Eve Silver (2 page)

Darcie's fingers curled protectively around the edges of the tattered leather case, resisting Mrs. Feather's attempts to take it from her.

“Yes. I still sketch, though it has been some time since I could buy any supplies to draw with. These pictures are old. Treasures. Memories.” Darcie couldn't suppress a sad smile. “I have one of you.”

“Not one of me,” Mrs. Feather said in a flat voice. “What you have is a picture of a girl who died a long time ago.”

Darcie made no reply. There was nothing to say to that.

“How old are you now?” The question was sharp, impatient.

“Twenty, come June.”

“Well, you look younger,” Mrs. Feather said, her eyes narrowing as she peered at Darcie's face. “I remember you being younger.” With an impatient click of her tongue, she turned Darcie toward the large gilt-framed mirror that hung on the wall. “Look at yourself and tell me if you think I have much to work with. Eyes as sorrowful as a whipped puppy. And that hair. I don't know what to make of it. And you're as skinny as a post. Men like a woman who's soft and curved.”

Darcie stared at her reflection. She did look a sight. Her brown eyes were huge in her face, made all the more so by her hollow cheeks and pale skin. The ill weather had done a thorough job of drenching her, and the mahogany hair that had once been soft and pretty was plastered to her skull, hanging in uneven clumps over her shoulders. The severe, uninterrupted black of her apparel did little to enhance her appearance. In all, she looked like a walking corpse, though a corpse likely boasted more color in its cheeks.

“It doesn't matter how I look,” she said. “I don't care. I only want—” She broke off as a man stepped into the entry hall, his passage followed by raucous laughter that belched from the front parlor as he departed. From the corner of her eye, Darcie caught the swirl of garishly colored gowns, the images of rouged lips and kohl-rimmed eyes. Women of the night, she thought as the door closed, cutting off the scene.

Her attention returned to the man as he moved behind Mrs. Feather, one hand curving around her waist and the other sliding over the bare skin of her shoulder until his fingers rested just inside her gown, lying casually on the plump fullness of her breast. Darcie swallowed, staring at this violation of her sister's person, unable to look away.
This
was how men would treat her.

He was of medium height, sharp featured and dark, the cut of his superfine coat accentuating his stocky build. Some might think him handsome, but the way he touched Mrs. Feather made Darcie's stomach roll with nerves. She took a step back, wishing she were anywhere but here.

Mrs. Feather cast Darcie a hard glance, then turned from her, her lips curving in a practiced smile as she moved.

“Lord Albright, how lovely to have you grace us with your presence this night. All is arranged exactly as you desire. The red room, as you requested.”

“Is this the girl?” he asked, his voice cold. Darcie shifted her gaze to the floor. “Looks like Haymarket ware. She's not as pretty as I wanted, or as young. And she looks completely lacking in spirit. You know I like a bit of excitement.”

“This girl, my lord? She's just a maid. I have a lovely treat waiting for you upstairs.”

“Hnn,” he grunted, pulling his hand from Mrs. Feather's breast. Abruptly, he stepped toward Darcie, brushing his fingertips over her bodice. With a cry she shrank from his touch, banging her arm sharply against the marble-topped table at her side. Lord Albright's eyes lit with a glow that made Darcie cringe from him.

Mrs. Feather moved smoothly between them, linking one arm with practiced ease through Lord Albright's and reaching behind at the same time to deliver a sharp pinch to Darcie's forearm with the other.

“Come, my lord,” she purred. “We wouldn't want the tempting dish I've arranged to get cold, would we?”

Lord Albright bared his teeth. “I shall enjoy sampling her, warm or cold.”

Revulsion rose in Darcie's throat.

As she guided Lord Albright toward the staircase, Mrs. Feather glanced back over her shoulder.

“Stay there.” She mouthed the words soundlessly at Darcie, her lips moving with exaggeration.

Sagging against the wall, Darcie tried to force her racing heart to slow. She felt sick. Lord, it wouldn't do for her to toss up here on the shiny polished floor of the front hall. No danger of that, really. There was nothing inside of her to throw up.

