Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
William jumped back into his carriage, calling out the directions before settling into the worn, familiar squabs.
The seat rocked slightly beneath him as the driver flicked the reins, the wheels splashing through a puddle from a passing shower.
He leaned back, trying to compose himself, but his thoughts refused to quiet.
He adjusted his shoulders, unsettled by the encounter at the women’s shelter.
The carriage still smelled of leather and brandy from last night’s journey home.
Yet even that scent offered no comfort. His chest felt tight, as if the air itself had grown too thin.
He had seen blood before—bruises and broken bodies.
But every time, it struck him anew. No one became immune to the ruin men wrought upon women. At least, no man worth his soul.
Through the window, the streets of St. Giles unfurled before him.
Narrow, dank lanes ran between the houses.
Ragged children darted between horses, and women sold what little they had left.
Filth clung to every surface. Poverty reeked in the gutters, despair rising from the very stones.
How many times had he ridden through here, pretending not to see?
How many nights had his wealth been bought with the coin of those same desperate souls?
He raked a hand through his hair. As the owner of one of London’s most upstanding yet frowned-upon gentlemen’s clubs, William knew every shade of sin that existed within the city’s underbelly.
Men like him profited from others' weakness.
But lately, that truth gnawed at him like a rat beneath the floorboards.
More women came to him for protection—or coin—each week.
Their stories grew darker. Broken and beaten, they sought shelter behind his walls.
He could not save them all. He could barely save any.
Yet doing nothing felt like complicity. What use was his fortune if it only gilded the cage that trapped them all?
He narrowed his eyes as the carriage turned a corner.
Lady Clementine. The name stirred irritation and curiosity in equal measure.
He recognized her as a Ravensmere the instant he’d seen her.
She looked identical to the current Duchess of Ravensmere, and they had to be sisters…
But what business had she at The Haven? She would be more hindrance than help, a lady of privilege playing at redemption.
He doubted she’d lifted a single finger on menial chores throughout her life.
Still, the look in her eyes when she’d defied him… That had not been pretense. There’d been no fear, only disgust—directed squarely at him. And beneath that, something steadier. Compassion, perhaps. Foolish compassion, for like him, they could not save everyone.
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “She’ll not last a week,” he muttered under his breath.
The carriage rolled from the filth of St. Giles into the more respectable streets bordering Mayfair.
It drove past his establishment on the way to the mews—a tall Georgian townhouse, polished brass gleaming in the weak sunlight.
To the unknowing eye, it looked like any gentleman’s club.
Few would suspect the endless parade of wagers, fortunes won and lost within its plastered walls.
He stepped down without waiting for the footman, boots striking the cobblestones. The sharp air cleared his head. He barked a few orders to the men unloading barrels of ale and sacks of supplies for the evening’s entertainments before striding through the rear entrance.
Inside, the familiar hum of industry greeted him.
Footmen polished silver trays, a clerk tallied accounts, and the faint scent of cigars lingered in the corridor.
Everything was precise, respectable—his creation, his control.
Yet the memory of the shelter’s cracked walls and bruised faces followed him up the stairs like a ghost.
His office was grand but spare: dark mahogany desk, decanter of whiskey, maps of London pinned to one wall. He dropped into the leather chair, elbows braced on the desk, and stared at the paperwork before him without seeing any of it.
He could still see the woman’s face—the one he’d carried into The Haven.
The purple bloom of bruises, the split lip, the vacant eyes of someone who had long forgotten what safety meant.
She’d thanked him with a trembling voice, and it had cut through him like a knife.
How many times had he seen his sister look the same, right before she’d died? Too many to count.
He closed his eyes for a moment, jaw tightening. He’d sworn that day he would do what he could for others like her, even if it cost him everything.
George, his assistant, entered then, breaking the silence. The man slumped into the chair opposite, the wood groaning under his bulk. “How did it go with May?” he asked, stretching his legs.
William straightened. “She was beaten again. Bloodied. I took her to The Haven—they’ll help her.”
George frowned, clearly as worried for the woman as he was. “There seem to be more of them each day. Coming here for help. It’s not ideal, Will. Not for business.”
