by Sharon Page
She amazed him. She had gone through so much, but she had not lost her good heart. Any other woman might have ended up hard and cynical, but not Anne. Both Bow Street and her mad cousin hunted her, yet it was the plight of children caught up in brothels that made her cry. She had strength and courage that put generals to shame.
Her arms slid around his neck. “You do not have to do this alone, Devon. I know the stews. We could search together. I could help you. It would give me something to do rather than worry about whether a Bow Street Runner will knock on my door.”
Chapter Twenty-two
ITHIN AN HOUR, he had helped Anne disguise herself with a dark wig and a hooded cloak, and they were in his carriage, slowly rattling through the twisting maze of narrow, cobbled lanes off Whitechapel High Street. Anne had her face pressed to the window, and as they wound deeper into the stews, her breathing became swift and uneven.
“What’s wrong, love?” Devon asked gently.
She spun away from the window, her lips trembling, her hands fisted. He’d never seen her like this, not even when he’d chased her down on the docks. She looked ready to break down. He lifted her and planted her on his lap.
“Hundreds of children are kidnapped off the street and forced to work in brothels. I would like to tear down such places with my bare hands. I would like to kill the horrible villains who steal children—” She put her hands to her mouth. “I suppose, if I were to say that on the dock, no one would believe my innocence.”
“Angel, feeling rage at pimps and whoremongers is natural.”
She bit her lip. “The truth is, when I hit Madame with the fireplace poker, I was so furious I wanted to hurt her. I didn’t want to kill her, but I wanted her to feel pain. It was pure luck that kept me from being a murderess in truth.”
“You feel guilty because you had murderous thoughts.”
Anguish showed in her dark-green eyes. “Yes. It makes me no better than she was.”
His sardonic laugh escaped before he could stop it. “You are as different from that witch as an angel is from a demon. As for what you felt when you swung the poker, Anne …” He sighed. In this he had a lot of experience. “Don’t think about it. That’s one thing I learned in war. You take action without doubt or regret and move on afterward.”
“You didn’t learn how to do that. You have nightmares.”
“It’s what a man with sense does. That’s why many men survived war without turning into mad, haunted wrecks.”
“You’re not a mad, haunted wreck.” Her feisty determination was fixed on him. Then her lips parted in shock. “Even though you have your sight back, you are still having nightmares.”
Devon shrugged. “I doubt they will go away. I doubt I’ll ever forget things I saw. Take my advice, love, and don’t torture yourself. You didn’t kill her—likely your good soul took charge and ensured you didn’t hit her that hard.”
Anne wanted to believe him. She was innocent, she hadn’t killed Madame, yet she felt guilty because she’d been willing to kill. She saw how haunted Devon was. Why had she assumed all the horrible memories of war had gone away simply because he had his sight back? “You don’t have nightmares about men shooting at you, do you? You have nightmares about the ways you had to kill other men.” She wasn’t expressing it well, but she understood. “You cannot forget the things you were forced to do, just as I can’t. But, Devon, those soldiers were the enemy. You were expected to shoot at them. You had to—to save the lives of your men, to save England.”
His laugh was harsh, so full of self-recrimination it froze her blood.
“Devon, you would have been shot if you hadn’t fought in battle. For cowardice.”
“Anne, my angel, what bravery is there in shooting a boy who was probably no older than fifteen?”
She stared helplessly, unsure of what to do. What to say. What to feel. “What do you mean? You had to shoot a child?”
“He was a soldier, Anne. As the French lost troops in battle, they became desperate to replenish the ranks. They began to press younger lads into service. Our forces are not much different—boys of twelve go off to serve in the navy—but that knowledge doesn’t change the horror of pointing your weapon at a child’s face, knowing you are supposed to pull the trigger.”
She touched his forearm. It was tense, inflexible as iron. “Is this what has haunted you? That you had to shoot a boy—”
“I didn’t shoot him. And while I hesitated, he shot Captain Tanner. Too late, I tried to tackle the lad, to stop the shot. But someone shot me, hitting my shoulder, and I fell in the mêlée. The boy then tried to drive his bayonet into my skull. I shifted, but he slammed it hard into my head, knocking me out. That’s what blinded me, but I don’t care about that. If I’d taken my shot, Thomas’s father might still be alive.”
