Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
As it turned out, Emerson did not reach her in time.
After a harrowing moment of hiring a nag—God knew it could not be considered an actual horse—he made it to Upper Brook Street and was stunned to see her climbing into a hackney.
Jesus, he would kill her—after ensuring every inch of her was unharmed.
Thankfully, the heavy traffic worked in his favor.
Less so the direction in which she headed.
At this time of night, still wearing her ballgown because surely she hadn’t taken the time to change.
The hackney turned east. Not a good sign.
He followed at a distance that under other circumstances—like daylight—would have him discovered within minutes.
But this way he could satisfy his curiosity and keep her safe.
The hack passed near Cavendish Square, the low lit lantern swinging. Emerson envisioned her inside, tense, furious, doubtless plotting whatever mad scheme her pride and principles had concocted in the minutes since flinging herself from the ballroom.
He almost smiled.
By the time the rig before him reached Oxford Street, traffic turned from nuisance to siege. Coaches angled for room like drunken brawlers. A costermonger’s donkey balked near Soho Square, snarling a dozen wheels behind it.
He reined in hard, teeth clenched. “You’ve bloody well chosen the worst night in London for rebellion, my sweet.”
The deeper he moved within the stews, the worse his surroundings.
Holborn Hill brought its own kind of midnight madness.
Gas lamps flickered low, their glow a mere dash of light through a thickening fog.
A broken cart wheel leaned abandoned against a wall, its contents—withered apples and split potatoes—crushed underfoot.
A stray dog nosed through the mess. Ahead, two apprentices, drunk no doubt, grappled in the gutter, their curses slurred and fists swinging wild.
A dispute over coin, pride, or perhaps over the girl watching from a darkened doorway with a bloodied nose and vacant eyes.
Fleet Street came into view, and his gelding snorted and balked.
It wasn’t the smell—though it reeked of ink, sewage, and salt—but the crowd.
Lantern light flickered through greasy windows.
The press of humanity grew more dense. Bootblacks crouched by gutters, drunkards arguing theology and God knew what all.
Emerson was a fool riding farther, but he didn’t dare take any chances in losing sight of the hack. Though it did move slow enough for him to follow on foot.
With a muttered curse, he swung down in a puddle of muck, but caught the attention of a stableboy and handed him a half sovereign. “Walk him. Water only.”
The boy looked startled. “This ain’t ’yde Park, ye nob.”
Emerson dropped another crown in his filthy palm. “No, it’s worse.”
He ducked beneath a hanging sign—The Widow’s Pint, judging by the rust-streaked carving—and turned toward a tangle of lanes that had once belonged to the Carmelites and now answered to no one.
Whitefriars. His heart nearly stopped.
The hackney jolted around a bend off Water Lane, and Emerson picked up his pace, under lanterns guttering.
His stride lengthened, which had the mud sucking at his boots as the streets narrowed into alleys and alleys into something less—Whitefriars proper, where even the Bow Street Runners hesitated to tread after sunset.
The hackney slowed. Then stopped.
He flattened himself against a crumbling wall beneath a soot-caked window and watched, poised for attack.
The driver did not descend. No footman leapt to open the door. And yet, after a long pause, the carriage door cracked open and Rose stepped out carefully, slowly.
Not like a lady. Like someone trying not to startle a bird.
What in God’s name?
She held something in her hand. A bundle? No, a cloak or shawl.
Then she spoke, her voice low and clear. “Viola?”
Emerson blinked.
There was a shuffling sound, and from the shadowed mouth of a recessed doorway, he caught sight of a slight figure.
A girl—age indeterminate—shivering, eyes wide as a hunted animal.
What must have once been a lovely day dress was now little more than a rag.
One stocking had fallen to her ankle. She clutched her arms around herself like armor.
Rose knelt, murmuring something he couldn’t hear, and held out the cloak.
The girl slowly emerged and, to his amazement, rushed into Rose’s arms. “Things will be all right now,” she told her. “I know of a safe place for you.”
The girl hesitated, then…nodded.
Rose led her to the hackney’s open door.
Emerson started forward, meaning to call out, to drag them away if need be.
A movement to his left, just beyond the girl. A hunched shape, emerging from the alley’s deeper mouth. Not stumbling. Not lost.
Intentional.
The man wore a hat pulled low, a ratted scarf wound high. His gait was purposeful. Predatory.
Emerson’s muscles coiled. He moved fast, silent as a thief, cutting across the alley’s width with the efficiency of a man who’d fought in worse places than this. Because…he had.
“Ye bitch. Ye ain’t made a single shillin’ o’ the money I spent on ye. I’ll have yer hide fer it, I will.” The man reached into his coat.
Emerson struck, caught the stranger’s arm mid-draw—a knife gleaming faintly—and slammed his shoulder into the man’s gut, knocking them both into a wall with a sickening crunch.
