Chapter Four #2
Beyond the back wall ran a long, narrow alley; a little farther lay the forgotten garden of the reclusive Countess Pembroke.
She was probably waiting for the earl who’d just lost to Sander that night, and was doing whatever angry earls did.
Through those grounds, Rosine could reach Green Park by day and avoid the streets with nightly dangers.
But at night, she preferred to stay closer to the Lyon’s Den and just sit near the fountain in the countess’ garden.
She had glimpsed the countess only once—through a latticed window behind a hedge gone wild—like a secret the city had mislaid.
London could still surprise her: scraps of field tucked into squares, kitchen yards smelling of tallow, market gardens clinging to the edges. Strasbourg had foxes in the forests, yes, but never in the city; she had not seen a live one until England.
Memories tugged her back to Strasbourg: the tight lanes by their bakery, slipping out with her brother to chase butterflies once the ovens cooled.
Then the riots—glass turned to knives, shutters to splinters, ash to silence.
Paris had not kept her from running after that night.
A passage from Calais to Dover was more luck than plan—until Mrs. Dove-Lyon became aware of Rosine’s buns that she’d baked for a street vendor.
She’d hired her on talent alone and given her a job and bed, not merely a cot.
The Den was a refuge now, and she’d grown accustomed to her role as Rosine, the baker for the Lyon’s Den.
Yet some nights she felt like dough left too long: restless, pressing against its tin, sighing with a pressure she couldn’t release herself from.
For Rosine, grief, ambition, the ache of always proving herself—slipped loose only out here, where no one asked her to smile.
Thus, she slipped further into the garden, away from the alley.
Tonight, the gate to the garden gave with a whisper.
It had learned her step these last weeks; she came almost nightly now with safe scraps.
Sweetness, she’d learned, is not always safety—Rosine by name, yet she would never give raisins to foxes.
She stepped further into the garden.
London’s nightly noise seemed to exhale around her.
Lavender loosened its scent on the night air, damp earth breathing up through the grass, a faint thread of woodsmoke lingering from some unseen hearth.
At its center, a stone fountain murmured, the water catching moonlight in silver ripples that slid across the basin’s edge.
Rosine lowered herself to the moss, her paper-wrapped satchel balanced on her knees, palms resting flat against the cool stone.
And then—foxes.
Three of them. Silent but bold as thieves.
Their coats shimmered rust-red where the moon touched, white-tipped tails like paintbrushes; eyes glinting like banked coals.
They stood at the garden’s edge, seemingly unhurried and unafraid to just watch her.
Smart creatures. Almost like city wolves—wild, cunning, unsettlingly close. Just as Sander always seemed to be.
Rosine slipped her hand into the satchel and drew out the safe bits—crust, a shred of chicken skin, a dab of suet on paper.
She scattered the pieces across the stones with a small flick of her wrist, keeping the sweeter things closed up.
Not everything sweet belongs in every mouth, she thought. A raisin can be a name and not a treat.
The foxes moved fluidly, their paws whispering over the grass. One dragged the suet-paper away, another snatched the crust, the smallest nosed delicately at the chicken and carried it off, tails writing quick strokes in the moonlight.
Her lips curved into a smile before she realized it.
For a breath, the weight she carried—grief, ambition, the ache of always proving herself—slipped loose. The foxes bent their heads over her careful offering, and she felt grand. Not hidden but welcomed, as if the garden itself had been waiting for her.
If her mother had been here, she might have laughed at the sight of her daughter feeding city foxes like parish strays, called her foolish but indulgent, slipping her another handful with a wink.
But there was no mother anymore. No bakery of her own, except in her dreams. Just her and the Den, and the kitchen that both saved and caged her.
Upstairs was not her floor, Sander had said.
But who truly decides a woman’s floors, and why couldn’t she decide herself?
She closed her eyes and let herself forget for a moment so she could just breathe.
She wasn’t thinking of her ovens. Or patronage. Or the way the world never quite made space for her to step out from the kitchens.
And she didn’t see him.
