Authors: Christina Dodd
C
aroline picked her way through the refuse in the narrow alley toward her flat. The westering sun shone at an angle across the high rooftops three stories above, but here below, the shadows were deep and the stench obnoxious. The scene was, she reflected, much like her own life. Somewhere, she saw evidence that light and happiness existed, but no matter what she said, no matter how hard she worked, no matter how much she climbed and clawed, she couldn’t reach the light.
A croaking voice came from a recessed doorway.
“Ahoy, Miss Ritter!”
Caroline peered into the shadows at the pile of rags that shifted as she stared, becoming a man—or what was left of a man when a cannonball ripped off both his legs more than thirty years ago at Trafalgar. “Greetings, Harry. My day has been fruitful, and I trust yours has been the same.”
“A difficult day, Oi’m afraid. Very difficult.” She couldn’t see his eyes beneath his hood, but his pale, pointed nose quivered like a rabbit’s scenting fresh feed. “Oi lifted six pocketbooks off the gennamen goin’ in the Bank o’ England, and no’ one carried more than shillings.”
“Rather thoughtless of them. Perhaps they’ve heard you were working the area?”
He nodded dolefully. “Aye, a beggar’s life is ’ard, and just when ye get a territory set up, along comes a bunch o’ coves who ruin a man’s ’onest labor.”
“Not honest and not—” She stopped herself. She had previously tried to point out the error in Harry’s ways, but he saw nothing wrong with begging, and certainly nothing wrong with picking the pockets of any gull who stopped to throw money into his hat. He said the gentlemen owed it to him—after all, hadn’t he sacrificed everything to preserve their country? And no thanks except a sawbones to cut off the shattered remnants of his legs.
His voice changed from the whine of a professional beggar to the deeper, surer sound of a man defending his territory. “I thought ye ought t’know. Ye’ve got a visitor.”
“A visitor? Here?” No one of import came here, where shattered hopes met implacable poverty. “What kind of visitor?” A creditor, waving a bill and demanding satisfaction? Or…
him
, Lord Freshfield? She drew a painful breath. Had he found her here?
“ ’Tis a man, young, tall, ’andsome. Rich-looking sort o’ fellow all dressed up fancy.”
Her fear subsided a little. “Fancy? Really, really fancy? Colorful fancy?”
“I’d call ’im positively eye-popping.”
Huntington. Her savior. She was surprised he had found her so quickly. She gave Harry a lopsided smile. “Then I know who it is.” The handsome Lord Huntington. In the bright sunshine in the park, his clothing had looked even more absurd than in Nevett’s study, and his selfish disinterest in assisting a beautiful, helpless young woman provided a challenge to her skills as a flirt—and as a matchmaker. If all he cared about was himself and his clothing, she’d have to find some other leverage than desire to make him want to marry. She needed to make another notation in her planning book, design another strategy to make him want what his father and she wanted for Huntington—to wed.
She
had
to get Huntington married to some poor debutante, and with the money Nevett would provide her, she could take Genevieve and go to France. Their mother’s people weren’t rich. She didn’t expect to live off their generosity forever. But somehow, she would find something that she could do to earn a living. Something that would give Genevieve a chance at a life unmarred by their father’s indifference. As it was, in the dark of night, Caroline feared she was fit only for life as a mistress—or a prostitute.
She
had
to teach Huntington to flirt. She
had
to find him a wife. For when she remembered the slow crawl of Lord Freshfield’s fingers over her leg, she wanted to vomit.
“Don’t look like that, Miss,” Harry said. “Ye’re not one t’ end in such a manner.”
How did he know what she was thinking?
“I’ve seen it time and again,” he answered as if she had spoken. “Poverty eats ye alive, but ye’ve got an aura. It surrounds ye like sunshine. Ye’re one o’ the lucky ones. Ye’ll see.”
Although her lips trembled, she smiled. “Harry, you’re a philosopher and a seer.”
“Don’t ye recognize me, Miss? I’m a fallen angel, I am, a curate’s assistant who went t’ war and came back ’alf a man.” He pulled back into his rags, as if he were sorry that he had revealed so much. “As long as ye’re sure this gennaman is not a threat t’ ye, I’ll not worry further.”
