Miss Lottie's Christmas Protector (Secrets 0f A Victorian Household Book 1)

by Sophia James

  But Rosa was having none of it.

  ‘You can’t just barge into men’s business like that, Miss Lottie, else you will get hurt. We need the gentleman who helped us the other day. Mr King. He is the one who needs to deal with this.’

  Lottie saw that Rosa was frightened stiff about being involved and so she did the only thing left to her.

  ‘You stay here, then, just in case Harriet turns up at the Foundation. I will find Mr King and we will look for her.’

  ‘And he will come?’

  ‘I am certain he will. Now don’t worry, it will all be fine and we will bring Harriet home.’

  Claire, who had obviously been listening at the door, brought out her warm coat and hat. ‘There’s a hackney outside, Miss Lottie, for I just hailed him down. I am glad to hear you will get Mr King’s help as it is only proper.’

  Buttoning up her coat, Lottie nodded and jammed the hat on her head, grabbing her bag as she left. Outside it took her only a second to give the driver directions and then they were off.

  Five moments later she stopped at the laundry on Horseferry Road, asking Wilkes to accompany her into the Rookery, for she knew it was not a place where a woman walked alone. Still, Frank Wilkes was quite slight and she missed the virile strength of Jasper, but given the circumstances between them there was no way she could ask him for help. She prayed to God that there wouldn’t be trouble and that she would be able to find Harriet without any huge kerfuffle.

  ‘This is a poor idea, Miss Lottie, getting involved in the affairs of others you know nothing about.’

  Without answering Frank Wilkes, she pushed on across Grey Coat Street and the top of Horseferry Road until they were in Old Pye Street. The weather had worsened, the rain falling heavily, and the place was largely deserted, there being no sign of either Harriet or of the carriage.

  Half an hour. Forty minutes at the most. Harriet had to be here somewhere and standing still was not going to help find her.

  Seeing movement in a window to their right, Lottie marched over and knocked on the door. A moment later it was wrenched open by a very old woman in a ragged nightgown, the shadows of others behind her.

  ‘What do you want?’ She appeared to be most put out by their visit.

  ‘I am Miss Charlotte Fairclough from the Fairclough Foundation on Howick Place and we are looking for one of our girls who has disappeared. A Miss Harriet White who is now named Caroline, we think. She has blonde hair and brown eyes and a small birthmark just here.’ Her finger came up to her own chin as she spoke.

  ‘That’s a description of half the young girls around these parts, Miss Fairclough. Primped and coloured for the men who never appreciate them. God knows I should be the one to tell them that, but they won’t listen, these young ones. They go ahead and do what they think they must and get into trouble just like that.’ She clicked old gnarled fingers and shook her head. ‘If your friend don’t want to be found, you’ll never get her back, mark my words.’

  Such a bleak statement had Lottie’s spirits sinking, but she thanked the woman and they moved on to the next door and then the next one.

  * * *

  Half an hour later Lottie was almost beginning to despair when three men came from nowhere to confront them.

  ‘Seems you are in the wrong place, Miss Fairclough, and poking your nose into things you should not. Wiser to turn around and leave the goings on in Old Pye Street to those who live and work here.’

  These men were far more dangerous than the little group of youths who had confronted her the other day.

  ‘I am not here to cause any trouble, but our Foundation has lost one of its girls and I have come to recover her. I do not want a fuss, but I do want her back.’

  ‘Your interference in the fate of girls who ply their trade here is not welcomed. Besides, once they get to this place you have lost them already and no amount of cajoling will get them back.’

  Wilkes at her side began to step away, but Lottie stood firm.

  ‘Can you give her a message for me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you leave me with no choice but to involve the law.’

  The biggest man planted himself in front of her and slapped her cheek before pushing her hard. Falling to the ground, she hit her head and her bonnet was lost, rolling in the breeze down the dirty cobbled street through heavy sheets of rain.

  Frank Wilkes had run, gone even as she looked to find him, and she was alone. With care she rose, her teeth chattering in shock, her face smarting with the ache of his violence.

  ‘So Harriet is here? You have seen her?’ The words came fierce and furious, all care gone now as she confronted him, this big dark-haired bully with two teeth missing at the front of his mouth and stinking breath.

  ‘Get out of here.’

  As he raised his hand again she could do nothing but wait for the force of it to hit her, praying to God that the end might be quick, that her mama and Amelia would not be too sad, that her brother would come home from the Americas for them and that Mr King might look back at their one beautiful kiss and wish with all his heart that there had been time for more. Shutting her eyes, she simply waited.

  ‘Noooo!’ The sound roared out from a few yards away and Jasper King was suddenly there, catapulting himself into the big man and sending both of them flying down on to the roadway. What he lacked in brawn he made up for in style, his fists pummelling the other in a way that bespoke of much training and expertise. Within a moment the bigger man lay still and Jasper stood, blood on his face, a scratch down the side of his cheek and his jacket ripped.

  ‘Who wants to be next?’ he snarled those words.

  The miscreants stepped back and ran just as Wilkes had, as fast as they could go, turning the corner at the bottom of the road with speed and disappearing. The bully had roused and gone, too, though not quite at the same speed as the others. Lottie let out the breath she did not realise she’d been holding.

