Jack's Hellion

by Eliza Lloyd

  Jack’s Hellion

  By

  Eliza Lloyd

  Books in the Imogene Farrell series:

  Imogene, Jack’s Hellion, The Frenchman’s Widow

  and Lady Prescott’s Confidential Matter

  Second Edition,

  Copyright 2015, 2016

  All rights reserved

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead or places, events or locations is coincidental.

  Historical | Wicked Affairs Series

  Birds of Paradise Series

  Mad Duchesses (series complete)

  The Curse of the Weatherby Ball

  The Infamous Forresters

  Imogene Farrell series

  Body of Knowledge series

  Contemporary Romantic Suspense | Cold Play series

  Contemporary | Far From Home series

  

  Chapter One

  Imogene Farrell hid in Lord Bancroft’s fine sitting room, flush against the window casing and partially covered by the velvet curtains. She worried at her thumbnail, watching the rain descend in torrents on Fitzroy Square’s neat park. The gaslights did little to defeat the darkness.

  “Damn it. Where are you?” she whispered.

  After the kerfuffle with Tiny Etherton’s men, Imogene and Charlie had taken refuge in Lord Bancroft’s home, thanks to Mary Fitzpatrick’s help. Her brothers, Danny and Frank, had disappeared. They were out there. Somewhere. Hopefully well hidden, warm and safe.

  They’d killed because of her.

  Why did a whorehouse madam like Tiny Etherton think she had a right to take girls from the street to work for her? Imogene had always had her brothers for protection. What about those girls who were alone? How did they survive?

  She turned away from the window and hurried to her room, carrying a small candle to light the way. Charlie was curled on the floor with one blanket pulled over his shoulder and a thin pillow cradling his head. He was asleep, for which she was thankful. She couldn’t give him any assurance about their brothers. Though if she woke him, maybe Charlie could give her some assurance in the form of a prayer.

  Once abed, she doused the candle and let the sweet peace of sleep come over her. Thoughts of Jack Davenport kept her on the edge, in that dream world where all things were possible. She loved him, foolish as it was. He’d never claimed any such emotion. But how could he? A fine gent like him? He’d be an earl someday, heir to a fortune and properties. He’d paid her coin for what she’d done with him. Coin wasn’t affection. Coin wasn’t even a reason to call a man friend let alone believe he had some regard for her.

  She blinked, realizing she was nowhere near sleep. Who knew if she would ever see Jack again? She rolled to her side. Charlie breathed slow and steady and the gentle sound lulled her. Charlie might not be her real brother but they were as close as any true siblings. Sometimes she wondered if he hadn’t been dropped on earth, straight from heaven, but then she remembered the circumstances they’d found him in. She shuddered beneath her covers. Better to be dead, she thought.

  Danny showed up one morning nearly ten days later. She’d been bursting with expectation and when she heard the light tapping at the back door, she flew down the servants’ stairs to answer.

  He’d aged. Weeks ago, he’d still been a boy. Today, he looked every inch a man. Even the boyish fuzz on his face seemed to have darkened and thickened.

  Imo embraced him then grabbed his hand. “Quick, come upstairs and you can tell us everything.”

  “Imo, I can’t stay.” He pulled her outside instead and closed the door.

  “Why not?”

  “I talked to Jessy. She said people are looking for us.”

  “You said we couldn’t go back.” Imo’s voice was full of accusation.

  “She was the only person I could trust. I had to find out what people were saying. Bow Street was called in when one of the bodies washed into Deptford Docks instead of going out to sea.”

  “Oh, Peter, Paul and Mary. What are we going do?” Imo brushed her hair back. Danny stood slump-shouldered, as if the weight of the Farrells’ world had finally become too much to bear.

  “You and Charlie are going to stay put. Frank and I are going to Portsmouth. We know the docks; we can find work. And we’ve got money.”

  “We took Mary’s name. Everyone here thinks we’re relatives. You should be FitzPatricks too. That way you’ll have a history, if anyone should ask.”

