Henry & Kate (The Darlington #1)

Chapter 1

Women stand against Richard Darlington!

Where: Westminster Bridge

Call to protest

Kate

I’ve always been a good runner. When I played tag as a kid, no one could catch me.

I made it onto the athletics podium in Year 7, and when I was sixteen, I was the best forward on the girls’ football team.

That was before I’d dropped out of school.

I used to run for fun, but these days, I ran to survive.

I was running now too—and fast. Running away.

I didn’t want to spend another night at the local police station, which was full of weirdos and drunk assholes who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves.

And I was afraid that if I got arrested, I wouldn’t get off as lightly as I had last time.

I’d been caught pickpocketing a few weeks ago, but they’d let me go with a warning. A warning I was currently ignoring.

“Questa puttana mi ha derubato!” roared the man racing after me, whose wallet I currently had in my pocket.

I didn’t have a clue what he was saying, but I assumed it wasn’t friendly.

The sound of his voice merged with the whistling wind and the pounding of my boots flying over the asphalt.

I was lucky they didn’t fall apart, given the loose soles and the cracked leather.

The tourists swarming around Parliament Square were obstacles, sure, but they were also good camouflage. I dodged a family taking a photo in front of a red telephone booth and leapt over a dropped ice cream.

“Prendetela!” yelled the man, who seemed unwilling to give up.

I should have known better than to glance over my shoulder—I crashed into someone, and they fell limply to the ground. I tripped over them and only just managed to catch myself. A woman glared up at me. The contents of her handbag were strewn across the ground, but she seemed uninjured.

“Sorry!” I called as I sprinted away, hoisting up the strap of my rucksack as it threatened to slip from my shoulder.

A group of young men who’d been watching stepped into my path.

I dodged to the side but felt the brush of a hand reaching out to grab me.

I darted away before it could, making a beeline for the pier on the other side of the road.

I’d just been hit by the unmistakable scent of the Thames when I heard calls coming from up ahead of me.

They grew louder by the second, countless voices chanting the same words over and over again.

A protest. Perfect! Dozens of people blocked the bridge and crowded the street, angrily holding aloft placards and signs.

I didn’t know what they were protesting, but right now, I was on their side.

Police officers loitered, but they were too busy managing the crowd to pay me any attention, and I was sure they couldn’t hear the Italian’s incensed shouts over the roar of the mob.

I slowed down so I wouldn’t attract attention, mingling with the protestors.

Most of them were angry young women, so I fit in perfectly; I’d celebrated my twentieth birthday a few weeks ago.

And by celebrated, I mean I went around the city taking advantage of birthday offers for things I couldn’t otherwise afford.

Which was only possible because I had identification, a privilege not all homeless people have.

Naturally, I guarded my passport like it was a treasure.

In addition to the birthday offers, it gave me access to night shelters I’d otherwise be turned away from.

I wove my way through the protestors, merging with the crowd.

I was breathing rapidly, less out of exertion than agitation.

Taking several breaths to calm myself down, I suppressed the urge to turn and check if I was still being followed—I’d only attract attention.

Instead, I let myself be swept along by the protestors.

I shoved my hand into the pocket of my scuffed leather jacket and clutched the Italian man’s wallet tight.

I hadn’t put everything on the line just to be pickpocketed myself.

“Believe the women! Believe the women! Believe the women!” chanted the people around me in unison.

I chanted along, still breathless, and scanned the placards being brandished. I realised now what they were protesting against. Or rather, who they were protesting against: Richard Darlington.

There couldn’t have been anyone in London, except perhaps the royal family, who lived a more radically different life from mine than Richard Darlington.

He and his family were part of the upper echelons of British high society.

They owned The Darlington, the most expensive, prestigious hotel in the city, perhaps even in all of Europe.

Politicians, nobility, and celebrities were constantly flitting in and out.

I’d never met Richard Darlington, but I knew exactly who he was, what he looked like, and what he had done, like presumably everyone else in the country.

