by Kruger, Mary
Early the following afternoon, dressed in the darkest, drabbest clothing she owned, Cecily slipped down the back stairs of Marlow House, hoping that once again her luck would hold and she would manage to leave unremarked. She breathed a sigh of relief when the side door of the house had closed behind her, with no one the wiser. If her luck held, she would be able to return equally unremarked. Her parents would be certain to disapprove what she was about to do.
Jem pushed himself away from the brick wall of the house as Cecily came out, tugging at his forelock. A long-time groom for the Marlow family, Jem was one of the few witnesses to behavior in Cecily that others might label “fast.” He it was who saddled Dancer for her in the early mornings; he it was who escorted her on this bi-weekly excursion, though he knew that if he were caught it would mean his position. Such was his admiration, and affection, for Lady Cecily, and such his knowledge of her character, which could be stubborn, that he had set himself up as her protector, staying close by her side.
“The hackney’s just around the corner, my lady,” he said, falling into step beside her. “No trouble getting out?”
“No, none,” she said, serenely. “They all believe I have the headache and am resting. Pray check that there is no one on the street, Jem.”
Jem stepped forward while she waited behind, but he saw no one more menacing than a man, apparently dozing in the afternoon sun, leaning against a tree across the street. Signaling to Cecily, he led her to the waiting hackney and helped her in, and they were off.
Had Jem looked back, he would have seen the man who had been leaning against the tree jump into frantic action. Damn! Parsons thought, though he tried to censor even his thoughts against such oaths. Here he had promised Lord St. Clair he’d keep an eye on the Marlow girl, and the first sign she gave of doing something suspicious, he was caught napping. Breaking into a run, he rounded the corner in time to see her hackney drive away.
“Damn!” Fortunately there was another hackney in sight down the street, and he ran towards it, signaling frantically. Pointing towards the other cab, now nearly out of sight, he gasped out instructions and then collapsed onto the seat. Lord St. Clair would have his hide if he let Lady Cecily get away.
He grew increasingly perplexed as the ride progressed. At first he had thought that Lady Cecily was merely going shopping, or perhaps meeting someone clandestinely, but, as the hackneys proceeded through the fashionable areas of town and into neighborhoods growing increasingly seedy, his suspicion grew. Something was up here, something St. Clair would want to know about. When he had a chance, he would go to his employer and warn him.
Lady Cecily’s hackney finally stopped before a grey, grim building, deep in the heart of Whitechapel. She appeared not to notice the refuse littering the street, the men standing in doorways watching, the urchins begging or jeering, as she proceeded up the stairs and into the building. The hackney stayed behind. Parsons took off his hat and scratched his head. What now? Mentally he cursed himself for not finding help to watch the girl. Should he stay and see what she did, or go warn St. Clair?
Parsons made up his mind. St. Clair had to know. Thumping on the roof of the carriage, he leaned out the window. “Piccadilly,” he said, and settled back, feeling vindicated and confident. They’d catch Lady Cecily at her game at last.
Chapter Six
“I do wish I could come here more often,” Cecily said, setting down the thick earthenware mug on the scarred, scraped table in the cramped sitting room. Not by word or gesture did she indicate that neither the mug, nor the weak tea it contained, were what she was accustomed to. “The children are so eager to learn.”
“You done wonders with them, m’lady.” The woman sitting across from Cecily, matron of the orphanage in which they sat, took a healthy gulp of tea, her little finger crooked in what she thought was the proper way to hold the cup. “A shame, it is, that more people like you don’t take an interest.
“I know.” Cecily sighed. “I’ve spoken about it with Papa, but he thinks we need complete reform. I do see his point.” She set down the mug, empty, to her relief. “How much good can one school do, after all? But if just a few children learn,” she said earnestly, leaning forward, “then perhaps they can have a better life. I wish I could do more.”
“You do good work now. Though I do wish, m’lady, you wouldn’t bring them no sweets. Spoils them, it does.”
Cecily looked guilty. “I know, it was very bad of me. But if it makes the children willing to come to the schoolroom, then it’s worth it.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, once the season is over I won’t be coming here anymore. I am to marry next month.”
