Wicked. Beth Henderson

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СКАЧАТЬ him, the action that of a woman ill at ease around an unknown man. It wasn’t a reaction he associated with females who frequented the streets of the Barbary Coast. Rather than lean on him, she wilted against the wall slightly as she got her bearings once more.

      Deegan took the time to study her more fully. She most certainly wasn’t the wren he’d first thought her, based on her coloring and her frightened plea for help. Her eyes were definitely her best feature, not only because of their unusual shade, but because they were framed by an upsweep of long, thick lashes. Her face was one of character rather than beauty, and she was tall, an aspect he liked in a woman. A smudge of dirt marred the soft curve of her cheek in a streak that led his eyes to her lips. They were parted slightly and very kissable. Her whole manner bespoke a proper upbringing, one untarnished by life in a Coast pimp’s harem. If he’d gotten a good look at her earlier, he never would have made the mistake of thinking she was running from her lover. It was a shame if she’d never had a lover, he thought as he quickly scanned the rest of her delightful form. A definite shame.

      A frizzed bit of bang covered her brow, while the rest of her chestnut-brown hair was braided and bound in a coil on the crown of her head. She didn’t seem aware that her close-fitting chip bonnet had been knocked awry. It hadn’t survived the adventure unscathed, for the once proud ostrich plume drooped, the quill broken, and the ribbons trailed away over her breast instead of being tied neatly beneath her chin.

      Her brown walking suit was plain, the draped apron of the skirt trimmed with a modest binding of black fringe, and the high collar conformed tightly to the lovely length of her throat. It was clearly the creation of an experienced dressmaker, the coffee-colored fabric alone too rich in texture to belong to any woman in the Barbary Coast. She wore no jewelry, not even earrings, and rather than carry a drawstring purse, she had two satchels strapped across her torso like saddlebags.

      She was quite out of the ordinary, which was probably the reason he found her refreshingly attractive.

      Taking out his handkerchief, Deegan handed it to her. “You might want to tidy up before you rejoin your friends,” he said, indicating the smudge on her cheek.

      “My friends?” Her lovely eyes became clouded with confusion as she accepted the pristine square of cloth. She touched the less bulky of her twin satchels briefly. “Yes, of course, but first I need to speak to the police to tell them about Belle’s murder.” She paused a moment and her eyes grew wider. She reached out, clasping his arm with one gloved hand. “Oh, and you must come with me. Between us, we can most certainly identify that man. I know I shall never forget his face, and I’m sure you had an excellent look at him, too.”

      Despite the fact that he had associated closely with an operative of the Pinkerton Detective Agency a few months past, Deegan wasn’t keen on dealing with any branch of law enforcement at present, particularly the policemen assigned to the Coast. There was always the chance that one of them had been around long enough to remember him as Digger O’Rourke.

      A gust of wind whistled down the alleyway, giving him an excuse to delay any excursion to the precinct house as it swirled her skirts and nearly tore her hat free. His wren shivered and left off scrubbing her cheek clean with his handkerchief to thump a hand down on her chapeau, further mangling the broken ostrich plume.

      “Think about the police later,” Deegan urged. “For now, I think we need to get you out of the weather. Find somewhere that you can have something warm to drink.”

      “Tea would be incredibly nice,” she agreed as she retied her bonnet ribbons.

      A neat whiskey suited him much better and was easier to come by in the Coast. It would warm her much more efficiently, too.

      “Do you think there is a tea room near the police station?” she asked, stooping slightly to reclaim her camera.

      Deegan had no intention of finding out. “Allow me,” he said, taking the camera from her. She looked uncertain about giving it over into his keeping, but after a considering pause, relinquished it without an argument. He settled the box against his shoulder as she had done, surprised at how heavy the contraption was and how unruly the gangly tripod legs were.

      “I don’t think it would be smart for you to trail about the streets just yet,” he remarked lightly, his attention seemingly on taming the tripod rather than on her. “Your determined friend may not have gone far.”

      A frown formed small furrows over the bridge of her nose. “You are quite right. I hadn’t considered that. But I can’t just wait when Belle’s body is…is…” Her cheeks blanched suddenly and she wavered unsteadily on her feet.

      Encumbered with the camera, Deegan could do little more than grip her elbow tightly to keep her upright.

      “Oh, thank you,” she murmured faintly. “Just the thought of—” She broke off, swaying again. “Perhaps I had best sit down,” she suggested.

      She looked as if she might slip to the ground in a swoon. Deegan glanced toward the street, then back down the alley, and made a decision. Another one he figured he’d regret later.

      “Listen, my name’s Galloway. I was on my way to visit an old friend who lives in the next house. If you can make it to Hannah’s rooms, you’ll not only be able to sit down, you’ll have that cup of tea.” Hannah had been known to add a warming dollop or two of whiskey to the pot when the situation merited it, as this one certainly did, to his mind.

      The wren gave him a weak smile. “It sounds delightful.” Her chin lifted in a show of determination. “I believe I can make it that far.”

      “Good girl,” Deegan approved, but he kept firm hold of her arm to support as well as guide her.

      “Today was Belle’s birthday,” she said, as if driven to speak. “She was just twenty. I brought her a portrait I’d taken as a present. When he—” She broke off again, swallowing her fear before adding softly, “Belle dropped it.”

      Not knowing how to comment, Deegan kept his own council and tried to hurry her along.

      “I’m sorry to be such a burden,” she murmured.

      “You’re no such thing,” he assured her. “My avocation is rescuing ladies in need.”

      The glib quip brought her smile back into play, if but fleetingly. “I wish you could have helped Belle, then.”

      “So do I,” Deegan said, although he doubted a murder had been committed. No doubt his wren had witnessed one of the all too frequent acts of domestic violence that happened in the district. Her inexperience in such matters would lead her to embroider the event in her mind, turning it into an act of murder.

      “How are you holding up?” he asked as they reached the back entrance to Hannah’s building. “My friend is on the second floor. Can you make it on your own?”

      She gave the narrow staircase a dubious look. Deegan wasn’t sure whether her concern was over its steepness or lack of cleanliness.

      “Yes, I believe so,” she said, laying a hand on the banister.

      Deegan fell back two steps, hoping the flimsy railing was strong enough to hold her should she feel faint again. She weighed the equivalent of two feathers, or so he had imagined when he’d tipped her off her feet earlier, but he doubted upkeep on the building had improved since he’d lived there, even then it had been an excellent candidate for the city aldermen to condemn.

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