Chapter 33
Owen rode through the London streets with a renewed sense of purpose. The evening air was crisp and carried the faint tang of smoke from chimneys, mingling with the damp scent of the river. Yet none of it touched the warmth in his chest.
Seeing Aurelia that afternoon, the fragile bravery she had shown, had broken his heart and made him promise silently that no harm would ever come to her again. She was too precious, and now he knew she felt at least some of the same regard, some of the same hope, he was resolved to see it through.
With Carter’s sworn statement pressed close to his heart, he carried with him proof sufficient to vindicate Lady Finch and all others wronged by Langley’s machinations. The knowledge made his pulse quicken, and a sense of righteousness, almost combustible, thrummed through his veins.
He would ride directly to Thomas’s, he decided, so that they might plan how to present the evidence to the authorities and secure justice. He tapped his pocket, feeling the edges of the paper, crisp and certain, like the edge of a blade.
The alleyway came suddenly, narrow and enclosed by brick walls that seemed to draw the faint lamplight into themselves.
Damp clung to the air, mingling with the smell of refuse and smoke, acrid and heavy.
The horse’s hooves echoed sharply against the wet cobbles, bouncing and ricocheting, making Owen’s ears ring.
At the far end, a shadow detached itself from the darkness. At first, he thought it merely a passerby, a figure cast by the flickering gaslight, yet the silhouette froze and the shape of leather glinted in its raised hand.
A bullwhip coiled, then snapped upward. The sound when it cracked against the cobbles was like a pistol shot, splitting the alley with such force that it seemed the very walls would tremble. The horse reared, with its nostrils flaring, and its muscles coiling in panic.
Owen seized the reins, tugging with all his strength, but the animal was beyond reason, while its fear was too sudden and absolute.
The world lurched violently. The horse twisted beneath him, its hooves striking the cobbles with a deafening clatter, and Owen was thrown forward.
He struck the wet stones, scraping elbows and shoulders.
He could feel the cold biting through his coat.
For a moment, he lay curled in a tight ball, tasting the acrid tang of smoke and dust on his tongue, listening to his own ragged breathing, and trying to gather some sense of orientation as his heart hammered like a drum.
Before he could rise, the figure was upon him.
A fist connected with his jaw with the precision and force of a hammer.
Stars burst behind his eyes, a sudden flare of pain radiating along his shoulders and back.
Even as he reeled, his hand flew to his coat, clamping hard over the inner pocket where Carter’s statement lay hidden.
The man’s hands delved into his coat, ruthless and practiced.
“No,” Owen ground through bloodied teeth.
He twisted violently, catching the man’s wrist before those searching fingers could close around the paper.
With a surge of desperate strength, he drove his shoulder into the attacker’s chest and sent them both crashing against the brick wall.
The impact jarred every bruised bone in his body, but he held on, with one hand locked over the statement and the other gripping the man’s sleeve with such force that the cloth tore beneath his fingers.
The attacker swore and struck him again.
Pain flashed white through Owen’s skull, but he still didn’t let go.
He drove his elbow backward, felt it connect with ribs, and then heard the man’s breath leave him in a sharp grunt.
For one fierce instant, Owen gained his feet.
His knees shook, his vision swam, but he shoved the man away and staggered toward the mouth of the alley.
The whip cracked again. This time, it lashed around his forearm.
Fire seared through him. Owen cried out despite himself as the leather bit through cloth and skin, jerking his arm away from his body.
The attacker lunged. They grappled in the narrow alley, and Owen slammed his fist into the man’s cheek.
But the attacker seized his coat from behind and yanked him back.
Buttons tore loose. The inner seam ripped. Owen felt the paper move.
Owen lunged at the man, more fury than strength, nearly bringing him down. The attacker kicked hard. The blow struck Owen beneath the ribs, and sent him sprawling once more upon the cobbles, breathless and half-blinded.
“General Langley will not be meddled with,” the man hissed into his ear. “Take this as your warning.”
Owen reached for him again. His hand closed only on empty air.
The horse had bolted, the man vanished as swiftly as he had appeared, and the alley returned to stillness, save for the echo of the whip, reverberating through the narrow passage like a ghost. His muscles ached from the fall, from the blow to his jaw, from the bruising impact of stone against ribs and shoulders.
Anger mingled with the sharp sting of betrayal. Someone had known exactly what he carried and had intercepted it with calculated malice.
It could only have been Carter’s friend, although it seemed that Carter had trusted that man implicitly. Yet here, in moments, all precautions had been undone.
Owen’s hands shook as he pressed them to his face and chest, tasting copper and grit.