Matron set down her mug, an almost comical look of dismay on her face. “Oh, m’lady, then who will help? The children miss you now. Jenny Driver already goes to sleep with her primer every night.”
Cecily smiled. “I know. It’s a shame, isn’t it, that Jenny’s father couldn’t keep her? But my fiancé is interested in the poor. I’m hoping I can convince him to open some real schools, so the children can really learn.” The tall case clock in the corner struck the half hour, and Cecily rose. “I must be going, before I am missed. I’ll return in two weeks, if I can.”
“God bless you, m’lady.” Matron grasped Cecily’s hand in her own work-roughened one. “I wish there was more like you.”
“And I wish there were more matrons like you who actually care about the children. When I think of the other orphanages I’ve visited, what the conditions were like.” She shuddered. “No one should have to live like that.”
“If more like you would do something, m’lady, maybe things would change.”
Cecily smiled and, after saying her good-byes, walked out into the hall. Jem was waiting there, leaning against the wall, a look of unease on his face. He straightened when he saw her. “Trouble, my lady.”
Cecily looked up from pulling on her gloves. “Oh?”
“Yes. The hackney wouldn’t wait.”
“Oh. I see.”
“I told you this would happen,” he burst out, with the familiarity of an old retainer. “It’s as much as our lives are worth to be here, my lady. If anything happens to you I don’t want to think what the duke will do—”
“Nonsense, Jem, nothing is going to happen.” Cecily felt in her reticule for the silver-handled pistol she always carried on these expeditions; she was not so heedless as Jem thought. “You have your cudgel?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Then we shall just have to make it through the best we can.”
“Yes, my lady,” Jem said, and opened the door for her, not knowing whether to be appalled by her foolhardiness, or impressed by her courage.
They paused at the top of the steps before heading down, scanning the area. No one appeared to pay any attention to them; Jem, however, knew they had been remarked from the moment they had entered the slum, and that they would be lucky to leave without incident. “Onward, Jem,” Cecily murmured, and they set off.
Both were quiet as they made their way down the muddy, unpaved street, carefully avoiding the noisome trench running down the center where water, and who knew what else, drained. Again they appeared to pass unnoticed, and though Jem had an itchy feeling in his back, as if a million eyes were watching, even he began to feel that they might make it through unscathed. A look at Lady Cecily’s set face and squared shoulders told him that she was as aware of the danger as he, which he found oddly reassuring. Lady Cecily had bottom, he’d say that for her. No milk and water miss, she, but a real game ‘un. Jem’s determination to get her safely out of this increased, and he clutched his cudgel tighter. “We’re being watched, my lady.”
“I know we are,” Cecily said, apparently serene. “Just keep walking. And please don’t call me ‘my lady.’ I’d rather no one know who I am.”
“Yes, my—miss.” Not that it would matter, he thought gloomily, if they were accosted, though he could see her point; she feared being held for ransom. Privately, he thought t
hat was the least likely thing to happen. A young lady of quality straying into these parts was putting herself into danger more severe than that.
The street took a twist, and ahead of them they could see the traffic of Whitechapel High Street. For the first time, Jem began to hope that they might actually escape. “Almost there, miss,” he said, and, at that moment, two men stopped in front of them, blocking their way.
“Where is she?” Alex demanded, starting up from the chair where he had been passing the time, reading.
“Whitechapel,” Parsons gasped. He had run up several flights of stairs, knowing St. Clair had to know of this.
“Where Barnes got it. Hell, Parsons, she’s in this up to her neck!” Alex strode into his study and came out carrying his pistols. “Where was she going?”
“A big building, I didn’t stop to look. She had her groom with her.”
“Hell, when I get my hands on her,” Alex muttered, shoving the pistols into the pockets of his greatcoat and heading for the door. Parsons prudently held his tongue. Beneath St. Clair’s very real anger at whoever had killed Alf Barnes lay something else, and Parsons had no desire to stir it to life. “Hell, man, are you coming?”