The dull ache in her abdomen turned momentarily sharp, doubling her over with the sheer intensity of the pain. She was reminded of exactly how desperate her straits were. The subtle torment was always there of late, gnawing relentlessly at her empty insides, reminding her that a full belly was a dream of the past. The minutes and hours would creep by, and just when she thought she could bear it, the agony of ever present hunger tore at her with a pain that gnashed its evil teeth, lacerating her stomach, taunting her with her own desperation.

The sound of boisterous laughter filtered from the front parlor. Raising her head, Darcie forced herself to look about, to take in the reality of the choice she had made.
Mrs. Feather's House.
The name was so innocuous, so unassuming, but Darcie was hard pressed to imagine anything worse than this place. No mere house, it was a den of debauchery. Mrs. Feather catered to the best of society, providing them with the means to indulge in their darkest, vilest desires.

A high-pitched scream echoed from above, and then another. The hallway spun before Darcie's eyes. She couldn't remember when she'd eaten last. Last night. No, the night before that. She'd snatched a potato that fell from a bushel at Spitalfields and devoured it raw. Nowhere to sleep. Nothing to eat. For weeks she'd banged on every door, pleaded for gainful employment at any job. Laundry maid. Step girl. There was nothing to be had. She was faced with a terrible choice. Sell herself on the street—what had Lord Albright called her? Haymarket ware—the lowest girl who sold herself in a doorway, a back alley, the darkened corner of a pub. Or she could sell herself to her sister.

Or she could die.

She'd thought of the poorhouse, but she had no illusions there. It was simply a longer and slower death.

Darcie pressed her balled fist into her belly. Her gaze strayed past the black-and-gold-papered walls of the front hallway, to the staircase that led to the upper floor, then flicked rapidly to the doorway that led to the parlor that Lord Albright had exited earlier.

Slowly, she began to back away. Her hip bumped against something, and she glanced down to find the knob of the front door pressing against her. The smooth cold surface of it beckoned.

Her fist closed around the brass knob, and she whirled, twisting the handle and flinging the door open. The darkness and the fresh smell of rain greeted her. Coming here had been a dreadful mistake. She couldn't do this. Whatever had made her think she could?

She took a deep breath, preparing to flee, when a hand clamped over her arm, the fingers biting into the sore place where she had banged it earlier. With a gasp Darcie turned and faced Mrs. Feather. Her heart plummeted. Too late to run.

“Here, take this.” Mrs. Feather pressed something into Darcie’s palm. “But don't come back. You have no place here, and there's no more for you where this came from.”

Looking down in amazement, Darcie stared at her sister’s gift. A shilling. A fortune to a girl who was starving.

Her gaze collided with the madam's, and for a single beautiful shimmering moment, she saw her sister, Abigail, looking at her from behind Mrs. Feather's hard, cold mask.

“Thank you,” she whispered, closing her fingers around the money.

“Go,” Mrs. Feather said brusquely. “Go to Curzon Street, to Doctor Damien Cole. Tell him I sent you and that I'll thank him to do this one favor for his old friend, Mrs. Feather.”

“To Curzon Street,” Darcie echoed, barely able to believe in her good fortune or her reprieve. Impulsively, she cast her arms about her sister. “Thank you…Abigail.”

Mrs. Feather squeezed her tight then pushed her out into the street.

“Don't come back,” she said, her voice strangely hoarse. “And mind, have a care of him. Dr. Cole. He is a hard man, a man to fear. Stay out of his way. Stay clear of his work. And keep your nose out of his secrets.”

Darcie gave a quick nod then hurried away, the shilling clutched in one hand pressed against her heart, her leather case tucked beneath her arm. She had escaped the horror that awaited her, had been granted a reprieve from the fate that was her sister's. Tears of relief stung her eyes. She would gladly scrub floors from dusk to dawn, scrub the steps, empty slops, anything, if she was but given the chance.

Armed with a name, Dr. Damien Cole, and the reference of her sister, the notorious madam, Mrs. Feather, Darcie forged onward. Her sister's warning swirled through her thoughts.
A man to fear.

The words became a litany, spinning over and over in her mind as she pressed on. Soon she was beyond exhaustion, her mind numb to all but the need to reach Mayfair.