It was horrible. He blamed himself for not killing the young soldier, for not saving Thomas Tanner’s father. Yet he knew he would have hated himself for a lifetime if he’d shot the boy.
“I need to save Thomas,” he said quietly.
Now she understood why he was here. To make things right in his soul, he was trying to save the family of the man he hadn’t been able to save. He was trying to forgive himself for having been given a devil of a choice, where every solution left him damned. Impulsively, she kissed his cool, hard lips. They didn’t soften, but she wanted him to know she did not blame him.
“We will save Thomas.” She looked to the window, as a brick wall passed perilously close to the glass. A street flare illuminated a sign on the wall. Blackbird Lane. “It’s here.”
From the outside, the brothel looked like so many of the other buildings—quiet and still. Shutters covered the windows. A single lamp burned, but it was situated away from the door, so anyone who entered did so in shadow. It was disgusting: No one cared what terror the young ones had to endure, but great care was taken so the gentlemen’s reputations would not be tainted.
As though he knew she wanted to rush out of the carriage and batter down the door, Devon put a hand on her arm. “We have to plan this carefully,” he said. “We can’t barge in and demand the child. I need to get in without raising suspicion. You are to stay here.”
“I am going with you.”
“Angel, I can see, so there’s no need. And gentlemen don’t escort ladies to brothels like this.”
He had called her a lady, this time without even thinking. “Please let me help you.”
He frowned, then sighed. “I think it best if we don’t go through the front door. We’ll break in the back.”
From the shadows of a smelly alley, Anne watched Devon approach the rear door, walking with ease through the dark. A man leaned against the wall. He must be a guard, to provide a warning if Bow Street Runners raided the place. Devon made no sound as he closed in on the man, and she realized now that Devon was dressed entirely in black—black shirt and trousers and coat, with no cravat. He almost dissolved into the shadows.
Breathless, she watched him slip into the gloom near the brothel, then toss something past the man’s head. It clattered on the ground in the dark.
The man twisted at once in that direction, away from Devon. “Who’s there?” he shouted.
Devon moved with such speed, the guard was slumped unconscious in his arms before Anne could really understand what he’d done. He lowered the limp body to the ground with surprising care, and she hurried to him on the rear step. The back door proved to be unlocked. “For the gentlemen to escape swiftly, in case of a raid by the law,” Devon explained quietly.
He clasped her hand and led her through dimly lit corridors. “How will we find Thomas?” she asked. Would it have been better to have gone to the front door and played the part of a couple looking for a sexual diversion?
“We’ll have to search.” He opened a door in the paneling at the end of the hall. It opened to a dim, narrow stair—the servants’ stairwell. Fortunately, there was no one in it, and they used it to climb to the second floor, w
here the bedrooms must be. Anne wanted to hurry out before someone entered the stair below and they were caught, but Devon took the time to survey the corridor.
He drew her across the gloomy hall to a room with an open door. It was an unused bedroom. They waited until another door swung open. A man slipped out and hurried down the hall.
“You wait here,” Devon whispered, “but take this.” He drew a pistol from his pocket.
“Is it loaded?”
“It wouldn’t protect you if it wasn’t.” On that, he left her, moving stealthily across the corridor. She heard a faint cry, then silence, and a door was shut. A moment later, Devon returned. “I questioned the young boy in there. There is a lad in the house who matches Thomas’s description. He’s locked up in an upstairs bedroom—the one farthest from the stair.”
Anne’s heart dropped to her stomach. Thomas was a prisoner, just as she once had been, but he was so much younger. The poor child.
Devon’s fury burned hotter with every stair he climbed. Anne followed. The upper floor was lit only by slanting moonlight that fell in through half-covered windows, but he felt at home in the dark. Just as that thought raced through his head, he heard a boyish howl of terror, followed by a sharp curse spat by an older man.
