Chapter Two
Hiding in the shadows close to the dying fire in the brazier, Genevieve huddled against her pup as the two of them shared stringy meat and stale bread.
As hungry as she was, Genevieve offered Horatio the last bite of what might be beef.
He swallowed it whole, then thanked her with a lick along her cheek.
Giggling, she patted him between the ears.
She and Horatio had come a long way since their first meeting about a week ago, when they’d had a scuffle over a rotting, raw potato. After they’d snarled at each other, she’d made peace by biting off chunks and sharing it with him.
On second thought, maybe their introduction had happened two weeks ago.
Since leaving home, she’d lost track of time.
Dreary days faded into cold nights, which faded into dreary days.
Whatever the case, Horatio was the one bright spot in her repetitive nightmare.
The two of them were inseparable as they wandered the streets searching for warmth and sustenance.
Once they’d found almost an entire pork pasty lying behind The Purple Rabbit. She’d been giddy, and Horatio had wagged his tail in delight.
Ah, good times!
Earlier tonight, the large man who sometimes let her warm herself in the basement while watching the boxing matches, had opened the back door and tossed her a moldy loaf of bread. “Here ye go,” he said in a small, high-pitched voice. “Whale will try to have more for ye on the morrow, I will.”
Whale, if that was truly his name, had done this same thing a few days ago. If only she could have articulated her appreciation to this giant of a man with a prodigious heart and childish voice—a voice a lot like hers.
Undoubtedly, if she hadn’t been attacked, she’d have torn the mold off and given those hunks to Horatio. The pup wasn’t too choosy. He didn’t even mind maggots.
Unfortunately, their coveted bread currently lay in a mud puddle because of the street gang who followed her and Horatio around, tormenting them. She’d have scooped what she could off the ground if two comely aristocrats had not been watching her.
No matter, though, because this meal, as meager as it was, was superior to dirt-covered, furry bread. If she ever got herself out of this muddle, she would find the lovely lady who’d given her the coin to purchase the food, and repay her.
Genevieve whimpered. What was she thinking? Chances of her ever returning to her previous world were probably slim to none. Tears she didn’t want to shed wet her face. Using her filthy sleeve, she swiped at her eyes.
Was this to be her life forever? Missing her siblings so much that she could barely breathe? Eating rubbish? Roaming the streets in disguise while hiding from her murderous father?
Chin up, she scolded herself. Surely, Christopher would find her. He’d even thought to leave a note beneath a rock in their special place. Although the message was now faded and soggy, it remained in her coat pocket. She’d read it so many times, she’d committed it to memory.
G.
Don’t come home yet. I have no doubts he will kill you for running away. He is as angry as I’ve ever seen him since he needs to pay ￡1,000 to clear his debt to K. Go to the London House, and I will send word when it’s safe to return. I’ll take excellent care of S. I love you.
C
Since her siblings were safe, and hiding at their townhouse was much more palatable than marrying Kilsby or being strangled by their father, Genevieve had sold the candlestick weapon to pay for a carriage to London.
However, according to the butler who opened the door, her family no longer owned Terrace Place. “The former occupant sold it to Doctor Arnold three months ago,” the butler said.
The sale of the property was news to Genevieve. Obviously, Christopher as well. Perhaps her father had gambled away more than the ￡1,000 or his oldest daughter.
Genevieve had tried to find lodging in Mayfair to no avail.
Since she’d used most of the candlestick money for passage, she had very little left.
She couldn’t even afford a bed in a lower-rent borough.
She’d ended up sleeping in an alley near The Purple Rabbit, where the street ruffians had threatened hideous things to her person.
She’d fought them off using the only weapons at her disposal: her fists and her booted feet.
The next day, she’d had no choice but to trade some inebriate her frock and pelisse for his clothing and disintegrating greatcoat.
Her vestments didn’t smell like a chamber pot as his did, so he seemed to think he’d gotten the better end of the bargain.
Just wait until every male miscreant roaming these streets harassed him.
She’d gotten the more advantageous deal by far.
Unless he found pleasure in male attention and wearing purple muslin.
In that case, he’d struck gold, and she wished him well.
Running her hand over Horatio’s back, she leaned close to whisper, “Thank you for protecting me.”
He hummed contentedly.
Although mud caked his golden fur, she suspected that he’d had a shiny coat once upon a time. “Just like me,” she whispered to him. And just like the couple who’d come upon them in the alley.
Heavens, the man who’d taken on her assailants had been winsome.
Shockingly handsome, if truth be told. Maybe the most attractive man she’d ever seen.
Green eyes, the color of her favorite emerald gown that had hung in her wardrobe at Thorn Manor.
Light brown hair golden highlights, as if it had been kissed by the sun, and couldn’t decide if it wanted to curl impishly or sit and be orderly and behave.
A jawline as chiseled as any Greek god’s.
A chest so broad that his athletic physique was evident despite layers of finely-tailored clothing.
Unfortunately, the most handsome gentleman in the world had thought she was a filthy beggar.
Because you are a filthy beggar.
If that wasn’t humiliating enough, he’d also thought she was a man.
A red-hot lightning rod of shame pierced her heart.
She’d lost her once enviable figure. She’d caught a glimpse of herself in a window earlier today.
Although distorted, her reflection proved what she suspected—her head looked too big for her skeletal body.
The Earl of Shipley’s estranged niece—thanks to her father and his pistol—had been reduced to a pile of bones and a pair of eyes.
How she could still punch and kick while starving was anyone’s guess.
Meanwhile, the captivating gentleman’s voluptuous wife wore a fine red pelisse and satin slippers. Sparkling rubies dangled from her ears.
If only her handsome savior could see her wearing her emerald dress with her hair secured in a velvet ribbon. Not that it mattered, since he was married and she was no longer a suitable match for an aristocrat.
Shivering from the bone-chilling cold, Genevieve rested her back against the numbing bricks and closed her eyes.