So blunted were her senses that she did not hear the rolling turmoil of horses' hooves on the cobblestone street, did not see the dark bulk of the carriage as it bore down on her. At the last second a shout penetrated the fog that shrouded her awareness, and she turned to see four great beasts pawing the air above her head, their hooves slashing dangerously close to her face. She threw herself to the side, landing with jarring impact on her right shoulder. Stunned, she lay on the wet ground, staring at the horses as their driver brought them under control.

When they quieted, he climbed down from the seat and approached her where she lay.

“What's wrong with you, girl? Have you not eyes in your head? Or ears? Did you not hear me coming? If I'd been moving any faster—here....” The man crouched at her side and offered his hand. His words were bitten off in harsh tones, but focusing on his eyes, Darcie found only concern mirrored there.

“Is she hurt?” A second voice, mellifluous in both texture and pitch, washed over Darcie's shattered nerves like a soothing balm.

“I don't think so, sir. Maybe shaken up a bit,” the driver replied.

Turning her head, Darcie studied the second man, his confident stride bringing him into her line of vision. Her heart gave a hard, sharp kick against her ribs as she took in his long black cloak and polished boots, splattered with the mud of the road.

The fears she had entertained earlier that night on the mist-shrouded street echoed through her mind. Was this the same man who had followed her, the ominous presence that had caused her to hide in the shadowed doorway?

Panicking, she scuttled backwards, the memory of the threatening stranger on Hanbury Street fresh in her thoughts. She stared at the man who approached her now, his long cloak and boots too similar for comfort. Her pulse raced as she struggled for reason. On Hanbury Street she had sensed evil buffeting her in great crashing waves that rolled violently from the stranger on the street, yet she sensed no such threat now, sensed no evil emanating from the man approaching her.

Her gaze shifted to his face, and what she saw made her eyes widen and her fear fade away, replaced by a surreal sense of resignation.

She had died, then. And here was the angel who'd been sent to guide her.

He moved closer, his stride graceful and sure, until he loomed over her. With a negligent flick of his wrist, he set the wings of his long coat aside and hunkered down, close enough that Darcie could see the stormy gray of his eyes. The hint of a frown shadowed his brow as he studied her with a long, slow perusal.

In the watery gray light of dawn, Darcie stared at him, her common sense telling her that he was just a man, surely no celestial being, despite her initial impression and despite the strange fascination that suffused her.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

She shook her head, afraid to trust the sound of her voice. Her body seemed to tingle in each place his gaze rested.

“Have we a blanket, John?” He glanced at the coachman, and as he turned his head, his burnished gold hair caressed his shoulder. Darcie had the strangest urge to touch it, to see if the honeyed strands were as thick and soft as they looked.

“I don't think so, sir.”

“I do not require a blanket. I'm fine,” Darcie managed, her heart drumming loudly in her ears.

“Are you?” The man turned a dispassionate gaze on her. Slowly, he raised one hand, reaching out to rest his fingers on the side of her throat. She jumped at the sensation of his warm hand against her chilled skin, at the feel of her pulse fluttering wildly against his touch.

“Y-yes,” she replied.

His brows rose. “How fortunate,” he finished dryly, and she felt bereft as he drew his hand away.

Rubbing her sore shoulder, Darcie lowered her eyes and pressed her lips together, uncertain of what to say. The stranger remained crouched at her side, his weight resting on the balls of his feet, arms folded casually across his bent knees. With a careless gesture, he motioned the coachman off.

“What day is it?” he asked, his gaze fixed on her.

Darcie stared into his eyes, caught by the intensity of his expression. “T-T-Tuesday,” she stammered. “At least, it was Tuesday last night. So I suppose it is now Wednesday.”

He offered a short nod, and the frown lines between his brows vanished.

“Well, you seem to be quite rational,” he observed. “No dizziness?”

Darcie shook her head.

He almost smiled, the barest curve of his lips. “This position is extremely uncomfortable and my leg is beginning to lose circulation. Would you mind terribly if we regained our footing?”

That said, he rose gracefully to his feet and offered his hand. Darcie stared at it for a moment, her thoughts fuzzy and vague. With a soft sound of impatience he twined his warm fingers through her icy ones and pulled her to her feet. She stood before him looking straight ahead at the elegantly simple buttons of his waistcoat. He was tall, she realized, more than a head taller than she was. Tipping her head back, she found him watching her. She had the strangest urge to smooth her bedraggled skirt and pat her hair into some semblance of order.