Blindly driven by rage, by the desperate need to take action, he charged forward. Anne’s hand fell away from his forearm. He ran down the corridor and drew out his second pistol. One kick smashed in the door.
A large man jumped back from a bed. Recognition clicked: Orston, a fat, half-naked earl. A thin young boy was tied hand and foot to a disordered bed.
This was the right bedroom, and the lad must be Thomas. It was as though Devon went blind again—all he could see was a red haze. He had been forced to watch this child’s father die because he had been unable to shoot a boy soldier. Orston was going to violate the lad for a fleeting moment of pleasure.
Devon was going to kill Orston. Grab him by his shoulders, pound his head into the floorboards until he was senseless, then rip his heart out of his chest.
He rushed in. Orston gave a girlish shriek of fear, scrambled off the bed, and ran like a frightened hare toward the door in the other wall. Devon lunged toward the bound boy, but Anne was already there. “Are you Thomas Tanner?” she whispered. The boy did not answer, but he jerked back in surprised recognition at the name. Anne drew a dagger from a sheath in her bodice and began to saw at the ropes, telling Thomas he was now safe.
Devon jumped over the bed. He grasped Orston by the shoulder and shoved him chest-first into the wall. The earl cried out in pain, but this was nothing compared to what Devon intended to do.
He spun Orston around and drove his fist into the flabby stomach. Then sent an uppercut to the man’s jaw that slammed his head against the wall, denting plaster. Orston began to slide down, but Devon propped him up. “You bastard,” he growled. “He’s a child. And unwilling.”
“Didn’t know … unwilling …”
“You didn’t know? Christ Jesus, didn’t the white face, the tears on the cheeks, the ropes, give you a bloody clue?”
“Not your business, March.”
He wrapped his hands around Orston’s throat and pressed his thumbs into the man’s windpipe. In war, he’d had to kill. He hungered to do it now. So easy … just a bit more pressure …
“Devon, don’t!” Anne cried. “Don’t kill him!” She tried to pull him away.
“Get back,” he barked. “Let me do this.”
But she pushed her way between Orston and him, her eyes enormous with horror. “You must stop! You could hang for this, even though you’re a duke. You would hate yourself. Meet him at dawn. Drag him to Bow Street. Anything but this.”
Panting, he bowed his head. He had to force his hands to loosen their grip. The bulky earl slid down the wall, whimpering, blubbering.
Devon stepped back. Anne murmured soothing things, as though he was a mad, wounded animal she was trying to tame.
She had stilled Devon’s fists; now she must go back to Thomas. The poor lad was bound hand and foot to the bedposts. Anne had already cut through the ropes that tied his right hand. Thomas had watched her, his gaze darting like an animal seeking escape. As she’d freed his hand, she told him in gentle tones that he would be safe, that they were going to take him away. Her words hadn’t seemed to ease his fear one bit. Once, when her hand had strayed near his mouth, he’d snapped at her with his teeth.
She hurried back to him to finish. She wanted to be quick, so she did not bother to speak. She set down the pistol, drew out the dagger she’d brought in her bodice, and got to work. Thomas was a beautiful boy, small for twelve years of age, with golden curls. He shied away as she cut his left hand free. Then she set to work on his feet. She was aware of his small chest rising and falling as she sawed at the last rope.
Across the room, the client was spilling his tale to Devon in the hopes of striking a bargain. Devon was watching her with Thomas. He was trying, as quickly as he could, to learn from the man the identity of the blackguards who had taken Thomas. His eyes still gleamed with murderous intent, which made her nervous.
From the corner of her eye Anne saw something move, and she jerked away from the rope as it broke. A pillow slammed into the side of her face, knocking her over. She heard Devon shout, but something grasped her wrist and wrenched it hard.
Thomas. She shoved the pillow from her face. The lad was crouched at her side, his hand gripped around the knife. He held it to her throat. Anne winced as sharp steel bit into her flesh. “Thomas, don’t,” she whispered. “We want … to … help.”
