Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(48)

So curious, Lily thought to herself. Julian and the landlady clearly knew each other well. And in the course of that whole broom-and-bosom interchange—so far as Lily could tell—they’d neither of them spoken a single word.

Even inside the coffeehouse, they continued this way. Neither speaking a word. Not with lips or tongue, at any rate. No, Julian and the landlady were communicating solely with their hands. Rapid, precise, two-handed movements that Julian only belatedly—after sending Lily an apologetic glance—began pairing with speech.

“She’s my friend,” he said to the older woman, matching his words with hand signals that Lily could marvel at, but not understand. “I need you to keep her here. Keep her safe.”

The landlady made a motion, and her eyebrows lifted in query.

“Not long,” Julian answered. “A few hours, perhaps.”

“A few hours?” Lily claimed his attention. “Julian, what do you mean? You can’t leave me.”

“I must.” He drew her aside. “Those men … I have to go back and try to find them.”

“Why?”

“Because those might be the men who killed Leo.”

“What? How can you possibly believe—”

He shook his head, impatient. “They match a witness’s description. I don’t have time to explain it further than that. But I can’t let them get away. This is the closest I’ve come in months, Lily. Five. Long. Months.” He shaped each word distinctly. She’d never seen his eyes such a dark, intense shade of blue. “Stay here, no matter what occurs. Here, you’ll be protected.”

Oh, certainly. She would be protected. But what about him? Chasing strange brutes down dark alleys in the night …

“Don’t go.” She rushed to him and grabbed hold of his arm. “Don’t leave me here alone.”

“Lily, I can’t take you with me. It’s too dangerous. You’ll be safe here.”

“But … but how can you know that?”

He paused. Then said simply, “I was raised here.”

Stunned, she released his arm.

“Stay,” he commanded. His hand shot to her face, roughly cupping her cheek. His gaze bored into hers—as though with a forceful look, he could bolt her to the wall. “Stay. No matter how long it takes. I will come back for you. Do you understand?”

She nodded numbly. He left her no choice. “Wait. Your coat.” She slid the garment from her shoulders and thrust it at him. “It’s cold out there.”

A word fell from his lips. Judging by the sharp crease of his brow, she guessed it to be a vicious curse. His hand slid back into her hair, and he gripped tight. Then, with those same blasphemous lips, he kissed her full on the mouth.

The kiss was bruising, potent. Far too brief.

By the time she recalled how to breathe, he and his coat were gone.

A teapot appeared before her face.

Lily looked up, into the round face of the woman holding it. Thick, hoary eyebrows rose, disappearing under the brim of a white lace cap. More tea? the landlady’s expression silently inquired.

Gathering a borrowed blanket about her shoulders, Lily smiled politely and shook her head. She’d scarcely sipped from her first cup. At her elbow, a plate of food remained untouched. Since it had been served to her, the edge of a freshly pared bit of cheese had already gone crusty and dry.

How many hours had she been here? Morning could not be long coming. To stave off panic, Lily pressed one hand flat to the planks of the tabletop, worn glassy-smooth by decades of use. The cool, solid surface calmed her pulse.

Julian would come for her. He’d promised.

Dear God. What would she do if he didn’t?

She’d never felt more helpless in her life. She didn’t even know where she was. If she could decide where to go—out in search of Julian, back home to wait—how would she get there? Walk out on the street and hail a hackney cab? She’d never hailed a hack in her life, ever. There’d always been a servant or friend to do it for her. Perhaps she could send word to Amelia. But what would the message even say?

The older woman sat down across the table from her. Did she mean to attempt conversation? This would be a challenge, unless the landlady could read lips, too.

Lily said, “Thank you. For everything.”

The woman gestured rapidly in response, and Lily shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t understand the hand signs. You see, I never learned.”

The woman’s amazement was obvious. As if Lily had just confessed to being illiterate, or unable to count.

She knew such a manual language existed, of course. In the first year following her illness, her tutor had shown her an alphabet formed with the fingers. But Leo didn’t take to it especially well, and after that failed experiment, Lily had declined to learn any more signs. With whom would she use them?

Except—apparently, she could have been using them with Julian all this while. How did he know this language? Why had he never told her? She was so confused.

From a nearby shelf, her hostess gathered a slate and nub of chalk, then resumed her seat and applied herself to the use of both. When she held up her work, Lily read aloud from the slate.

“Anna.” She looked up. “That’s you? You’re Anna?” At the woman’s nod, Lily extended an open hand. “May I?”