“Yes, sir.” Parsons clattered down the stairs behind him. “The hackney’s waiting.”
“Good.”
The driver looked mutinous at the idea of being asked to drive to Whitechapel again, but the pile of coins Alex shoved at him apparently convinced him. They rode in tense, tight silence, neither speaking, until the hackney turned off Whitechapel High Street onto a twisting narrow lane, and came to an abrupt stop.
“Is this it?” Alex demanded, looking out.
“No.” Parsons craned his head out the window. “There’s some sort of fight ahead—crikey, it’s Lady Cecily!”
“Hell!” Alex jumped to his feet and sprang out. “If you know what’s good for you you’ll stay right here,” he yelled to the driver, tossing more coins to him, and took off running. He didn’t know what Cecily was doing here, and for the moment it didn’t matter. All he cared about was her safety. If he didn’t get her out of this, he didn’t know what he’d do.
Cecily looked up at the two very large men who blocked her way, and who were grinning evilly at her, and swallowed, hard. Jem was right. She’d landed them in the suds this time.
One of the ruffians grinned, displaying teeth rotted and stumped. “Well, well, what have we ‘ere? A pretty little chicken.”
Cecily drew herself to her full height, wishing that she were taller. “Let us pass.”
The ruffian chuckled. “‘Ear that? The lady wants us to let her pass.”
“I hear.” The other ruffian’s grin was just as evil. “Got spirit, this one. Mother Carey’ll like her.”
Cecily’s blood froze. She had heard of the infamous Mother Carey, who lured young girls to her brothel, never letting them out again. She tried to protest, but all that came from her throat, suddenly dry, was a strangled sound.
“And,” the first ruffian, the larger of the two and evidently the leader, went on, “we’ll get a good price for her, or my name’s not Joe Driver.”
Cecily looked up. “Joe Driver? You’re not Jenny Driver’s father, are you?”
The ruffian’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward. “‘Ere, and what if I am?”
“Miss,” Jem said, uneasily.
“Jenny speaks of you all the time, Mr. Driver,” Cecily said, not budging an inch. “I don’t think she’d be so proud of you if she knew what you were doing.”
Joe’s look of suspicion hadn’t abated. “How do yer know my daughter?” he demanded.
“Why, I teach her. I’ve been teaching her to read.”
Joe looked startled. “Yer not Jenny’s Miss Cecily.”
“Yes, I am. She’s a bright little girl. You must be very proud of her.”
“Aye, that I am.” Joe’s face softened. “It’s been hard, her mam being gone and all, but I do wot I can.”
“I’m sure you do.” Cecily nodded understandingly. “You want the best for your daughter. I’m sure you wouldn’t want her going to Mother Carey’s.”
“Hell, no, miss, that I wouldn’t,” he said, forcefully. “Hell of a life. But wot’s there going to be for my Jenny? Yer tell me that.”
“I’ve already told Matron that when Jenny’s old enough I’ll help her find something. Perhaps she could apprentice in a shop.”
“My Jenny, in a fine shop.” Joe’s eyes glowed for a moment, and then faded. “Now don’t yer think yer can go fooling Joe Driver. Things like that don’t happen to people like us.”
“I say we just take ‘em, Joe,” the other ruffian said, and Jem again moved uneasily.
Cecily stood her ground. Inside she was feeling a strange exhilaration, knowing she was in danger and yet feeling more alive than she ever had. “I give you my word, sir,” she said, laying her hand on Jem’s arm, to keep him from surging forward in her defense. “Jenny will have a better life.”
“‘Ere, Joe, ‘adn’t we better be takin’ these two—”
“Shut yer trap!” Joe rounded on him furiously. “Can’t yer see this is my Jenny’s Miss Cecily? We can’t harm her.” He turned back to Cecily. “And wot yer doing in these parts on foot, miss, I don’t know, but yer got to get out of ‘ere.”