Devon’s heart pounded wildly. The lad was so terrified, he was lashing out at anyone. Devon had seen men do it in battle—lose their wits in fright and shoot at anyone near them. Thomas held the dagger at Anne’s throat. One slice and he could kill her.
Devon had to stop the boy, get the knife from him. He tried to assess every move, every approach, but his brain fixed on one horrific image: Thomas’s fear-driven hand moving the knife, then Anne’s slow slump to the floor. Raw panic gripped him, and he couldn’t fight it. If he waited, as he’d done in battle, Anne would die. He began to move toward the boy.
“Keep back,” Thomas cried. “Keep away from me.”
“Thomas.” Despite having a knife at her throat, Anne’s voice was soft, melodic, sweet. “This is the Duke of March. You can trust him.”
“Anne, don’t speak,” Devon warned. The knife made a small cut in her skin. Blood welled.
She ignored him. “Thomas, the duke fought with your father in battle. At Waterloo.”
Of course, she said that to Thomas hoping to win his trust. But though the boy didn’t know it, it was the reason for Thomas to hate him. Warily, Thomas flicked his gaze from Anne to Devon, and the distraction caused his hand to move. Fortunately, he didn’t cut her, but her eyes were huge, and Devon could see her fighting for calm.
“Thomas, let her go. We’ve come to help you.” Devon took another step forward.
“That’s what they said. They were going to give me money to help me mum. When I said I wouldn’t go, they told me I had to or they’d hurt her.”
Footsteps pounded across the floor, and Orston ran out, face white, gasping for breath. The sudden movement startled Thomas and sent his hand slicing in front of Anne’s neck. Devon’s knees almost collapsed under him. Anne closed her eyes, but she didn’t scream. She had managed to jerk so the knife had not cut her. But Thomas pressed it against her flesh again.
“Thomas,” Devon pleaded. “Let her go. I’ll let you hold the knife to my throat in her place. You have nothing to fear from me.” He had a second pistol in his back waistband, but he didn’t dare take it out and threaten Thomas into panic. Hell, would he have to use it on a child?
“The duke was your father’s commanding officer,” Anne whispered. “He saw how brave your father was. He came to help you, because he respected your father so much.”
No, Anne, don’t speak of it.
>
“Me da died at Waterloo.” Tears welled in the boy’s eyes. His hand shook.
Yet Anne still found the strength to say calmly, “He did, Thomas. He died bravely in action and saved many men’s lives.”
What if the boy asked exactly what had happened? What would he do if he learned Devon had not saved his father when he had the chance?
“Me dad’s death broke me mum’s heart. The men said I had to come or she would be hurt.”
“Your mother is safe,” Devon said. “I have my men watching over her now, to protect her. Put down the knife and I’ll take you to her.”
“I can’t go.” The boy’s voice shook.
“You did nothing wrong, Thomas,” Anne said, so firmly no one would ever doubt her word. “If any of those men touched you, it was not your fault. Your mother will not be angry. Nor would your father. Your parents would only be happy you were safe. They would want you to let me go and let the duke help you.”
As though mesmerized by her voice, Thomas let the knife fall a few inches from her throat. In an instant, Devon had the boy by the arms, the knife lay on the carpet, and Anne was safe.
“You have nothing to fear, Thomas,” he said gruffly. “We are going to take you home to your mother. I will help her. Your father was a noble soldier—your mother deserves far better than to live in poverty. I will take care of both of you.”
Thomas stared at him, fear and suspicion in his young eyes. What had the boy experienced to make him afraid of everyone, including those who would help him? Devon looked to Anne. If she had not known the boy needed reassurance, he might have had to make the choice again between saving a life and hurting a child.
“What in ’ell is going on in ’ere?”
Devon leveled his second pistol at the well-dressed man who stalked into the doorway. Thin, about thirty, with a ferret’s eyes, the man held a cane, lifted as though ready to use it in a beating. At the sight of the pistol, he stood still. “Stop or I’ll put a ball in you,” Devon roared. “Drop your weapon and get down on your knees.”