  ‘How...did you find me?’

  He didn’t answer, merely grabbing her arm and pulling her with him, through the rain and the wind and the cold dank alley until his carriage was in sight.

  ‘Get in. I need to see you safe.’

  She did as he bade because her bottom hurt from where she had fallen, her cheek ached and her right wrist had been wrenched.

  He shut the door behind them after giving his man an order to drive and then he faced her, his big frame filling the seat on the other side.

  ‘Why the hell were you there alone? What crazy, foolish, stupid and irrational part of your brain thought that venturing into Old Pye Street by yourself and unarmed would have made sense?’

  ‘I w...wasn’t alone.’ She had started coughing again and he waited until she finished, his eyes darker than she had ever seen them, the blood from his nose mixing with rain water and staining the white of his linen shirt.

  ‘Then who the hell were you with?’

  ‘Mr Wilkes.’

  ‘A small unfit man who should have no part in such a stupid venture. Did he run? Did he damned well leave you alone with those three men in that street? Did he? Hell.’ His fist lashed out and he punched the wooden frame of the carriage. Hard. Hard enough to splinter the first layer of wood.

  She did not know what to say, his words and actions so frightening. Papa had always been measured and gentle, a man who rarely raised his voice, a man with a placid and calm manner.

  Jasper, on the other hand, looked furious, his dark hair falling across his brow in wet curls and his knuckles bleeding from the punches that had connected first with the big man’s face and now with the wooden structure of his conveyance.

  One nail had been torn, she saw. All because of her.

  ‘You are just damned lucky you are not dead, Miss Fairclough, lucky that they did not simply hit you over the head and throw your body in the river becau
se they could have so very easily.’ He stopped and took in a shaky breath, his eyes perusing the bruise that she knew must be showing on her cheek. ‘I should have killed the bastard.’ She could see the roaring fire of revenge unquenched in his eyes and knew suddenly the wonder of what he had done.

  ‘I am sorry.’

  He stopped at that and looked at her directly.

  ‘Sorry? But that’s not enough, is it, because you will do this again and again. Hell, and you can’t even see it. You are five foot two at most and a woman. Insubstantial. Unpractised at violence. Weak.’

  The regret she had been feeling turned into something less conciliatory at his words.

  ‘Unpractised? Hardly. I see violence every day here in the Irish Rookery, every day against women just like me who cannot fight back and if I choose to try to do something to stop it then that is my business, Mr King, and you have no right to tell me how to handle it, no matter how insubstantial and weak you think I am.’

  ‘No right. No right?’ He seized her arm and hauled her over to his side of the carriage, a single easy movement completed before she had even the chance to protest.

  ‘Why would your mother and brother leave you to your own devices? Why the hell is there no one here left to curb your foolhardiness? To make certain that you are safe? And why in God’s name did you not send word to me about Rosa O’Brian seeing Harriet White earlier this morning?’

  ‘I didn’t think you wanted to be involved any more. With me.’

  ‘Because of the kiss? Because my body was foolish enough to take your offer and turn it into something more. Something you didn’t want? Something we both didn’t want? God, help me.’

  She burst into tears, suddenly and completely, and the crying brought back the coughing and before long she could barely take a breath, her eyes streaming and her nose running.

  He held out another of his well-pressed perfect handkerchiefs and she took it. Gratefully.

  ‘I never cry.’ She said this after a moment or two and saw the slight upturn of his lips. ‘Except with you,’ she qualified and blew her nose.

  At that he extracted a silver hip flask from his pocket and handed it over.

  ‘Have a sip. It will help your chest at least.’

  She did and nearly spat it out, so strong was the liquid.

  ‘Whisky,’ he explained, ‘uncut and the very best. It will start to work in a moment. Drink again.’ Tipping the flask with his hand, he made sure she did and this time the taste was less offensive. Almost welcomed. It had taken the shaking away and her cough did seem better. After a third sip he removed the flask from her hands.

  ‘A drunkard is as bad as a fool and you won’t be thanking me in the morning if you wake up with a sore head.’

  The world had begun to soften around her, the hard edges lessened, the feeling of worry in her stomach further away. She had not found Harriet, but she had tried and she was glad that she had.

  Jasper beside her was warm and safe even if his emotions ran high and he liked to be in control of every single situation. Without him today she could have been lying on a stone slab in the morgue ready to be buried right at the start of the Christmas season.

  Her guardian angel. Dissolute and dishevelled, but here none the less, scolding her yet helping her and coming despite the distance that she had felt yesterday between them.

  A tiredness overcame her, a weariness that she had felt for a long time now, ever since her brother had left, the Foundation taking every scrap of her energy and more. It was an unfair world and a harsh one, but here inside the luxury of the King carriage, all leather and mahogany, she was safe.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Nowhere. I asked the driver to simply drive until I tell him to stop.’

  ‘I don’t want it to stop. Not yet.’

  He took her hand and held it, the warmth comforting.

  ‘That’s the whisky talking, Miss Fairclough.’