Cecily smiled, and Joe blinked at the sudden brilliance of it. “I know that. So if you’ll please let us pass—”
“I’ll do better’n that.” Joe swept off his cap, holding it against his chest. “‘Twould be my pleasure to escort you out, miss. Won’t no one hurt yer with Joe Driver around, that I’ll warrant.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Driver. I would be honored.” Without hesitating, Cecily placed her hand on the filthy sleeve he held out to her, and at that moment a voice spoke ahead of them.
“Unhand the lady, sir.”
Cecily’s eyes widened. “St. Clair!” she exclaimed, taking in both the sight of him and his pistol, held almost negligently in his hand. “This isn’t how it appears—”
“Get to the hackney, Cecily,” Alex ordered crisply, aware that the crowd of interested onlookers had grown bigger. If he didn’t get her out of this soon, there was likely to be a riot.
‘‘Ere, who do yer think yer are?” Joe demanded, his voice truculent again, and Cecily tightened her grip on his arm.
“It’s all right, Mr. Driver, I know him.”
“Cecily,” Alex said.
“If you or Jenny ever need anything, tell Matron. I’ll do what I can, I promise,” Cecily said.
“Yer a true lady, miss,” Joe said, grinning, and briefly touched her shoulder. “Best you go with the gennulman, now.”
“Get your hands off her!” Alex roared, filled with a rage he didn’t understand. The menacing gesture of his pistols appeared to be all that was needed to set the crowd, until now watching mostly in silence, into action. Alex looked startled as the group surged forward, shouting threats against him for menacing one of their own.
“Go, miss!” Jem shouted, pushing Cecily by the shoulders. She stumbled, and Jem, as aware of the danger as Joe, grabbed her arm. “Go while you can!”
“The hackney’s leaving!” Parsons shouted.
Alex turned. “Hell! Cecily!” he yelled.
“Come on, my lady!” Jem grabbed Cecily’s arm and pulled her forward, swinging his cudgel from left to right, just as the mob reached them.
“But Mr. Driver,” she protested.
“He’ll take care of himself! Come on!”
Cecily let out a shriek as someone grabbed her other arm, and she looked up to see Alex. “You little fool,” he growled. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” They set off at a run after the departing hackney, the mob in hot pursuit. Cecily stumbled again on the slippery cobblestones, falling this time, and the men dragged her to her feet, pulling her along with them. She could hardly get her footing, and, at any moment expected blows to fall upon her back. But there, at last, was the hackney. Alex sho
ved Cecily inside and crowded in with the others, and they fell back against the seats with a jerk as the hackney started up at a run. The noise swelled as the mob followed, throwing rocks and mud, and then faded, as the hackney rocked onto Whitechapel High Street. They were safe.
Cecily passed a shaky hand over her face. Only now, with all danger behind them, could she admit how frightened she had been when she had seen that mob pouring towards her. Reaction washed over her in giddy waves as she thought of what could have happened, not just to her, but to people she cared about. To St. Clair. Oh, nonsense, she chided herself. She had, she admitted reluctantly, been very lucky, and very foolish. Next time she ventured to the orphanage, she would make sure of the hackney driver’s loyalty first.
With her decision made, Cecily relaxed, and glanced over at St. Clair, to thank him for his gallant, if misguided, concern for her safety. To her surprise he was glaring at her from under his brows. “You have quite recovered?”
“Yes, thank you,” Cecily said, bewildered, “but—”
“Good. Because I have some things I wish to say to you, miss.”
“Excuse me, sir, but you shouldn’t speak to Lady Cecily like that,” Jem began.
“Be quiet. We’ll get to your part in this later. Well, miss? Did you enjoy acting like a peahen and putting yourself into danger?”
Any gratitude Cecily might have felt disappeared in a blaze of anger so intense, and so unusual to her, that it startled her. “Who do you think you are?” she demanded. “You’ve no right to scold me so.”
“Oh, haven’t I! After I nearly got killed rescuing you—”
“Whose fault was that? I was doing quite well—”
“With that mob?”
“I was safe! Weren’t we, Jem?”
“Yes,” Jem said, somewhat reluctantly. “We were. But if we hadn’t met up with Mr. Driver—”
