Chapter 13 #2
Luca blinked, brushing the moisture from his eyes before it could fall. “I have a lead on Miss Dawlish’s son. He manages one of the factories owned by the Ravenhurst Trading Company. I intend to speak with him.”
“By yourself?”
“No,” he said, his tone steady once more. “I’m going to ask Lord Rupert to accompany me.”
Charlotte exhaled, some of the tension easing from her chest. “That is wise. There is something oddly reassuring about Lord Rupert. He is far more capable than he allows people to see.”
“A sentiment I share.”
Charlotte held his gaze for a long, unsteady moment.
Her fingers lingered on the fabric of his sleeve, the warmth of him seeping through the fine wool.
For one breath—perhaps two—she allowed herself to feel it.
Then realizing her folly, she withdrew her hand and said, “Promise me you’ll be careful. ”
Luca’s lips curved into that maddening half-smile that always made her want to shake him. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about me.”
“So what if I am?”
He leaned in until his breath tickled against her ear. “If you want me to kiss you,” he murmured, “just say so.”
Charlotte took a step backward and pressed her hand against his chest. “Do not flatter yourself,” she said briskly. “Why do I even bother with you?”
Luca looked down at her hand, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Please, Charlotte,” he said in mock sympathy. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
She gasped at his audacity and dropped her hand. “Go and get yourself killed, then,” she snapped, spinning on her heel. “See if I care.”
His low chuckle followed her retreat. “I promise to return to you,” he called after her.
“I don’t care,” she tossed back without looking over her shoulder.
“I think you do,” came his confident reply.
Charlotte quickened her pace, unwilling to grant him the satisfaction of seeing her blush. She reached the back door and stepped inside, letting the familiar coolness of the townhouse embrace her. Her heart, however, had yet to calm.
Infuriating man.
However, as she walked down the corridor, she could not entirely banish the sound of his laughter from her mind, nor the way his teasing—so improper, so Luca—somehow managed to feel comforting. Familiar.
Endearing, even.
Heaven help her.
Luca sat across from Lord Rupert in the coach as it rattled towards the docks.
The air within the compartment was thick with the scent of damp leather and the faint tang of salt that seeped through the window seams. Outside, the cobblestones grew uneven and the gaslights sparse.
He peered out at the streets. They were narrow, crowded, and half-swallowed by shadow.
The buildings that lined the lane were blackened with soot, their windows cracked or boarded up, and the slumped silhouettes of the people who passed by seemed to belong to another world entirely.
Thin children darted between wagons, barefoot and grim-faced, while women huddled in doorways with baskets of stale bread or scraps to sell.
Even the air felt heavy here—thick with smoke and despair.
He had reported on poverty before, but it was another thing to see it, to smell it, to feel the weight of it pressing against the glass. “These poor people,” he muttered under his breath.
Rupert looked up from his gloved hands. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” Luca turned from the window. “Thank you for accompanying me.”
Rupert’s lips twitched. “It was the least I could do, considering I’d rather you not die.”
“I have been in worse places than the docks,” Luca said, though even to his own ears, it sounded hollow.
Rupert arched an eyebrow. “I sincerely doubt that. The docks are a cesspool of desperation. A man would slit your throat for the coins in your pocket or the coat on your back.”
“I wish something could be done for them,” Luca said, his gaze drifting again to the filth and ruin outside. “But the Lords debate their bills and pat themselves on the back, never daring to look this way.”
Rupert followed his gaze. “The people here don’t expect rescue. They work only to survive another day and never dare to imagine a brighter tomorrow.”
“That is a sad way to live,” Luca said.
“It’s not sad,” Rupert corrected. “It’s pragmatic.”
The coach lurched to a halt, throwing them slightly forward. The footman jumped down and opened the door. “My lord, are you quite certain you wish to be here?”
“I will be fine,” Luca assured him, stepping down. His boots sank into the muck that lined the pavement, slick with something he didn’t want to identify.
Rupert climbed down beside him, scanning their surroundings. “If your coach remains here, you’ll never see it again.”
Luca frowned. “Then how do you propose we return home?”
“Can you walk?”
“Yes, but—”
“Excellent,” Rupert said, already motioning for the coachman. “Then we walk until we find a hackney.”
Luca sighed. “Very well.” He turned to the footman. “Return home and we will manage to find our way home.”
The man hesitated. “My lord, if I may—this isn’t the safest part of Town—”
“Wise or not, it’s my decision,” Luca said firmly, though inwardly he wondered if it truly was.
The footman tipped his head and climbed back onto the coach, which soon disappeared into the fog. The sound of the wheels faded, replaced by the distant clang of metal and the mournful cry of a ship’s horn.
Rupert rubbed his hands together. “Where to?”
Luca lifted his gaze to the hulking brick building ahead. Iron gates surrounded it, and a crooked sign hung from one of the bars: Ravenhurst Factory.
“Well,” Luca said dryly, “they make no secret of who owns the place.”
Rupert’s eyes flicked towards him. “You know, you might consider letting me do the talking.”
“And why is that?”
“I have a knack for persuasion. I can usually get what I want if I ask in a particular way.”
“By torture?”
“Good gads, no. I’m not a barbarian.” Rupert smirked. “Just effective. I am, after all, an excellent barrister.”
Luca gave a humorless chuckle and started towards the gates. “I am sure this Mr. Dawlish will be reasonable.”
“You think a factory manager will be reasonable?” Rupert whistled. “You clearly haven’t met many.”
Luca lifted a brow. “And you have?”
“More than you, apparently.”
The factory loomed closer. As they approached the main door, it swung open, and a burly man stepped out, his sleeves rolled up.
“What do ye want?” the man growled.
Luca offered his most diplomatic smile. “I was hoping to speak with Mr. Dawlish.”
“He don’t want to talk to ye.”
“Is he expecting me?”
The man spat onto the ground at Luca’s feet. “No, but I can promise ye he won’t want to.”
Luca opened his mouth to reply, but Rupert stepped forward smoothly. “That’s unfortunate. I was hoping to discuss a business venture with him.”
“What kind of business venture?” the man inquired.
Rupert reached into his coat pocket and drew out a gold coin, letting it gleam faintly in the gray light. “One that should only be discussed privately with Mr. Dawlish.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, then darted to the coin. After a tense beat, he snatched it from Rupert’s gloved hand. “First door on the left.”
“Much obliged,” Rupert said pleasantly.
Luca followed him inside, the stench of unwashed bodies and chemicals slamming into him at once. The air burned his throat. Women and children sat in rows at long tables, dipping candles and molding soap. Their faces were pale, lifeless; their hands red and cracked. Not one of them looked up.
“This is a soap and candle factory,” Luca murmured, his stomach tightening.
Rupert chuckled. “Your powers of deduction never cease to amaze me.”
Ignoring him, Luca moved towards the corridor on the left and knocked on the first door.
“Enter,” came a voice—flat, sharp, and impatient.
Inside, the office was cramped and sour. A tall, balding man sat behind a cluttered desk, his stomach pressing against the edge. Papers and ledgers were stacked in teetering piles, and the faint odor of lye lingered in the air.
“Who are you?” the man demanded.
“Mr. Dawlish, I presume?” Luca asked.
“You presume correctly. Now, who in the blazes are you?”
“I am Lord Luca Dexter, and this is—”
“Mr. Erickson,” Rupert interjected.