The ache of bruises was dwarfed only by the ache of helplessness.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, gathering his senses, letting the cold alley press against him, with the smell of wet stone and smoke anchoring him in reality.
He rose to his knees, scraping against the uneven cobbles.
Pain radiated with every movement, throbbing along his jaw, down his shoulders, and through his back.
The alley seemed impossibly narrow, and the shadows oppressive.
His fingers, raw and trembling, rested against the cold stone, grounding him as he forced himself upright.
Pain throbbed with every step as he hobbled from the alley. His boots were scraping against wet cobbles, echoing unnervingly in the empty street. His mind was already racing, planning, imagining the steps to follow, calculating the urgency of every next action.
Though bruised and shaken, Owen’s heart burned with a resolve fiercer than any fear: no shadow, no whip, no act of malice would prevent him from setting things right. And there was only one place he could do that from.
***
“Aurelia …” Owen’s voice was hoarse, strained, and barely above a whisper, when the door opened.
Aurelia gasped. “Owen!”
Her hands flew to her mouth as her eyes took in him: his face bruised, blood streaking his cheek and temple, his shirt dirtied from the alley. For a moment, he felt utterly lost, as though the world had tilted and left him behind.
He staggered forward, and without a word sank into the nearest chair in the hallway, feeling his shoulders slumping. The faint tremor in his hands betrayed the shock and pain that ran through him.
Although seemingly shocked to her very core, Aurelia moved into action without hesitation.
“Send for Captain Harrow and a physician at once,” she commanded the nearest servant girl. She spoke softly, as always, but with the unmistakable edge of authority that left no room for debate. “And someone to bring tea. Quickly.”
The footman hurried away, and Aurelia turned to Clara, who had burst into the room, with her eyes wide with alarm.
“What can I do?” Clara asked breathlessly.
“Fetch water,” Aurelia told her firmly, “and some clean clothes. Be swift, Clara.”
Once they were gone, Aurelia knelt beside him. The movement was small and deliberate. The warmth of her presence brushed against him like sunlight.
“Let me see,” she murmured. Her hands were gentle but sure, tilting his head slightly to examine the blood along his temple.
Owen winced at the touch, but he did not pull away. “The alley … the man … he …” His voice faltered, and the words got stuck in his throat.
“Shh,” she said softly, pressing a cloth to his face. “You are safe now. That is all that matters.”
“I … I did not see him at first,” he admitted, wincing as she dabbed at the blood along his temple. “I thought it was merely a passerby in an alley, until … until the whip.”
“You mean he had the audacity to attack you in an alley?” Aurelia gasped, though her hands were steady. She pressed the cloth gently against his cheek. She paused then, and he knew what she was going to ask even before she did so.
“The statement,” he managed to muster. “He … took it.”
Aurelia’s breath caught, but she didn’t say anything.
“I … I tried to keep it safe,” he told her quietly. “I had it close, pressed against my heart. I could not have expected …” His words faltered, and he bowed his head, while his eyes were glinting with a mix of pain and helplessness.
Her hand paused, hovering over the cloth. “It’s … it’s alright. We can have Carter write another. It will take time, yes, but—”
“No,” Owen interrupted grimly. He clenched his hands against his knees, as though bracing himself against the truth. “Carter will not speak in person. He’s leaving Greenwich for good. Everything we’ve fought for … it’s lost.”
Her gasp of shock was almost unbearable, even through his haze of pain.
Owen felt her tremble against him as she resumed tending his wounds, but he could sense the sharp ache of fear and despair that mirrored his own.
The world seemed suddenly hollow, the months of careful planning, all their hopes, slipping like sand through his fingers.
But as he felt the gentle press of her hands, a thought cut through the despair.
If Langley had sent someone to strike and steal the statement, to threaten and attack him in an alley, then the man had to be frightened.
He knew they were close. He knew they had something.
That meant their work had mattered, even if the proof had been temporarily taken.
“It’s still not too late,” she told him, as if able to read his mind. “We can’t let it go to waste. There might still be time.”
He looked at her, the heat of blood and bruises on his face mingling with a cold sting of hope at her words. She was right. They could not surrender yet.
“Together,” he whispered, taking her hand into his.
“Yes,” she replied, pressing the cloth a little more firmly, moving with the quiet confidence of someone who would not allow him to despair. “Together. We’ll wait until the Captain arrives, and then, we’ll tell him and Clara everything. Four heads are better than one, or in our case, two.”
He smiled. “Yes. We will plan carefully. There may still be a way.”
He let himself lean slightly into her care, drawing courage from her presence. The physical pain, the shock of the attack, the anger and frustration at the stolen statement … all of it was still there, but somehow, in her calm, he found focus.
Side by side, they could face this. They had to.