Into The Hall Of Vice. Anabelle Bryant
He stuttered to a stop, his next thought lost while his heart raced to a fast-paced thrum. She wasn’t pretty, she was beautiful. Fair skin, long blonde hair that shimmered in the sunlight despite they stood in one of the dankest areas of London. He swallowed. Twice. ‘You should take heed.’ Misplaced and unexpected protectiveness rallied the words. ‘The world can change in the blink of an eye.’ Or the shove off a carriage step.
‘I understood your warning the first time; still, I have a matter of great importance to pursue.’
She appeared undeterred, though her voice quavered.
‘That doesn’t change the circumstances.’ Why the devil would this lovely miss seek Maggie? She couldn’t be looking for one of her own, could she? In his experience, no one searched for the children lost to the street. Quality preferred to believe they didn’t exist, or worse, abandoned them there.
‘In that case I have no choice than to return another day.’ Her voice trailed off as her eyes sought his one last moment.
Green. Yes, her eyes were definitely green, the irises trimmed with a muted gold hue, but green nonetheless. A fetching shade he hadn’t seen before, albeit grass and trees didn’t grow in this part of London.
‘I had hoped to find Miss Devonshire at home, but perhaps my goal proved optimistic.’
In an effort to ease her distress, he signalled towards the street. ‘Allow me to hail you a hackney.’ Her eyes shifted to the building over his shoulder as if she wished to see through the walls. ‘Will you walk with me to the corner?’ He wondered at her decision to arrive in this part of the city unescorted, and worse, to accept a stranger’s invitation. Granted, he could portray anyone given provocation, the Earl of Evesham or Duke of Kent, all or none of the worldly gents who frequented the Underworld, as well as a sly swindler or outspoken newsmonger from the corner.
‘I’ve made a mistake. Thank you.’ She turned and walked away as if she strolled through Hyde Park without a worry in the world, her fine leather boots, dangling reticule and embroidered hems all tempting distractions to the seedy undercurrent in the surround.
He called out in her wake. ‘Pay heed to the shadows for that’s where the darkest secrets hide.’
‘Thank you again.’ She shook her head and dismissed his warning without a glance backwards.
A shift of attention from across the street alerted he wasn’t the only one who watched her progress. ‘Wait.’
But his warning came too late. A scamp, not unlike the boy he once was, although he’d never nabbed a purse, darted across the roadway and yanked the reticule from the lady’s arm. Her squeal of distress sent an arrow through his heart when he’d only just warned her to be careful and now she’d fallen prey.
Were he to chase the little thief he would leave the lady unprotected. By the same token, he could hardly play hero if he stood idle while the scamp made off with the goods.
‘Stay here.’ He dared a touch to her upper arm. ‘Don’t move away from this house.’
He set off in a run, hoping the thief had stopped to rifle through the contents and discard the reticule, thus leaving behind a clue. Still, fencing a lady’s purse brought equal coin, so he remained doubtful.
With his belated reaction and the overcome streets of Charing preventing any telltale path, he quit pursuit before he’d advanced half a block. A few choice curses added to the cacophony of the place he once called home, the sticky-fingered scallywag able to dodge and dart with more skill than a squirrel.
With efficient briskness, Cole returned to find the lady where he’d left her. At least there was that. He heaved a sigh of relief as his first order of business.
‘I could not catch him. I would ask a few questions of the population but, in my estimation, you will never see your belongings again.’ He waited, anticipating a loud bout of tears.
‘At least it was only coin and not something more valuable.’ Her comment snared his attention. She seemed hardly bothered by the turn of events. How peculiar. She pierced him with a crystalline gaze that communicated on another level altogether. ‘Thank you, Mr…’
‘Goodworth.’ A note of sadness prodded his conscience at the false name. Then, like always, he pushed through it. ‘At your service.’
She smiled and the sun shined a little brighter. ‘I’m Lady Amberson.’
‘Well then, Lady Amberson…’ He’d known she was gentry. ‘Allow me to see you where you need to go. My point has been proven by the loss of your purse. We shouldn’t invite additional mishap.’ He extended his arm to lead her away in an act of gentlemanly expectation. ‘Right this way.’ Without further hesitation he moved on, the unspoken agreement that she would follow a gamble of sorts. ‘I know these streets well and can nab a hack without delay.’ They reached the corner. With a wave and sharp whistle, true to his word, a rented hackney pulled to the curb. ‘Please take the lady wherever she needs to go.’ He paid the driver and turned towards Lady Amberson to offer his hand. ‘That should do it.’
She climbed into the cab with a quizzical look he would remember always. The driver flicked the reins and then they were gone.
Gemma bounced on the leather bolster, her thoughts as jumbled as the rickety ride she endured for the sake of anonymity. Her brother’s head would roll off his neck if he knew the risk she’d taken for the narrow opportunity to learn the details of Father’s death. She had no explanation for the niggling insistence something problematic occurred that night. Despite what she was told hours later, when her father’s body had been returned to Stratton House and news of the death of the Duke of Kent had begun to break, she believed in her heart things went amiss, circumstance doubtable.
According to her brother, Father had perished in a tragic accident. A carriage run off the road by some type of conveyance that caused a calamity of large proportion, of which her father became victim. Yet what of Winton’s suggestion of a supposed visit to Charing Cross? Why would her father need to visit Miss Devonshire? And who was this woman who may have been the last person to ever speak to her father?
Gemma needed to contrive another visit to Charing Cross and that would not be accomplished easily. She’d lied to Nan and sent the servant on a fool’s errand in order to escape her scrutiny and venture out undetected. Now Gemma’s conscience pained from the falsehoods.
Questions swirled in a storm of discontent. With her sister unwell and brother on guard, she had no one to offer help. Not a soul. Thank heavens, Mr Goodworth seemed congenial by half. Something about his manner, his familiarity and kind grin assured he’d meant her no harm, for while she strove to portray a confident, independent woman, her heart beat as if it would burst. It was clear the poor man lived a dismal existence, his greasy hair and sallow complexion a banner of impoverished existence – although he did have lovely eyes, a light brown with glittering flecks of gold, reflective through his spectacles. She shook her head with the ridiculous embellishment. Perhaps she wished too much to find something good in everyone. Glistening eyes might be a sign of terminal disease for all she knew of the plague-ridden conditions in Charing Cross.
However, the manner in which he’d run through the street after the boy who had stolen her reticule proved he was not terribly depleted. He’d risked his personal safety on her behalf with nothing to gain aside from gratitude. He hadn’t asked for a coin. Hadn’t vied for attention. Instead he’d cautioned her with an articulate warning, his refined speech in contradiction to his outward appearance.
Unlike Winton. The thought of Winton sparked a flame of annoyance. Barter for a kiss? She thought not. At least she had the span of a week to investigate Miss Devonshire before confronting him again. Perhaps Mr Goodworth would be there when she ventured back to Edith Avenue. He did seem a helpful, harmless man, no matter he lived on the streets. She certainly hoped he was in good health. He stood a full