Touch of Rogue by Mia Marlowe Page A

more hanging about the kitchen door hoping for scraps. You’ll attract someone’s notice that way.” Malcolm narrowed his eyes till the boy seemed to shrink into his grubby collar.
    Power was useless if one was hesitant to employ it, and Malcolm rarely hesitated. Grown men had been known to cower under one of his silent curses. He wasn’t surprised to see the boy’s thin hands shake as he surreptitiously made the sign against evil alongside his trembling flanks.
    “N-no, sir, I won’t let no one see me.”
    “Good. Now go.”
    The boy took to his heels. Malcolm’s lips twitched in a satisfied smile. Properly motivated by enough fear, the lad just might be able to outrun a pair of bays.
    Malcolm stood and looked out his gothic arched window. His home was on the Penton Rise, so from his top floor vantage point, London spread out before him, its spider-leg streets stretching in all directions. If Jacob Preston was headed for the King’s Arms, he’d likely already made the connection between the daggers and the Order. That tavern was their regular public meeting place.
    It wouldn’t be right for Preston and the countess not to be met by someone who could send them in the correct direction, so Malcolm threw on his cloak and descended four flights to the street. He’d call on Lord Digory, the nominal head of the Ancient Druid Order, and offer to stand the old windbag to a midday pint.
    And if they should fall into chance conversation with a countess from Cornwall and a rogue from Leicester Square, Malcolm would be in perfect position to take his enemy’s measure.
    Oh, he meant to use Lady Cambourne and her associate, right up until they uncovered the remaining dagger. But there was no doubt in his mind that they were the enemy and not to be trusted beyond that.
    When a person spent too much time near a thing of power, it called to them, drew them to it with silken cords, making it impossible to part with. Surely Lady Cambourne had already been in contact with the daggers long enough to realize they were more than simply interesting artifacts.
    Perhaps her husband had even explained their true function before his tragic demise, Malcolm mused as he pushed through the knots of people crowding the narrow streets around St. Paul’s. He’d learn more once he arranged for Lord Digory to be his unknowing shill for this morning’s outing.

    The yeasty smell of bread and beer greeted Julianne’s nostrils as Jacob held open the door to the King’s Arms for her. The interior of the tavern was dim, the wooden benches and booths dark with age. Decades of soot stained the stone face of the massive fireplace along one wall. Nearly every seat was filled with rough-edged patrons hoisting pints or falling to their trenchers with gusto. Evidently, the quality of fare offered at the venerable establishment was beyond the common in both food and brew.
    Curious eyes raked over her and she realized there were no other women in the tavern who weren’t wearing a serving apron. Several men nudged their neighbor with an elbow as she passed by. Julianne felt decidedly overdressed for the King’s Arms in her mauve merino wool skirt and bodice with its smart cream rosettes. She’d have caused less stir if she were still wearing the horrid black crepe of deep mourning. No one looked twice at a woman in widow’s weeds.
    She gave herself a stern mental shake. When did she ever fear making an entrance? She raised her chin and strode forward into the gloom.
    Jacob steered her to an empty booth in the far corner and ordered shepherd’s pie and ale for them without consulting her. Julianne bristled a bit. She was his employer, not his companion. He ought to defer to her more. The serving girl deferred enough for all three of them, dimpling prettily when Jacob smiled at her. She scurried away to do his bidding with a saucy flip of her skirt.
    Julianne scanned the sea of faces. There were burly, stub-nosed workmen, spindly shopkeepers and