  “I’ve got to go. I just wanted you to know this is going to take longer than I thought.”

  “How long this time?”

  “Don’t be waiting for us. I’ll send word when I can. If anyone finds out you’re here and they ask about us, tell them we went to Liverpool. They’ll assume we went to America.”

  “Maybe you should go there.”

  His expression made Imo believe he’d thought about it.

  “We could all go,” she suggested, knowing as she said it that they wouldn’t. London was home. They had no family to leave behind which made London that much more their home.

  “Just make Mary proud and keep Charlie safe. Don’t do those old things, not while you’ve got a job or a roof over your head.”

  She threw one arm about his neck. “I love you, Danny. Mam would be proud how well you took care of us.” The tears came rushing.

  “I’m going to see the Scot before I leave and collect the rest of our money,” he said as he pulled away. “And this is for you.” He dropped two coins in her hand and she clutched them tight.

  “You can’t. What if he was the one? Instead of Tiny?”

  “I’m going to tell him you’re dead. If it wasn’t him, his people will spread the word on the docks. If it was, then what he wanted is gone.”

  “But what if somebody saw us the night of the fire?” Imo asked.

  “Nobody will remember us after a while. Mrs. Bunton would have.”

  “There’s still the people we killed.”

  “I think it’s worth taking a chance for the ten pounds the Scot is still holding for us.”

  “Ten pounds. We had that much?” she asked.

  “I’ll make sure you get some of it if I can.”

  “No. You’ll need it more. We’re safe here. Really.”

  They stared at each other for several minutes. “I wish you could say goodbye to Charlie.”

  “No. You tell him I’ll see him again. Goodbye, Imogene.”

  “Tell Frank I love him too.” Imo choked on her words and her vision blurred. Danny bent and gave her a quick kiss on her forehead. He was around the corner of the last house before Imogene realized he was gone. Maybe forever.

  * * * * *

  Imogene FitzPatrick, it still sounded strange, learned how to bake bread and preserve vegetables. She could tuck a bedsheet to a crisp point. And she knew how to sew buttons on a jacket and repair a ripped seam.

  But it was painfully evident she’d never be a good house servant. Several times she nearly asked Mary if she could go out and pitch shit with Charlie. She was saved from total self-destruction in the evening when she and Charlie sharpened their card playing skills, worked on dice strategies and decided if it would be easier to rob a carriage carrying the King or steal the jewels from the Tower of London.

  Charlie snuck upstairs every night so they could sleep on the floor together, or at least near each other.

  On their half da
y off, they would walk north of the city toward the country, figuring it was safer than returning to the proximity of their old neighborhood. One day, Imo surprised Charlie by taking him to the other St. George’s, the fancy one, at Hanover Square.

  She sat in the back wearing her serviceable wool dress. She still hated it, but now that she was used to the itch, didn’t mind the warmth and even liked that she was noticed as a woman while wearing it. A used coat that Mary had found for her at a secondhand shop, where impoverished ladies sold their belongings, now belonged to Imo. She didn’t know such places existed. Impoverished ladies? She looked down at her new shoes, flat-soled brown leather. She’d realized how silly she’d been to want a dress. The new shoes, without holes, were probably the best thing she’d ever owned.

  And she had a new hair ribbon.

  Mary had convinced her to use a hairbrush. DeeDee, the other house servant, vicious and cruel when wielding the brush, raked the bristles through her hair nearly tearing it out by the roots. Once a week was enough for a brush, if then. DeeDee was supposed to be good at fashioning hair, and the first time she’d put Imogene’s hair in a respectable bun, Imo had nearly laughed herself silly. From then on, she used her ribbon to draw it into a tail at the back of her head. Women were impractical and wasted way too much time trying to improve their looks.