“Thank you for the warning,” she said softly. “It would be unpleasant to come on him unexpectedly.” She turned away, and heard the rhythmic squeak of Harry’s wheels as he pushed his low-slung cart toward his pitiful home. She didn’t look back; the man deserved his dignity.
Sunlight still slipped into the dark corridor of her building, and for the first time since she had rented this third-floor flat, she climbed the stairs with a kind of lively interest. She wondered what Huntington would demand: that she leave him to his own devices, probably…or perhaps he would welcome her as a sycophant. Who knew? He was an odd sort of fellow, apparently more interested in the Moricadians than in her. Yet she’d recognized that glint in his eyes when he’d first looked upon her; he was very much a man, with a man’s strong appreciation of a handsome woman.
For a moment, when he looked at her that way, she had experienced a thrill, a kind of heady anticipation and girlish alarm. Foolishness. She knew her place.
When he noticed her red rose, she had enjoyed his start of surprise more than she should, and now she unfastened it from her bodice and twirled it, and the pin, in her fingers.
She would take pleasure in this interview.
Opening the door into her flat, she found a candle already lit. Of course. The son of a duke would never think of the price of a candle. She saw the bulk of him sitting there in the one chair beside the bed, and as she stepped inside, she said in an amused tone, “I’ve been expecting you.”
The man rose. She saw the flash of his golden hair, and in that split second, she realized—this wasn’t Huntington.
It was Lord Freshfield.
She took a hard, frightened breath.
In that suave, knowing voice she despised, he said, “I would have come sooner if I’d known.”
She stood frozen, paralyzed with revulsion. She wanted to run, but if she did, he would know how much he frightened her. She wanted to shriek, but he would like that, too. She wanted…she wanted him out of there. “How did you get in?”
“Your landlord saw no reason to keep me out.” In other words, Freshfield had bribed him.
Her heart thudded against her breastbone. He was so handsome, a glorious creature of sunshine and shadow, and only the discerning could see the corruption that tarnished the gold.
She hadn’t been discerning. She had been a trusting fool. That night…that night, Lord Freshfield had offered her a drink in private, and she, imprudent, infatuated, and enjoying the intrigue, had agreed. He had slipped away from the party. She had slipped away from her chaperon—although, looking back, she realized that had been all too easy.
He toasted her. “To my beautiful release.”
She didn’t understand what he meant. She didn’t wonder, either. She just drank of the deep, rich wine…and after that, memory came in bursts. Disoriented, she giggled. When she staggered, he led her to his study.
Then what started as an adventure became a nightmare. He shoved her down on the sofa. She protested. He tore her bodice. She pushed at his hands. He touched her breast. She cried out. He slid his hand up her skirt. She kicked at him with her soft slippers.
But she didn’t gouge his eyes with her nails. She didn’t scratch his face, or punch him, or bite him. God help her, she had been trained to be a lady, never to hurt anyone, and she couldn’t bring herself—didn’t even think of—seriously defending herself.
People burst in. Men, three men, she thought. Mortified, she cried harder. They stared, then averted their eyes as if she were soiled. Dear Goose—Rodney Turgoose—tried to remove her from the chamber, but her knees collapsed beneath her. More people arrived, women this time. Lady Freshfield shrieked. She slapped Caroline, a blow to the face that sent her staggering.
And from the murky depths of remembrance, Caroline could hear someone in the crowd murmur, “She’s drunk. She’s ruined.”
Everything that had followed was humiliation, and horror, and disgrace.
She would never be so weak again. She would never be so stupid again. She had learned. Through the last painful years of poverty and struggle, she had learned. No man would ever use her as abominably as Freshfield. Looking at him, she knew—she’d kill herself first.
And a voice that sounded like doom echoed in her head—
and Genevieve would be alone.
There was no escape for Caroline. She had to make this employment work.
Determined not to be trapped in the room, she stayed in the open doorway. “I’d like you to leave.”
“Darling, you don’t mean that.” He swept his arm around her pitiful hovel of a room. “Let me take you away from this. I can provide a house for you, and luxury such as you’ve never imagined.”