“I won’t turn them away,” William said flatly. “Not when I can help. We’ll make it known they’re to come by the back, discreetly. The front keeps the profits flowing. The back saves the souls who’ve nowhere else to go.”
George nodded, rubbing his chin. “Practical as always. But you can’t save them all. You know that, don’t you?”
William looked toward the window where sunlight filtered through the drapes.
“No. But I can save some.” He thought of the countless faces—bruised, trembling, silent—each one merging into the next and yet reminding him of his sister.
The sheer number of them was staggering.
London devoured women like a beast. And men—men like him—kept feeding it.
George grunted. “Lord Hatch didn’t look too pleased when May fainted in front of his boots last night. The man nearly lost his supper.”
William let out a humorless sound. “Lord Hatch can be offended all he likes. I’ll not close the doors to women, women like my sister, who need support.”
George smirked. “Speaking of ladies, I heard there’s a new volunteer at The Haven. Miss Linton mentioned a young lady from society. Have you met her yet?”
William poured himself a measure of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light. “Lady Clementine Ravensmere. She’s the late Duke of Ravensmere’s daughter if you can believe it.”
George let out a low whistle. “A duke’s daughter? At The Haven? Well, that’s a sight. How long do you give her?”
William’s mouth twitched. “A week. Perhaps less.”
George chuckled. “She’ll see the first bloodied face and swoon dead away. They all do, the soft-handed sort.”
William meant to agree. Yet the memory of her in that dim foyer silenced him. He saw the flare of defiance in her eyes, the steadiness in her touch as she helped the injured woman. She hadn’t trembled. Not once. There was spirit there—fire, even.
“Perhaps,” he said, though his tone had softened.
George leaned forward, lowering his voice.
“You know where most of the women are coming from, don’t you?
Silas Crowe, the bawd. He’s getting more corrupt and cruel by the minute.
That bastard’s forcing women who’ve fallen on hard times into his brothels.
The ones who resist and want out end up like May… like Sarah.”
William’s jaw set. “I know. And I’ve turned a blind eye for too long. That ends now.”
“Can we go to the magistrates?”
William barked a bitter laugh. “Half the magistrates are his customers. The other half are worse. No, George, we’ll handle it ourselves. Quietly.”
George nodded grimly. “As always.”
William leaned back, swirling his drink. “They think because these women are poor, they’re invisible. Disposable. But they’re not. Not to me. Every one of them has a name, a voice, a story. And I’ll be damned before I let men like Crowe keep breaking them.”
He set the glass down with a decisive thud. The whiskey burned down his throat, a welcome punishment. He’d seen too much pain, too much blood on his hands—not from fists, but from inaction. The difference, he suspected, was thinner than he cared to admit.
George gave him a sidelong look. “You’re too softhearted for this business, Will.”
“Perhaps,” he murmured. “But someone has to care.”
Silence stretched between them for a moment, broken only by the muffled sounds of preparation belowstairs for the night to come.
Then George smirked, rubbing his hands together. “Shall we make a wager?”
William raised a brow. “On what?”
“How long Lady Clementine lasts at The Haven?”
He couldn’t help the small smile that curved his mouth. “I already think she’ll run screaming after a few days. What’s your timeline?”
George chuckled. “I give her a few hours, twenty-four at most.”
William poured himself another glass of whiskey and took a slow sip, his gaze drifting toward the window once more. “I’ll give her two weeks so not to be so judgmental.”
“Two? You’re generous.”
“Something tells me she’s not like the rest. Maybe she’ll surprise us.” He didn’t know why he believed it—only that the thought of her giving up disappointed him more than it should. She was bold, spirited, entirely too unafraid of him. And perhaps that intrigued him far more than it ought to.
George grinned. “Then it’s settled. Two weeks for you. Twenty-four hours for me. The loser pays ten pounds.”
William smirked and raised his glass. “Agreed.”
He watched the amber liquid swirl before draining it in one swallow.
His gaze hardened. Tomorrow he would return to The Haven—not for Lady Clementine, he told himself, but for the women who had no one else, to ensure they had everything they needed.
Yet deep down he knew that wasn’t entirely true.
Something about this society princess’s presence had unsettled the careful balance of his world, and that would never do.