beneath, and the pugilist led them to a door toward the end. He tapped, then opened the door and looked in. “Visitors, guv. The Countess of Alverton—or so she says—and another gent.”
With that, the big man set the door wide and stepped back, and Therese swept into the room.
Her gaze landed on an unknown man seated behind a desk. She scanned further and found a stunned-looking Martin coming to his feet; he’d been sitting on a straight-backed chair in the corner beyond the desk.
A single comprehensive glance assured Therese that her brother was unharmed. Relief swamped her; she and her family had only just got him back—the notion of anyone attacking him now was simply not to be borne.
Another ex-pugilist, who had been standing, guard-like, behind Martin’s chair, slapped a meaty hand on Martin’s shoulder. “’Ere!” the thug protested.
Martin shrugged him off and remained standing. “Tee!” Eyes wide, plainly horrified, Martin stared at her. “What the devil are you doing here?”
Therese ignored him. She halted in the middle of the room and trained her gaze, sternly severe and unrelentingly disapproving, on the man behind the desk, who had yet to rise.
He possessed an unremarkable face and otherwise appeared average in every way, the sort of man one would pass on the street and never notice. His clothes were neat and clean and of a sufficiently passable cut; had he been pointed out to her, Therese would have taken him for a well-to-do merchant.
A few feet behind him, another ex-pugilist—the third she’d seen—stood at ease, but she ignored him in favor of impressing on the still-seated man her immense displeasure.
She said nothing, simply waited.
Everyone waited.
Finally, the man behind the desk fidgeted, cleared his throat, and slowly got to his feet. Then he hesitated, plainly unsure, but eventually, he inclined his head to her. “Countess.” His hard, brown gaze slid past her to Child—who had halted to one side and slightly behind her—then returned, uncertain and also uneasy, to her face.
He cleared his throat again, but before he could speak, at her most haughty, she demanded, “Who are you?” Then she decided she didn’t care. “I take it you are the owner of this establishment?”
“Er, no. I’m the manager. I run the place for the owners.” He nodded again. “Lester Biggs, ma’am.”
From the corner of her eye, Therese saw Martin frown and look at Biggs. Martin had written that he was being detained by the owner.
“It’s ‘my lady,’” Therese replied. Realizing the light in this room, too, was rather dim, she glanced at the windows, confirming they remained curtained. Frowning, she pointed at the man behind Martin, then gestured at the windows. “For goodness’ sake! Open those and let some light in here. It’s nearly noon, not midnight.”
Uncertain, the big man glanced at Biggs, who reluctantly nodded.
Therese folded her arms and tapped her toe.
As the curtains were opened, allowing daylight to slant into the room, Biggs waved her to one of the pair of chairs facing the desk. “Please, ma—my lady. Won’t you be seated?”
Until she sat, he couldn’t.
“No.” She met Biggs’s gaze directly. “I don’t plan on remaining in this insalubrious location for long. Now”—now that she could more clearly see his face—“I wish to know the names of the owners of this establishment.”
Biggs’s nervousness visibly increased. “Ah…I’m not sure they would want you to know who they are.” He assayed a weak smile. “That’s why they have a manager, you see—anonymity.”
With her arms still crossed, she arched a skeptical brow. “Indeed?” Then she shook her head and lowered her arms. “Come now—you know as well as I do that it would be easy enough for my husband, or Lord Child here”—she gestured at Child and, from Biggs’s startled look, realized that was the first time Child’s name had been mentioned—“or even Martin to learn who the owners of this establishment are, simply by asking in the right quarters.”
She took a second to study Biggs’s escalating unease, then let her lips curve in a distinctly cold smile. “Or is it a case of the owners having no idea that you’re holding my brother—a Cynster—for ransom?”