Chapter Two
The Ogress Barlayhurl commanded her fleet of hedgehogs to carry the Princess to Mount Runemor, then took her leave through the brush.
Amsonia was borne aloft toward the dragon’s lair on a teeming mass of spiny backs, enduring the pricks bravely.
“I know not what awaits me on this journey,” she murmured to the beasties, “but I hope to meet more helpful souls like you along the way . . .”
—The Dragon and the Blue Star by Analise Crewe
Ana closed the front door of the boarding house gingerly. If only she could make it to the stairs undetected. She tiptoed down the hall, wincing with every floorboard creak and groan.
“Miss Crewe, is that you?”
She leaned her brow against the wall, the worn wool flocking of the paper covering pressing gently into her skin like the buds on a willow tree in spring.
She let herself stay still for a moment as the inevitable sank in.
Nothing for it but to face the dragoness in her lair.
If only Ana could weave an enchantment that would wipe the concept of rent clean from her mind!
“Yes, Miss Flanagan.”
Her landlady reclined on an overstuffed settee in the front parlor, bodice askew, hair piled in messy curls, lips painted scarlet, and a string of threadbare pearls around her neck. “Miss Crewe, you do know what day o’ t’ month it is?”
“The first day,” Ana said brightly, praying for a miracle that wouldn’t arrive.
“Rent day, it is!” blared Miss Flanagan, emitting a soporific mist of gin. “Where’s me dough? Pay up or you’ll be out on yer ear, an’ no mistake. I’ll hear no more o’ yer excuses, luv.”
Ana handed over the last of her coins.
Miss Flanagan tested the weight of the bag.
“This can only be half. I’m not in the habit o’ giving away free housing, y’know.
” She gave Ana as sly a look as she could muster with her gin-lubricated facial muscles.
“’Ow about some more of that jewelry you arrived with?
That necklace was a beauty! I could see my way to letting you stay a few months if you had some o’ that t’ pass along. ”
Ana flinched, thinking of the empty jewelry box upstairs in her room. “I have no more to sell. You’ll have the balance of my rent by next month, with interest, I swear. I met today with Mr. Norwood of Norwood & Pennington and he’s keen to publish my manuscript after I make certain revisions.”
“Yer living in a fantasy world, girlie mine. It’s time for you to face the facts o’ the matter. Your best asset hain’t yer quill, ’tis what’s beneath yer cloak.” She eyed Ana’s slight form. “That’s where t’ profit is, and plenty of it, just ask me sister Maggie.”
According to Miss Flanagan, Maggie ran a well-attended house of ill repute somewhere near the docks.
Ana had never met the woman but had received an unwanted offer of employment from her via her marginally more respectable sister.
As Ana’s funds had diminished along with her prospects, Miss Flanagan had applied more and more pressure in that direction, extolling the money to be made in that old-fashioned profession.
Leaving out, Ana felt sure, the odious hardships that must surely accompany it—and, no doubt, the cripplingly large cut the elder Flanagan would extract from any of her wages.
“I’ve made myself clear on the subject. I won’t work for your sister.”
“Miss High and Mighty, eh? Too good to be a working girl. Well, I’ll let you in on a secret.
” She leaned closer, burping blithely, and Ana fought the urge to back away from her gin-heavy breath.
“Beauty don’t last forever. I was far prettier’n you in me own day.
A celebrated beauty, that I was. I didn’t turn me nose up at earning a living on my back, and look at what it got me?
It got me this ’ere house. Left t’ me by a generous lord, it was.
And now I earn me living fair ’n square. All thanks to Maggie.”
By charging exorbitant rates and funneling vulnerable young girls from the countryside into her sister’s bawdy house. There was a reason Miss Flanagan was an inebriate. She drank to forget. She drank to survive.
“You’ve done very well for yourself, Miss Flanagan, and I do appreciate your continued leniency as to the matter of my rent. I swear to you that you’ll have it, with interest, just as soon as—”
“No more promises. No more daydreams. Maggie always says a bird in the ’and is worth two in the bush.
All is business and business is all, she says.
She’s found a protector for you, and a very fine gentleman he is, too.
Very interested, he is, in young gels who ain’t seen much of the world.
Titled and wealthy. ’E’s not reckoned to be handsome, but he’s not one of the cruel ones, neither, although Maggie don’t turn them away.
Think of it, girlie, you could be living in a fine apartment in Mayfair, dinin’ on pheasant and dressin’ in silk. Wouldn’t you like that, now, luv?”
For the briefest of moments, Ana almost entertained the notion.
She was so tired of scraping by and living on the perilous edge of poverty.
Maggie, by all accounts, would be a ruthless boss, but Ana had fallen so far that she felt hitting the bottom at last might at least feel like stability.
At least she’d have the address in Mayfair.
Perhaps her earnings might enable her to hire an actor to portray her fiancé?
Ridiculous. One hint that Ana was a kept woman and Mr. Norwood would spit in her face.
Miss Flanagan never really listened to anyone else, she carried on as if she were standing on a ship’s deck, running full sail, shouting into the wind.
The only way Ana would escape this distasteful conversation was trickery.
She removed the publisher’s velvet gift bag from the inner pocket of her cloak.