He’d been in the news for months because multiple women had accused the hotel owner of sexual abuse.

Their allegations had spread through the media like wildfire. He denied everything, of course.

I yelled along even louder as the protest slowly approached The Darlington, which rose majestically from the banks of the Thames. The hotel was steeped in history: We’d even learned about it at school when we’d covered the history of London.

The hotel spanned several floors and had been built in the early twentieth century, taking inspiration from the Beaux-Arts style.

With its arched arcades and its pristine facade of cream-coloured limestone, it exuded pure luxury.

Several pointed turrets crowned the building, presumably offering breathtaking views of London.

With its fairy-tale appearance, the hotel attracted the attention of anyone strolling along the river.

It embodied the essence of wealth and elegance.

In short: There was no way I could ever afford to spend a single night there.

The protest stopped directly in front of the hotel, which was surrounded by police.

I risked a glance over my shoulder and saw with relief that there was no sign of my pursuer.

This was my chance to leave. I escaped the crowd and followed the bank to Lambeth Bridge, which I crossed to return to my side of the city.

As I walked, I pulled out the stolen wallet from my pocket to inspect my haul.

As always, I checked the cash compartment first. Eighty pounds.

Not bad. These days, people usually only had bank cards on them, or they stored their credit cards digitally on their phones.

Inconvenient for someone like me. But there was also a credit card in the wallet.

If I was quick, I could use it to buy food before the Italian man cancelled it.

I no longer felt the pangs of guilt I’d had when I first started out pickpocketing.

I’d much rather not have to steal, of course, but I wasn’t doing it for fun.

I stole to survive. And this man—Pietro Mazzeo, according to his passport—could surely spare a few pounds, if he could afford a holiday in the most expensive city in Great Britain.

I tucked the money into my rucksack and went on the search for food.

I didn’t have enough time to find a supermarket, but when I spotted a Pret A Manger, I headed straight towards it.

I bought fresh sandwiches, a few packaged snacks that would keep for a while, and a bottle of water.

Holding my breath, I touched the stolen card to the card reader.

A beep signalled that the payment had gone through.

Leaving Pret with my bag of snacks, I unwrapped one of the sandwiches.

I took a satisfying bite to settle my stomach, which had been rumbling for hours, and set off for the lost-and-found office.

I may have been a thief, but I wasn’t cruel.

Money was rarely the most valuable thing in a tourist’s wallet.

More important were the photos and tickets, and the ID they’d need to get through airport security.

I walked down the street. Nobody paid me any attention.

With my black leather jacket, my faded jeans, and my chin-length, dark-brown hair, I was as inconspicuous as a person could possibly be.

Essential for someone living on the streets, especially a woman.

Don’t attract attention was the first lesson I’d had to learn.

The hard way. Be fearless was another. Fear made you seem weak, and the weak easily became victims.

Fifteen minutes later, I arrived at the shabby lost-and-found building. The glass of the door was cracked, and there was colourful graffiti scrawled across the window. Not particularly confidence-inspiring, but anyone doing an online search for lost-and-found offices in London would be sent here.

I pushed open the door—to my relief, it didn’t shatter—and stepped inside.

The smell of plastic, rubber, wood, and dust hung in the air.

The walls were lined with dark wooden shelves laden with an assortment of meticulously arranged items, from forgotten umbrellas to single gloves, lost books, and orphaned cuddly toys.

There were also some oddities. A mannequin head, for example.

And there was an accordion that had been lying on top of a cupboard for weeks.

“Hey, Kate,” Mary said. She was sitting on a stool behind the counter knitting, as usual. Mary was a student at the University of London, but she helped out at the lost and found three days a week.

I approached the counter. “Hi. How’s it going?”

“What with? Knitting? The job? Uni?”

“All of it,” I answered nosily and took a sweet from the bowl on the counter. I unwrapped it and shoved it into my mouth.