27
The hallway was bustling when they peered out, just as it had been when he’d spirited her from the ballroom. She had quickly explained what needed to be done to help the other women gain access to the house, and what would come after. And he fully believed she could accomplish it.
Even so, his body was taut with anxiety for her.
He had the mad thought of dragging her back into the dark room and locking her in there to keep her safe while he scoured the manor house in search of those damn papers himself.
He would never do it, of course, would never disrespect her like that.
But that didn’t stop him from thinking about it.
He glanced sideways at her profile, faintly lit by the hallway lamps.
Even beneath the makeup and wig and dress, he recognized her, and so he could not fail to see the determination hardening her face.
Was there fear and nervousness as well? More than a hint of it.
That and the attack she’d had earlier—God, his blood turned to ice in his veins just recalling her stark panic and agony—had etched into her features.
But there was also an inspiring resolve. She was deeply afraid right now. Yet here she was, fighting through it, doing what was needed. He did not think he had ever seen anyone so brave.
“No one is looking this way,” she whispered.
And then, with a speaking look for each other, they slipped from the room and into the bright hall.
All the while his heart beat in his ears.
But it was not all anxiety, was it? No, there was a faint excitement as well.
He was reminded of his time with the Runners, how he had thrived in moments like this, when he was so close to solving a case he’d been fairly giddy with it.
But this was not the first time he’d been reminded of such.
When he’d spied on Rose House he’d felt the echo of his days as a Runner as well, had remembered how much he missed it all.
Would that he could make a living doing something of this sort again, this time without having to rely on someone who could rip it away on a whim.
An idea that would have seemed impossible before, but now, after getting to love Iris and taking on her cause as his own, after witnessing how impressive the widows were in working toward that goal, it had much more merit than he’d ever dared to consider.
Iris peered over her shoulder and down the hall.
Oliver followed her gaze and barely had time to comprehend what he was seeing—the faintest shadow of someone peering out from a darkened room—before she was off, hurrying down the hall toward the largest group.
And then, before he could blink, she dropped to the ground.
He had known it was coming, had known the kind of distraction she had been planning.
Even so, his heart jumped into his throat at the sight of her crumpled in an unmoving heap.
He sprang forward, pushing through the growing cluster of people surrounding her.
Their faces were filled with concern, their words rushed.
Yet he saw something else beneath the surface, a feverish excitement that such drama was playing out before them.
And not a one of them was moving to help Iris.
Fury flared in his gut as he dropped to his knees at Iris’s side. No matter that he knew she was well, that it had all been feigned for just such a reaction, it took everything in him not to punch every one of their gawking faces.
But he could not afford to do something of that sort. Especially as, peering over his shoulder to make certain Iris’s friends were able to make their escape down the hall, he noticed a footman headed in their direction.
“You there!” he called out to the footman. “I need your assistance.”
The footman jumped at Oliver’s booming voice. Blessedly, however, he was quick to obey, working his way through the crowd. Behind him, Oliver caught the faintest glimpse of several figures in black hurrying down the hall and out of sight.
“Help move these people back,” he ordered as the servant came abreast of them.
Then, hooking his arms beneath Iris, he lifted her against his chest and stood.
The people surrounding them all gasped, trying to move in closer, the better to see, despite the footman begging them to make way.
The fury in Oliver’s gut grew. Damned disgusting people, taking pleasure in someone’s distress.
“Move,” he snarled at one particular gentleman crowding him.
The man’s eyes flared wide with fear before he scuttled back.
The rest of the crowd followed suit, clearing a path.
Oliver hurried through, Iris held close in his arms. He could feel the tension threading her; she fairly vibrated with it.
But she did not break character, staying utterly still, head lolling on his shoulder.
“Direct me to a quiet room with privacy so the lady might recover,” Oliver said to the footman now.
“Yes, sir,” the man was quick to say, guiding them down the hall. Behind them the crowd burst into talk, their voices echoing off the walls, drowning out even the music from the ballroom. But Oliver’s entire focus was on getting Iris someplace safe. Only then would he be able to breathe easy.