“I brought you a present, Miss Flanagan,” she interrupted.
Miss Flanagan paused, belligerently set on her current line of discourse but eyeing the rich blue velvet and gold embroidery with interest. “I won’t be distracted by presents, not this time. I want me rent in full, or yer—”
“Oh, then, if you don’t want to know what precious treasures are inside this . . .” Ana shrugged her shoulders, making a show of sliding the bag back into her cloak.
“Hold a moment . . .” Miss Flanagan fluttered an unsteady hand. “What’s inside, then?”
“Only a very expensive bottle of port and a gold bracelet. But you said you didn’t want any presents, so I’ll just keep it for myself.”
Miss Flannigan lips fell slack. Greed was one of the primary motivating factors of her life, second only to alcohol and the procurement thereof. She snapped her fingers at Ana. “Let’s see it.”
Ana held out the bag and Miss Flanagan snatched it from her fingers speedily, opening the gold tasseled string and peering inside.
“You’re a right beauty, ain’t ye?” Extracting the bottle, she cradled it in her arms like a baby.
With great effort, she managed to uncork the bottle and inhale deeply from its stem, her reddened nostrils flaring.
Her expression turned dreamy. “That do smell lovely.”
Ana made herself stay still, as much as she longed to run for the door. It was almost safe. The hare was almost in the trap, all that remained was to set the final bait. “Have a nip, why don’t you?”
Miss Flanagan poured a measure of spirits into a cup and took a sip. “Cheeky li’il baggage, thinking you can butter me up wi’ expensive spirits.”
“And jewelry, of course . . .” Ana reminded her, dangling the gleaming chain from her fingers. Miss Flanagan, sipping port with one hand, reached the other bony wrist out for Ana to fasten the clasp, then brought it to her painted mouth. She bit the chain.
“Real gold. But thin-like. Won’t fetch much at t’ pawnshop.”
“Enough to buy me another week.” Ana let herself ease toward the exit and was halfway through the doorframe, her freedom in sight, when a loud knock sounded at the front door of the house.
Miss Flanagan startled, her hand flying to smooth her hair. “Who can that be? Martha,” she bellowed. “The door!”
There was no response. Her maid-of-all-work, a timid, overworked girl with a lean, hungry look in her eyes, was often too busy scrubbing grates and washing the laundry to answer the door.
“Useless girl,” Miss Flanagan grumbled.
More pounding on the door.
“That’ll be the butcher or the greengrocer, after me again. I’m not here.” She shrank into the sofa. “Go and tell ’em I’m not here.”
Ana sighed and turned back toward the entrance. She’d wanted to be in her garret room by now. She had half a novel to pluck out of thin air, after all.
Dex rapped on the boarding house door again.
Still no answer. He stepped back to observe the tall facade of the house.
Tattered curtains were pulled shut except on the highest level where a round window winked out at the rooftops.
The stone was soot-stained and streaked with pigeon droppings, giving the house a derelict air.
Could Lieutenant John Crewe’s daughter really be living in a place like this?
He tried the door but it was locked. He knocked again, louder this time.
A maid finally answered the door. “Good day, sir. How may I help you?”
She was a tiny thing, reaching only to his collar. Her cultured accent didn’t fit with her station. Pale red hair tied back in a bun with tendrils escaping framed an oval face. Brilliant green eyes stared at him suspiciously. Could it be . . . ?
“Sir?” she asked again. “May I help you?”
“Can it be you?” he marveled.
“I’m sorry, sir?”
“It is you. Good God.” Crewe’s daughter reduced to accepting employment as a serving maid in a down-at-the-heels boarding house. His stomach churned. “Miss Analise Crewe.”
She regarded him warily. “And who might you be?”
“Warburton, at your service.” He inclined his head. “I’ve had a devil of a time finding you, Miss Crewe,” he growled. Soften your tones. She’s a young lady. Easily frightened.
It was dusk and he wore a tall hat and a high collar, shielding some of his scars from her gaze. “I’m your guardian,” he said more gently. He wouldn’t attempt to smile. That never went well. His scars prevented one side of his mouth from lifting properly and the effect was more grimace than smile.
She gazed at his scarred face and her expression flashed from wariness to terror.
He was that hideous. One young lady had fainted upon the sight of his scars at a ball.
The last ball he’d ever attended. His friends had told him that her corset strings must have been laced too tight and his visage wasn’t enough to make a woman swoon with fright .
. . but this woman, the one he’d been searching for these long years had the same horrified look on her face.
“I won’t be any man’s property,” she said defiantly.
She attempted to close the door in his face. He stuck out his foot and blocked it from closing. He pried the door from her grasp and flung it wide. “You’re coming home with me. I made your father a—”
She wasn’t listening. With horror in her eyes and fear stamped across her face, she gathered up her skirts and rushed down the steps past him, making a mad dash into the street, narrowly avoiding being hit by a passing carriage.
Dex stood, nonplussed, watching her flee. What the devil? “Miss Crewe,” he called after her. “Come back!”
She’d taken one look at his face and bolted like a frightened deer fleeing from a wolf.
She wasn’t going to evade him again. Not this time.
He tossed his hat to the steps and set off after her, chasing coppery red curls and a slight figure down the darkening London street.