  Her gaze moved from her shoes to the front of the church where Charlie knelt in the first pew. His little mind was always full of wonder and Imo tried to imagine what he prayed about so diligently. Later Charlie sat on the pew, listening to the pipe organ. Imo didn’t mind. Charlie was a good boy who never asked for a thing. It was as if he belonged to them always. Now that Danny and Frank were gone, she was more thankful than ever that Charlie was with her.

  The music rose and fell, vibrating through Imo’s body and coaxing tears to fall when she would have been strong and determined, not weak and scared and unsure about their future.

  * * * * *

  Before Christmas, Imo got a note from Danny. Mary read it to them the first time and Imo memorized every utterance. The boys were safe. He didn’t say where they were. She pretended to reread the now crumpled missive to Charlie almost every night for two weeks. Then Christmas came and Mary allowed them to go to St. George’s for midnight service. The last time she’d been to a Christmastide service had been with Mam. Mam had straightened Frank’s small knotted tie and patted Danny on the cheek before they’d gone inside.

  Now she climbed the creaky steps to the second floor and sat with the other impoverished working classes. Mary stood with them. She’d even let Imo wear one of her winter bonnets. Charlie was enraptured when the choir sang. Imo’s tears came for no reason, mostly she thought, because she wasn’t fighting for her life anymore.

  The aristocrats and nobility were allowed to leave first, and Imo saw him escorting a beautiful, petite black-haired woman. Jack stared down at her face while she said something to him. Imo lowered her head and closed her eyes trying to banish the image from her brain. But he was stuck there. Jack, his handsome self with his fancy clothes and fine boots.

  Imo’s stomach quivered like Christmas pudding. With cruel determination, she’d put him out of her mind. Forever. Until they stepped inside the church.

  Now he was back in her life for a shining moment, with a hurt so quick and deep, beyond anything she thought she could bear.

  She’d known for some time she loved him. Not because of the coins. Something else, though—a sweet, hurtful longing—for what she couldn’t explain. It was the same feeling she got when she thought about death and the stars and what was waiting for her after she closed her eyes for the last time.

  If she were at Twenty Acres dock, she would have turned her head and spat out her disgust. Girls with more sense than her knew nobles never really looked beyond the ten thousand for anything that mattered. A turn in the hay was one thing. Love? No one would taint their reputation in such a way.

  And she’d wished hundreds of times that she’d allowed him to shag her, because that was the center of her thoughts about him. Maybe she didn’t love him. How could she love someone she didn’t know except in the physical sense? She only knew the hurt was fresh and real, not unlike one of Frank’s knife wounds.

  One night she allowed herself to cry over him. One night, and then she relegated him to a corner of her mind reserved for memories of Mam, Danny and Frank. She had a different life now, one that didn’t involve Mam’s fairy tales and Imo’s imagined prince.

  After the new year, Mary informed the household the master of the house would return, bringing his new ladybird. For a week, they were in a dither cleaning, laundering and baking. Mary secured a wage for Imo and Charlie. She also hired two more servants and arranged for a rented carriage, all for the exclusive use of Bancroft’s new mistress, a Mrs. Diane Holland.

  Imo scraped the floor with her curtsey and Mrs. Holland kept the servants prostrated and subservient while she ruled the roost. The two new servants were Mrs. Holland’s hairdresser and her clothes attendant. Imo and DeeDee did everything else, including carrying the slop buckets.

  Imo thought she knew a lot about the intimacies between a man and a woman.

  She was wrong.

  At times, Imo or DeeDee was required during their lovemaking sessions. Lord Bancroft was in his mid-fifties with a slight paunch and thick thighs. Mrs. Holland had to work very hard to keep him aroused. Imo had to hold back a smile because in this one thing, Imo would have impressed a whorehouse madam with her skills at getting a man hard.

  Mrs. Holland employed a number of inventive positions and poses Imo found to be interesting rather than disgusting. She attributed that to growing up with boys and entertaining men for money during those seven months before the fire. At the time, she could have used such knowledge had she gone on to be the whore she’d imagined she would be.