Finally, they entered a faintly lit sitting room. But it was not empty as he’d hoped. In the corner a couple was in a passionate embrace, breaking apart guiltily as they burst through the door.
“Get out,” he said, voice low. They did so immediately, faces averted, rushing out into the hall.
“Shall I fetch someone for the lady?” the footman asked from the doorway as Oliver brought Iris to the couch.
“No, I don’t believe so,” Oliver replied, lowering her to the cushions. “She is coming around. She now just needs time to recover. Please make certain to keep guests away from this portion of the hallway.”
“Very good, sir,” the man said, bowing before hurrying from the room. Leaving Oliver and Iris blessedly alone.
Oliver was immediately on his knees beside the couch, gathering Iris in his arms. “They made their way safely past the guests,” he whispered. “You did well, sweetheart.”
Her reaction was immediate, her arms winding about his neck, her breathing ragged as if her efforts to remain still in the midst of such chaos had cost her greatly.
He held her tighter, remembering how it had calmed her before when she had been overwhelmed.
The effect on her was instant, her trembling lessening, her breaths slowing.
But the interlude was short-lived.
In a moment she pulled herself free and stood.
“I am glad that part is over,” she said, voice shaking, hands trembling as she checked to make certain her wig was still secure.
“But it is only the beginning, I’m afraid.
” She looked at him, uncertainty screaming from the green depths of her eyes.
“You do not have to go farther than this. Truly, you have done much more than you ever needed to do.”
He stood as well and cupped her cheek. “If you think,” he said softly, “that I will let you walk another step of this difficult path alone, you are sorely mistaken.”
She considered him for a long moment. “You are certain you will not regret it? You might lose everything.”
“No, I will gain everything,” he replied, feeling the burn of certainty in his gut that had replaced the cloud of fear he’d been living under this last year. “Or, at least, everything that matters. You did that, you know, gave me back that part of myself I thought lost forever.”
The smile that spread across her face was the most beautiful he had ever seen in his life. Lifting on her toes, she planted a quick kiss on his lips before, taking one of his hands, she threaded her fingers through his.
“I do love you.”
The words, said so naturally, sucked the air from his body. But he did not have time to savor them, or to tell her how desperately he loved her as well, before she tugged him toward the door.
“Well then,” she said, “let’s finish what we’ve started, shall we?”
“What is he doing here?”
Oliver, having just closed the door, stood with his back pressed to it as he surveyed the collection of women before him.
It was no easy feat. The nursery was saturated in shadows, what little light that was able to penetrate through the cracks in the curtains not doing much to dispel the gloom.
And with the women all dressed in black, he could barely make out their silhouettes against the backdrop of shroud-covered furniture, much less their expressions.
But the tone of the woman who had spoken—the one he had not met yet, a Mrs. Sinclaire, who had been in London when he’d visited Rose House a sennight ago—told him all he needed to know, her distrust and antagonism potent.
Not that he blamed her.
A light flared, followed by the steady glow of a small lantern, and he was able to see that distrust and antagonism with his own eyes.
“Mr. Beckett,” Lady Vastkern murmured, “I must admit to being more than a little surprised by your appearance.” She came closer, the way she moved disturbingly silent.
And no wonder, as she and the other women did not wear skirts, but rather tight black breeches and soft-soled boots, topped with loose black shirts. He was impressed despite himself.
Before he could explain his presence, however, Iris stepped in front of him in a surprising gesture of protection. “He wishes to help us.”
There was a beat of silence, giving him just enough time to understand why Iris had planted herself between him and the other women. If the faint flash of light on metal was any indication, Mrs. Sinclaire was pulling a steel blade from her sleeve.
“Help us?” Lady Vastkern asked, looking him up and down in a considering manner. “Has our Iris here bewitched you that much, Mr. Beckett, that you wish to go against your employer and assist those who wish to steal from him?”