The girl screamed. Rose turned with a gasp, rising to her feet too quickly, stumbling backward.
The man fought dirty, elbow to ribs, knee toward groin, but Emerson anticipated the move, twisted, and slammed the man’s hand holding the knife against the wall until it fell.
“Go!” he barked at Rose. “Take her. Now!”
Thankfully, she didn’t hesitate, dragging the girl by the hand to the hackney and pushing her inside then scrambling up behind her.
Emerson pinned the man with a forearm to the throat. “I’d reconsider,” he hissed, “unless you wish to learn if I’m still capable of worse.”
The man choked, then went limp.
Emerson dropped him. Shoved a knee into his spine. Ripped the scarf down.
He was no one. Not a hired thug, just a desperate bawdy house worker who’d been sent to save his employer’s blasted investment. It was always about the blunt.
Emerson rose, breathing hard, and turned toward the hackney just as the door slammed shut behind Rose.
The carriage rolled from the alley.
He watched it go, fury and fear warring inside him.
She’d come here. Alone. Found a girl in desperate need.
Reckless Rose. Lady Reckless Rose, he amended. Her new title, and reaffirming his vow to kill her when he caught up to her.
Right after he kissed her senseless and assured himself she was all in one piece.
~~~
The hackney jerked into motion. Rose grabbed the strap to keep from sliding to the floor. Her companion was not so fortunate. She put out her hand for the girl. “Are you unharmed, Viola?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not a wit,” Rose returned gently.
She took Rose’s hand, and Rose launched her up to sit next to her. “H-how did you find me?” Viola’s voice stuttered. Whether it was the chill or fear, Rose could not discern.
The carriage gained its balance, and the ride smoothed out.
Rose took the cloak the girl still hugged to her chest and wrapped it around her. “I overheard a couple of young women speaking in the retiring room at Peachornsby’s ball. How on earth did you land in Whitefriars? It’s quite dangerous.”
Viola’s bottom lip trembled before firming. “Do you really think so, Lady Stanford?” she bit out.
Rose was shocked into silence.
“My aunt—my aunt,” she reiterated with abject fury. “Sold me.”
Rose gasped. “Lady Lockhart? She sold you?”
“She’s a horrid, horrid woman.” Her gaze turned out the window. “She’s always hated me.”
Viola’s other words penetrated Rose’s overtaxed brain. “You know who I am?”
“Certainly. My friends and I devoured the gossip sheets when your husband turned up dead.” She snorted. “Everyone knows who you are, my lady.”
One had to hand it to the child—she did not mince words. “Where are we going?” she asked, fatigue emanating from her.
Oh, right. Rose rapped on the ceiling.
Her eyes flew to Rose. “You aren’t taking me back to my aunt! I-I won’t go.”
The shrillness of her voice raised gooseflesh along Rose’s arms, but she would not coddle. A clear head and firm resolve were required. “Certainly not. I’m taking you to Hope House. No one ever need know you’re there.” Rose opened the hatch and gave the driver their direction.
“What is Hope House?”
Rose dropped beside her. “It’s a home Lady Huntley and the Duchess of Ryleigh created for young girls when they’ve nowhere to go. When was the last time you had something decent to eat?”
Viola’s head dropped, and she stared at her hands. “I-I don’t know. A couple of days, I think.”
“Well, Mrs. Kier will fix you right up. You can take a bath, and we’ll get you some decent clothing. You’ll be warm and fed.”
“Are there other young women in the house?”
“There are. About six others, I believe.”
Slowly, the breath eased out of Viola, indicating her relief. “All right. Thank you, Lady Stanford. I don’t know how I’d have fared had you not materialized.”
“Can you tell me what happened?” Rose asked her softly.
“I’ve already told you. My aunt sold me.”
“To whom?”
Viola didn’t answer, just turned her gaze out the window.
“I won’t say anything. I’ve no intention of giving the busybodies more to chatter over, but Ryleigh will wish to know. He and Huntley will have plenty of things to say, not just to Lady Lockhart, but they will wish also to deal with your, er, purchaser.”
“I have no notion how the transaction was effected. One minute I was dressed for Martindale’s soiree, and…and the next I was bundled away like so much rubbish.” The hurt and surprise in her voice broke Rose’s heart, at the same time infuriating her.
Rose took her chaffed hand and squeezed. “Things will turn out, dear.”
Viola turned from the window, putting her face in shadow. “Aren’t you even going to ask me if I was ruined?” she demanded bitterly.
“Whether you are ruined or not is of no consequence. This was not of your doing, Viola. That fault lies squarely at the feet of Lady Lockhart.” Her own bitterness spilled forth. “And she will pay. You may count on that.”