Chapter Four
Alice walked into the cool night air. The ballroom’s heat and perfume clung to her skin, but London’s smog swept it aside. The city was a different creature after dark. Dangerous for anyone who did not have a care.
Her driver straightened as she approached. Ezra Samson was as solid as an oak, his blond hair dulled in the lamplight, his broad shoulders filling the space between the carriage and horse.
“Where is your aunt?” he asked immediately.
“She left earlier with Lady Cecil. I have a stop—”
“Not alone you don’t,” Ezra interrupted flatly.
Alice’s mouth tightened. He had once been Charles’s footman, employed when her brother’s health declined.
Ezra and his wife Maggie, Alice’s maid, had stood beside the family until the very end.
On Charles’s last lucid night, he had grasped Ezra’s arm and rasped, Take care of Alice. It was a vow Ezra had taken seriously.
“This is important,” Alice insisted.
“And all part of your revenge, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
Ezra’s thick brows lowered, shadowing eyes that missed nothing. “Very well, but you’ll not go anywhere alone.”
She blew out a sharp breath. “Ezra—”
“I made him a promise. But even had I not, I would keep you safe. Your aunt is kind and sweet-natured, and oblivious to the fact you’re not the well-behaved young lady you portray yourself to be, content with books and embroidery. I know better. Therefore, I am watching over you.”
Her throat constricted. She hated and loved him for his perception. “I’m quite sure Aunt Gwen would take you to task for that statement.”
“Likely. But she would not thank me for telling her what you truly do.” His deep voice rolled like approaching thunder.
Alice’s lips pressed into a line. He knew too much, and always had. She had let him and Maggie close once, when her grief was overwhelming, and they had seen everything. The fury, the tears, the vow for vengeance. Now they watched her every move, especially Ezra.
“I will go to the address and make my inquiries, then return,” she said. “That is all.”
He grunted but yielded, knowing that if he forbade it, which he had no right to do, she would find another way.
The carriage rattled through narrow streets, and Alice wrapped her evening cloak tighter around her body. She was shivering not from cold but anticipation.
When they stopped, Ezra climbed from the driver’s seat.
“I am going in there.” Alice pointed toward a tall, dark building. “If I am not back in thirty minutes, find me.”
“I said not alone.”
Alice made a show of looking around. “And who will hold the horses while you accompany me?” She was already walking away before he delivered the last word and attempted to stop her.
“Lady Alice!”
She ignored the bellow and made for the old stone building. She had several people who were making enquiries on her behalf about Kenneth Jackson, and one had sent her word that tonight, here at this building, he would be here.
She’d been to Blackwood Hall twice. The first time had been to collect her brother with Ezra, after he’d sent word he was coming home.
Her father had been in France at the time, supposedly on a holiday.
Later Alice had realized it was to visit his mistress.
He’d only returned for a few days before leaving to take up residence there.
The day she’d collected Charles, she’d seen him talking to a man as he left the building.
Her brother had shaken his head vehemently, and pointed to the carriage Alice sat in.
She’d opened the door and stepped down. The man had stared at her and then gone back inside.
Her brother had told her his name was Kenneth Jackson, but it was not until later she’d known what he’d done to Charles.
Alice had run through many things she would do to the man, and one of them was to make him suffer.
As yet, she was unsure how. She was very good with numbers and investments, and had thought long and hard about destroying the man financially, but until she knew what his situation was, she couldn’t do that.
Ezra just wanted to beat him senseless, which Alice was not completely discarding.
Walking to the right-hand side of the building, Alice found the door that her informant had told her about, and entered. A young boy stood there as if waiting for someone. Tall, thin, his face was gaunt, and his red hair stood off his head in dirty spikes.
“Hello.”
He nodded at Alice’s greeting.
“I wouldn’t go in there were I you, miss,” he said before she could speak again.
“Do you come here often?” Alice asked, and he nodded.
“It’s a warm place.” He shrugged, and Alice knew then that he either lived on the streets or in a house that was small and cold. Her heart ached for the boy, but he was like many she saw every day.
Dare she ask him about Jackson? Would he tell anyone she was here?
“I am looking for a man, and his name is Kenneth Jackson,” Alice said, deciding to take a chance. “I need to find him urgently.”
The boy nodded, his eyes big in his thin face as they studied her. His clothes were worn, and she doubted they offered much protection against the colder weather that gripped London in the winter months.
“If I give you his description and some money, would you come to me if you locate him?”
“I can find out where he is,” the boy said solemnly.