Not until she opened her eyes—and caught a shadow shifting at the far edge of the garden.
Sander?
He didn’t step forward. Didn’t speak. Just stood beneath the ivy-covered trellis, watching her like she was a dream he hadn’t meant to find.
And for a moment—just the smallest sliver of time—she wasn’t angry, nervous, or stuck.
She felt… seen.
Sander knew she wasn’t supposed to be there the instant she slipped through the gate.
The angry count was at the Lyon’s Den, which meant the countess would be awake, pacing, waiting to hear if her husband had gambled away another small fortune.
Rosine, of course, wouldn’t know that. She’d probably just been curious.
And when he’d looked for her in the kitchen and there was no bun on his chipped plate, Sander knew something was wrong. He’d asked everyone in the kitchen and even the servants’ quarters, but Marta had said Rosine wasn’t in her bed.
So he’d gone looking for her.
He caught the danger first. Not a window-glow, but a slit of light crawling at knee height through the ivy—a shuttered bull’s-eye lantern. Then a sharp whistle; iron rasped, chain lifted, a low door thumped. The Pembrokes kept their hounds in the mews. They were turning out the dogs.
“Come with me,” he said, already moving. “Up on the fountain ledge—now.”
Air changed—the quick, hot pant of bodies released—then the first bark broke, close and hard.
On a chessboard, that was a file opening; in a garden, it meant run or hold the line.
He chose the latter and set himself between Rosine and the sound.
He pressed tighter into the wall. Stone slick against his back, damp grass crunching underneath his boots.
Every nerve strung taut as if the night itself had leaned in to listen.
One snap of a lock, one careless footstep—he’d know again what it felt like to run for your life and the people you love get caught behind you.
But he took Rosine’s hand and moved quickly.
Sometimes the only way to win was speed.
The countess’s pale face appeared at the window, thunder in every line of it. Her voice lashed the air.
“You! How dare you trespass in my garden?”
The sash slammed.
Moonlight poured through the frame, stark and merciless, sketching the scene: the countess glowering behind glass; the foxes scattering like pawns swept from the board; Rosine, frozen beside the fountain, chest rising too quickly.
The growl broke next. Low and guttural.
The dogs were nearing.
Big hounds.
Too close.
He moved instinctively. Two strides and her other hand was in his, her startled breath hitching between recognition and terror.
Collars snapped, chains clattered, snarls ripped through the hedge.
“Come on.” He turned. Strategy meant foresight; the board had shifted from caution to retreat.
Vines caught her hem; she stumbled. He freed the cloth with one tug and drew her into his pace. Her pulse drummed against his palm.
The alley pinched. The lit way was a trap. He cut left, vaulted a low wall, and took the angle no servant would expect. A gate shrieked. Paws tore at the earth—two dogs, maybe three.
“Stay close.”
They didn’t clear the corner in time. A private carriage slewed broadside across the lane, blocking the Lyon’s Den arch; a footman dropped from the step, bull’s-eye swinging, and the hounds’ voices flared behind. Not that way.
“With me,” Sander said, tightening his grip gently on Rosine’s hand.
Her stride was shorter; he matched it, running half a pace ahead and then back to cover, their steps a stuttered rhythm over wet cobbles.
She glanced toward the blue door—impossible now—then straight into him when he checked to listen; the bump of her shoulder to his chest took the breath from both.
He steadied her waist, felt the tremor of a laugh—or fear—under his palm.
“Sorry,” she gasped.
“Don’t be.” He drew her into the deeper shadow of the garden wall as the lantern washed past. The dogs were close; he could hear their hot panting. “Long way round.”
They cut down the service lane. Her skirts snapped at his shins; her breath warmed his collar. When she faltered, his hand tightened on hers—natural as answering a move.
Ouch! Something caught his shin.
Another corner; an echo of boots and chain. He took the lead, then let her draw level where the lane narrowed, shoulders brushing. She didn’t ask if he knew the way; she simply went with him, and something low and glad lit under his ribs.
Shouts cracked behind the wall; a chain rasped, a kennel latch clattered.