  She giggled because perhaps it was and perhaps she was foolish to even think he wanted to spend some time in her company. But she did think it.

  ‘When I saw you through the banisters that first time after you came calling on Amelia at the Foundation I thought you were Prince Charming, from the fairy tale. Your eyes were lighter,’ she added, ‘but they were always beautiful. Even now when you are angry they are so very beautiful.’

  He frowned and banged on the roof and the carriage stopped, a footman coming to the door.

  ‘Take us to the Foundation. Miss Fairclough needs to go home to sleep this off.’

  ‘I’d rather stay here.’ Her words were small as if she could barely say them. ‘With you.’

  * * *

  Jasper had always thought the Fairclough Foundation was an austere one, but today in the wind and rain and with Christmas just around the corner it looked even more grim than normal.

  Helping Charlotte inside, he was met by an ancient servant at the door and the same maid who had served him tea a few days back. She looked shocked.

  ‘My goodness, Miss Lottie, what on earth has happened?’

  In the light from the lamps the bruise on Charlotte’s cheek was swelling and it was plain to anyone who looked that there had been a problem.

  ‘We were set on in Old Pye Street.’

  The woman shook her head. ‘I told her not to go there, Mr King. I warned her of it right from the start and now...’ She stopped and sniffed. ‘Has she been drinking?’

  ‘I gave her some sips of whisky to calm her down. It seems she took too much.’

  ‘Then it’s to bed for you, Miss Lottie.’

  At that moment Charlotte simply fell against him, her balance unsteady, and without a word he picked her up.

  ‘Where is her bedroom?’

  ‘Upstairs, but you cannot possibly—’

  He didn’t let her finish.

  ‘Where?’

  The woman muttered under her breath and Jasper was sure he heard the words ‘high and mighty’, but let it go, following the maid and placing Charlotte down on a bed with a light blue coverlet. She looked so damn young and hurt lying there that he found himself gritting his teeth in an effort not to touch her and make sure she was quite all right.

  As he reached the entrance hall again a man came out of a room to one side. He was of average height and good looking, but it was his mismatched eyes that drew attention. One was blue and the other was brown.

  ‘Is there a problem here?’

  He had a pleasant voice and a friendly smile and looked to be the only man at the Foundation Jasper had seen so far who was not well past fifty.

  ‘I am Mr Jerome Edwards, the General Manager at the Fairclough Foundation.’

  Jasper put out his hand and the man shook it. ‘I’m Jasper King and I used to know Mr Septimus Clarke when he was here.’

  ‘Ah. Mr Clarke retired about a year ago now and is living a more gentle life in the country with his sister. Did I hear there had been an attack?’

  ‘You did. Miss Fairclough and I had gone to find news of Harriet Smith in the Rookery and ran into trouble.’

  ‘I had heard the girl had gone missing. Do you have any idea as to who may have taken her, Mr King?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Jasper returned, ‘but I am working on it.’

  ‘If there is anything the Foundation can help you with, we would be most willing to try.’

  When Jasper was once again back in his carriage and on his way home to Piccadilly he chastised himself for not asking Edwards if he might place some money in to the Foundation coffers to tide the Fairclough women over until Silas returned. He vowed he would visit the Foundation again in the next few days and offer such assistance.

  * * *

  Lottie woke hours later in the late afternoon, the winter sun finally appearing and slanting into her room. She had a searing headache she
couldn’t believe and, reaching for a jug of water on the bedside table, she took a long drink from the glass beside it.

  She’d been undressed and put into her nightgown and her hair was dry. She could remember nothing save Jasper’s anger when he had found her and saved her, but under that memory there was another softer one, sifting through a cloud. He’d brought her home, she was sure of it, after he’d offered her his hip flask with a liquid inside that had been the strongest she had ever tasted.

  Lord. She had got drunk! The horror of it had her sitting up as she frantically searched for recall, finding nothing there save a vague impression of her foot hitting a painting on the wall as someone had carried her up the stairs.

  She breathed out heavily with worry and a handkerchief on the table caught her eye. A different offering, for the other had been pressed and cleaned all ready to go back to him. This one held the stains of blood and wetness, the monogram of JS appearing through the ruin.

  They had both been hurt, she knew that. She was perfectly sure of what had happened to her right up to a few moments after Jasper had offered her his hip flask. Then things became hazy.

  When the door opened five minutes later and Claire appeared with a bowl of what looked like some thin soup, she groaned.

  ‘You were drunk.’ Her maid’s words offered no embroidery. They also held much censure. ‘Your mother would be straight back home if she were to know of this, and why should I not send word? Miss Lilian left you in my care and I cannot see any end to all this save for a disastrous one. The man is a devil to get you so drunk and both of you with blood on your face and hands and your clothes ripped. Lord help us, Miss Lottie, what am I to do with you save bundle you up and send you to Lady Malverly’s Christmas party the moment you recover?’

  ‘He saved me.’

  That silenced her.

  ‘Jasper King came to Old Pye Street and stopped them from hurting me.’

  Claire sat down, her face pale. ‘He wasn’t with you? You did not go there with him? In the first place?’