“I can’t afford the price.” Her gaze fixed on his cravat. It was a bright orange color, like the one Lord Huntington had worn the day before. No wonder Harry had thought Freshfield was positively eye-popping. The marquess was imitating the earl.
“Of course you can. Every woman can afford that price. Women are made to let men pay for their every little whim.”
“I thought it was your wife who paid for your whims.”
He lunged toward her.
She jumped back into the corridor. Her hand tightened on the rose stem. It snapped. “I’ll run screaming.”
With a sneer that distorted his handsome face, he asked, “Who would hear you in this neighborhood?”
“Men who would attack you and steal everything you own right down to your boots.” This she understood, and in a contemptuous voice, she said, “I’m surprised you made it this far.”
“I can protect myself.” He showed her the sword hidden in his cane.
She almost laughed. Was he bragging or trying to intimidate her? At one time, she would have been impressed. Now she knew the kind of men who lurked in dark alleys, who would club Lord Freshfield unconscious before he had time to draw steel. “It’s almost dark. Go out and try your luck.”
He gazed at her, at the way she stood, at the amusement on her face, and his gaze dropped. She wasn’t the unwary fool she had been before, and he didn’t know how to bully her. “How can you, a female raised as a lady, bear to live in this slum?”
She tucked the long, sharp pin that had held the rose between her knuckles, facing out. Harry had taught her that, his low, hoarse voice morose with intensity as he suggested weapons like hatpins, keys, and writing pens. At the time she had thought it was kind of him to worry about her so. Now she was thankful. Profoundly thankful. In a cold, clear voice, she said, “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it, why would I prefer to live here than in a house with you?”
“I’ll make you sorry you said that.” He lunged toward her again, a long-legged leap that threatened violence.
She lifted her fist. She was no longer the girl she had once been. She
would
defend herself now.
But from the landing below her, she heard the rattle of footsteps, and an airy, male voice call, “Miss Ritter, are you up there?”
Lord Huntingon.
To Freshfield, she said, “But you won’t make me sorry today.”
“Who is it?” Lord Freshfield demanded. “A lover?”
“You have a mind like a sewer.” She called down the stairs, “Yes, my lord, I’m here.”
Freshfield stood, arms straight at his side, hands clenching. She knew what he was thinking. She could see it in his face. He wanted to confront the gentleman whose boots tromped up her stairs, but he didn’t dare. He was a coward. He liked to frighten those weaker than himself; he didn’t want to confront a man who might handle him with the flat of his fist.
As Freshfield brushed by her, he grabbed her arm hard enough to bruise. “This is not over.”
She knew that. Unless she got away from London and hid herself so well that he could never find her, it would never be over.
He ran down the stairs, his boots creating an angry clatter on the aging boards.
She listened to see if Huntington stopped him, but heard not even the murmur of a greeting. In the darkness of the stairway, perhaps they hadn’t recognized each other. She hoped not, for if Huntington thought she entertained Freshfield in her rooms, he would be justified in demanding her dismissal.
Huntington loomed in the doorway so recently vacated by Freshfield.
She drew back into the darkness of her room. Perhaps Freshfield had heightened her fears, but to her, Huntington presented the appearance of a dangerous man, one given to manipulation, one with a plan and a purpose.
Then he moved forward, exclaiming, “It’s dark. How do you bear the darkness? It’s frightening in here. Aren’t you afraid?”
And she relaxed. The ominousness he had projected was nothing but a figment of her overactive imagination. “There’s a candle burning.” She gestured toward it.
“A single candle,” he scoffed. “It’s dim. I can scarcely see where I’m stepping—or what I’m stepping on.” He looked down at the rough, bare boards beneath his boots, then around at the shabby surroundings.
She winced in mortification. She hadn’t minded that Freshfield had viewed her surroundings. She very much cared that Huntington did. It wasn’t pride, she told herself, but rather a matter of gaining and holding his respect. He was obviously a man who set much store by appearances.
He bowed to her, a lovely, flourishing bow, and said, “Introductions are not necessary, for I know who you are, Miss Ritter”—he waggled his finger at her—“and how naughty of you to play such a trick on me at the park!”
So he did know who she was. Had his ignorance at the park been an attempt to shake her from her task, or had one of the onlookers informed him of her identity? Probably the latter.