The Pembrokes’ hounds weren’t loose in the streets—they’d been turned into the back ways.
One vaulted a shallow paling, another shouldered through a broken slat, pads skidding on the wet stone as a handler’s whistle urged them on.
They kept to the narrow run between garden walls; the voices bounded and then balked at each gate.
Then Regent Street opened ahead, pale with mist. A hack’s lamps bobbed past; a watchman’s rattle sounded two corners over.
A sharp whistle cut through the air; the dogs pulled up short at the mouth of the lane, trained not to break onto the thoroughfare.
He didn’t look back. Survival looks forward.
Past the shuttered milliner, past the pawnbroker’s dull gilt balls—there, the jeweler’s side door.
“Almost,” he said, and pulled her with him, his hand warm and sure around hers.
He no longer heard the dogs but knew they were close. There was only his breath and Rosine’s beside him.
He shouldered the side door; the latch gave. He pulled her inside and let the dark fold over them. Outside, noise fell to a muffled clamor and the scrape of paws losing heart.
Up one flight, two—the stairs turned tight as a fist. His room was welcoming and held pause after the haste and danger outside. They’d not been able to outrun the dogs, but they’d closed the door, and soon enough, they’d be otherwise distracted or return home.
Rosine exhaled, but was shaking. Lemon and warm sugar clung to her skin; it sharpened his fear but not of the dogs anymore.
“Rosine?” His voice came rough with something he’d rather leave unnamed.
At first, she shrugged, but then she bit her lip, arms locked across her chest, seemingly holding the tears where they were.
The jeweler’s side door held a pocket of dark. His hand—trained to stillness—hovered, then fell. Old silences had kept him alive; they were useless with a woman shaking in front of him.
“You left angry,” he said, not yet breathing evenly after the running.
“You blocked my view,” she returned, breathless, “and then you…didn’t.” Her laugh broke on the last word, half-scold, half-shiver.
“This time I meant to stand between you and sharp fangs.” He kept his voice low. Lean on me when you are scared, Rosine. Oh, let me protect you.
She swiped her cheeks, trying for brisk speech. “It was close. Those dogs—”
“Yes.” Stupid. Is this the best you can strategize to respond? Yes? He nearly slapped his forehead with his palm, but was even too nervous to do that.
Only then did her eyes fixate on the tear at his breeches, a dark smear just above the knee.
“You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing.” It stung like fire, but Rosine here, in his chambers—this meant so much more than the dog’s bite in his shin.
Her gaze lifted—steadier now. “You came after me.”
“I’ll come every time,” he said, and left it there, as plain as a house rule.
The city outside his window seemed to move past—distant wheels, a watchman’s rattle, the hounds called off—but time halted for Sander. She’s in my chambers.
“Tell me how to earn back your good opinion,” he said, because the shine in her eyes undid him more than the bite. “I’ll start there.”
“You saved me,” she said. The corners of her mouth tried a smile and nearly made it. “And you didn’t tell me to stay in the kitchen. I… I…”
“You’ve been through enough danger, Rosine. I prefer you safely near me,” he said. “Wherever you choose to stand—so long as I can stand nearby.”
Her pulse ticked at her throat; his answered like a drum he couldn’t quiet. He leaned—just enough to feel her breath—then checked himself, palm braced on the doorjamb to leave her the whole doorway. Do not pen her in. Do not steal what must be offered.
Heat rose between them. A curl at her temple trembled; he could have smoothed it with his mouth. Press in, hear her say your name—no, stop.
He hovered, the smallest space between them, every nerve lit. The kitchen was always full of Bridget and Marta. Wolves and wagers crowded the Den. His rooms would be too improper. Never the right place—unless she’d make it one.
Her chin tipped up; her lips parted, soft as a promise. He didn’t move. If she came that last inch, he would be lost and glad of it. She didn’t. A watchman’s rattle chattered in the street outside; a lantern bobbed past the alley and flickered through the window.
He exhaled, slowly. “Walk you back?”
“Yes.” She slid her hand into his—sure, warm, choosing.