She wanted to ask how he could do that when he was just a child, but knew that many had to grow up fast if they lived in poverty. Alice pulled money out of her reticule and handed it to him. More money than he had likely ever seen.
“This man is dangerous and mean, so do not approach him as he likes to hurt people, but if you find out where he is then come to the rear door of my townhouse and say you have information for Lady Alice.”
He nodded, his eyes on the money clutched in his hand. She gave him her address and then he fled out the door she’d just entered and disappeared into the night.
It was a risk, but one she’d been willing to take.
Exhaling slowly, Alice headed right to a staircase. The deeper she descended, the colder the air grew, until the walls sweated with damp. Then came the sound—a muffled roar.
Alice tugged her hood lower over her face and then pressed a hand to the final door and pushed.
The stench of sweat and ale hit her as she stepped into a cavernous room thick with smoke. Men were pressed shoulder to shoulder, their voices raised in cheers. She moved to the wall, heart pounding, and tried blending into the shadows.
“Lord Stafford is holding his own!”
Her head turned toward the voice. Lord Stafford?
No. It couldn’t be. She moved, slipping between men, all of whom were focused on the ring and thankfully not her, until she found a crate and climbed upon it.
The breath caught in Alice’s throat as she looked to the ring.
Stripped to the waist, and glistening with sweat, was Lord Stafford.
His muscles flexed as he dodged his massive, bearded opponent. Fists swung, as their bodies collided. The crowd roared, but Alice heard nothing except the furious hammer of her own heart.
What in God’s name was he doing here?
And why did she feel as though fate had brought her here to find him in the last place she could ever have imagined?
Lord Stafford’s opponent swung again, a meaty fist that would have felled most men. He ducked, the movement swift, almost graceful. His counterpunch cracked against the man’s ribs. The crowd erupted, stamping their boots, and howling for more.
Alice’s stomach twisted. This was no gentleman’s sport. This was brutality disguised as entertainment.
She pressed to the wall behind her to steady herself. Part of her wanted to look away, yet Alice could not.
Stafford took a blow to the jaw, his head snapping to the side. For one terrible instant she thought he would fall. But he straightened, spat blood, and gave a grim smile that sent the crowd into fresh cheers.
Why was he here?
Her heart pounded harder then, not from the spectacle but from the sudden realization that this man, so composed in the ballroom, was likely as broken as her brother had been. Did he seek a release from what he’d suffered through violence here with his fists?
Charles…
A memory hit her hard then. Her brother’s broken voice whispering, “I can’t stop the hell inside my head, Alice…” She knew it was likely the same hell burning in Stafford’s eyes now as he drove his fist into his opponent’s gut.
The larger man staggered and bellowed. He then charged at Stafford like a bull.
He met him head-on. They grappled, bodies straining as the crowd pressed closer, the roar now deafening.
Men cursed and cheered, as wagers were shouted into the smoky air.
Someone bumped Alice’s crate and she nearly toppled, but pressed harder into the wall at her back, determined not to miss a second.
And then Lord Stafford broke free. Alice watched as, with ruthless precision, he landed a final, devastating blow. His opponent collapsed, hitting the ground with a dull thud. Silence struck for half a heartbeat before the room exploded into chaos.
The victor’s name was bellowed again and again. Coins exchanged hands as shouts rang out.
“Stafford! Stafford! Stafford!”
He stood in the ring with his chest heaving, blood streaking his mouth, and sweat running in rivulets down his back. He lifted his fists once, briefly in victory, then let them fall.
Alice could not breathe. The sight of him, powerful, wounded, and unmasked, tore at something deep inside her. This was no reckless rake amusing himself. This was a man fighting to survive.
Her pulse hammered as he turned, and for one wild moment she thought his gaze would find hers in the crowd. She shrank into the shadows. He could not see her here. He must not.
Alice stayed on top of the crate as the crowd surged forward to celebrate the victory. Her chest felt tight as she struggled to draw in a deep, steadying breath.
She had come here seeking Kenneth Jackson, not to find Lord Stafford stripped bare, fighting his demons his way.
For an instant, she wanted to weep for him and Charles. Instead, she tried to slip from the crate, but her way was barred. Two men stood smiling up at her.
“Hello, sweetheart, not often we get a lovely like you in this place.”
“Excuse me. I wish to leave,” Alice said, her tone rising above those around them.
“I think not. You may talk like a lady, but no way could you be one coming here,” one of them said. “Now, why don’t you come down and we’ll get acquainted.”
Her rash actions, coming here alone, slapped her hard in the face then. No one would help her if these men decided to grab her. Her eyes turned to the ring. He would help.