  Mrs. Holland liked the room hot. He liked it cool. Imo fanned his backside with an Asian leaf fan while he labored over Mrs. Holland. Imo was very intrigued when she found the woman tied to the bed one evening. Lord Bancroft had left after they’d had a scandalous row over her spending habits. When Imo found her, she lay on the bed with a long shaft in her cunny and all four limbs tied to the bedposts. Plumb naked and open for business.

  “Oh, for the love of heaven. You act as if you’ve never seen a dilleto before. Pull it out, Miss FitzPatrick, and clean it for me.” Imo reached between the woman’s legs and removed the thing. “Now untie me and have the footman draw my bath.”

  For Mary’s sake, Imo refrained from asking Mrs. Holland any questions about her income, her supposed carte blanche with the earl’s money and how many lovers she’d taken. Mostly, she wanted to know about the money.

  Mrs. Holland didn’t like Imogene very much—she thought it was because Lord Bancroft’s gaze had wondered toward Imo once too often. Mary must have noticed too since she made sure Imo had chores whenever he was about.

  Within four months, the lovers had parted ways and the household returned to normal.

  And she got to keep earning her wages.

  Just as Imo thought her life had settled back into its new rhythm, Charlie burst into the back of the house screaming. At the mention of Danny’s name, Imo paled.

  “Slow down, Charlie. What’s happened?”

  “Danny’s hurt. You have to help him. He’s in the stables bleedin’ everywhere.”

  “Fetch Mary. Be quick about it.”

  Imo left the supper carrots behind, picked up her skirts and fled outside. She ran behind the houses until she got to the shared stables. Throwing open the door, she found the trail of blood leading to an empty horse stall.

  Danny lay slumped against the wall. Blood pooled on the floor beneath him.

  She gasped, ran to him and kneeled in the dirty straw. Pulling back his jacket and lifting his shirt, she found the wound. A long gash ran along his ribs to the top of his hipbone.

  “Imo, is that you?”

  “’Course it’s
me, you ninny. You didn’t get yourself here by accident.”

  “Jessy. That bitch. She told Bow Street it was Frank. She told me it was safe to come back and they grabbed him. I tried to stop them and they would have hauled me off too. I nearly didn’t make it.”

  “Well, you ain’t gonna expire in Mary’s stables—she’d take a strap to you.” Imo tried to be brave. She had no idea how serious the wound was, only that there was more blood on the floor than she’d ever seen outside a body that wasn’t already dead.

  “They got him at Newgate, Imo. They’re gonna hang him.”

  “Don’t be worrying about Frank now. We’ll get you fixed up proper and then we’ll see what we can do to get him out.”

  “I should have left you with Mary when you were eight, but I promised Mam we’d stay together.”

  “Hush. It don’t matter now.”

  Mary and Charlie swept into the stall. She assessed the situation and ordered Charlie to get the lone footman in the house, Abe.

  “Mercy. What have they done to me boy?” she asked. “Imogene, get to the house and get hot water, towels, anything we need. Put everything in the herb room. We’ll use the table there. And have one of the girls send for a doctor.”

  Imo wanted to protest the last order, but she had to trust Mary or no one. Imo scrambled away. Mary probably had a reasonable explanation for the wound, or one that any doctor would believe. She didn’t care how gullible that man was as long as he could sew Danny together again.

  By the time she got back to the room, Abe had helped Danny into the house and had him laid out on the block table. Mary snapped orders.

  Charlie stood in the corner, white as Mrs. FitzPatrick’s apron.

  Imo threw the cloth towels between Danny’s legs and went to Charlie. She clasped his hands. “You have a very important job. You need to pray and pray really hard.” She was surprised when he went right to his knees and folded his hands piously. The familiar comfort of his little faith warmed her.

  “Imogene, run for a blanket.” Danny had been stripped of his clothes. Mrs. FitzPatrick had draped a towel across him and had already started bathing the wound. The scored flesh was bright red and raw.