Mrs. Merrywent had kept herself busy helping the staff where she could, and Ara currently had her on a quest to fill several plates of food for Caine before he made his way back to the study after the latest visitors. Ara hadn’t seen him eat anything all day, only refill his glass of brandy between visitors, and she suspected he hadn’t eaten breakfast as well.
Ara set the quill next to the inkwell and thumbed through the small pile she had left to answer. The corner of a bright red card slipped out of the stack, stark against the whites and creams of the other paper. Near the bottom of the pile, the color was odd enough that she pulled it free, fingering it in her hand. It was addressed to “Mr. Farlington,” not to “The Right Honourable the Earl of Newdale,” as were most of the other letters.
She slid the sharp point of the pen knife under the black wax, breaking the seal and unfolding it. A quick scan of the contents, and Ara’s hands began to shake.
Her breathing stopped, her heart wild. She couldn’t drop the note, couldn’t move a muscle against the tremble rolling through her body.
“Ara? What is amiss?” Caine ran the steps from the doorway of the study to her side at the desk, his hand landing on the back of her shoulder.
Ara couldn’t speak, couldn’t look up at him. Her eyes refused to move from the crooked writing on the note.
“Ara?” Caine ripped the card from her hands, reading the words. “Bloody hell. The bastard that owned that place is dead. How do they know who I am?”
His hand dropped from her shoulder, leaving a cold spot that sent a chill down her spine. Her stomach started to flip as Ara gasped, again and again, trying to get air into her lungs. What was Caine talking about? Who was dead?
Caine dropped the note, grabbing both of her shoulders and turning her to him. He bent, putting his face directly in front of hers. “Breathe, Ara. Breathe.”
Her head shook, eyes shut tight and air still not reaching her lungs.
“Ara, open your eyes.”
Her eyes cracked to him and she found his blue eyes, locking onto them.
“Breathe.”
It took long seconds, but Ara managed to gain control of her breathing, the need to vomit passing. She nodded at him, still not able to speak. His hands dropped from her body and she sank back against the wooden slats of the chair she sat in.
Caine tilted his head to the note. “This was in the correspondence?”
“Yes.” The word squeaked out.
He stared at the red paper, his voice low, murderous. “An invitation to a virgin auction.”
“Yes. Tonight. What did you say—who is dead?”
“The old owner of the Jolly Vassal. Apparently, reprehensible new management had taken over.”
His jaw flexing, Caine’s eyes turned to fire as though he tried to burn the paper just by looking at it. Ara’s mind spun into a tornado of grey—so many thoughts and reactions and emotions flying together in a whirlwind, that she was unable to grasp at anything. Unable to form even the simplest thought.
Caine’s gaze lifted from the paper to her. “What are you doing this evening, Ara? I find I am suddenly in need of escaping the onslaught of preparing for my brother’s funeral.”
Guilt and horror that had done nothing but build upon her in the past six weeks settled in heavy, finding a place on Ara’s shoulders. She knew exactly what Caine was suggesting, and she grasped onto the idea, gripping tightly to it. She nodded. “I am available.”
“Good.”
Something raw and uncontrolled flickered across Caine’s blue eyes. But it disappeared, replaced with determination before Ara could guess at it.
He stood and curled his fingers around the red paper, crushing it. “Make sure Mrs. Merrywent is apprised of the situation. She must accompany us this time.”
Ara nodded again, clasping her hands in her lap, trying to stop the quaking.
She straightened her spine, attempting to yank herself together into an able, composed woman. She had to do this. For the girls that were about to be sold. For her own guilt at what she had not done in that brothel six weeks ago.
There was nothing more important.
{ Chapter 6 }
London, England
Six years later, April, 1822
Ara fingered the dark velvet drape, her middle knuckles pressing against the cool glass of the carriage window. She cracked the fabric just far enough inward to have an angled view of the street.
The usual shadowy mayhem scattered the streets—drunks staggering toward the painted women with their skirts hiked high, young kiddeys waiting for the perfect opportunity to slip a hand into an unguarded pocket, and an argument spilling into the muck-covered street with heated vows of deliverance to vile ends by characters lacking the sobriety to even lift fists.
She saw it all clearly now.
The prostitutes that would try to hide their profession with long skirts and innocent eyelashes. The privileged attempting to cover their wealth by awkwardly fitting into their footmen’s free day clothes. The gangs of boys blending into the shadows of the buildings, ready to pounce—vultures on the slightest weakness. When in the light of day, all of them strove for an innocent veneer. Veneers Ara once believed.
But nearly six years of watching the carnival of depravity had taught her much of the world. This world. The world that had ripped her from her innocent life in the countryside. And she could now recognize the squalor and the riches and the perversity that drove the underbelly of this world, so short a distance from her own home on Gilbert Lane.
Ara’s gaze lifted from the street, taking in the lanterns burning brightly in the third floor of the decrepit building she kept in view. They always stopped the unmarked carriage in this spot specifically so she could have clear sight to the brothel. A block to the east and one to the north, the coach was pulled to the left side of the street so Ara could observe the building from an inconspicuous spot.
She hated this part. The waiting.
Even with the guards around the carriage, her heel tapped uncontrollably on the carriage floor. The sound did nothing to break Mrs. Merrywent’s slumber as she had propped herself up as usual in the corner. The woman had an uncanny skill to sleep in any position, any time of day.
Ara and Caine had learned through the years that several of their guards had to be in ragged clothes, positioned along nearby buildings as soused sailors, and several more had to be discreetly spaced around the carriage, their size, eagle eyes, and dark clothes an instant deterrent to anyone bold—or stupid—enough to approach the carriage.
But even with all that—all the precautions—something could go wrong. It had before.
The time a young boy had snuck under the carriage, slipped into the coach, and had a small knife on Ara’s neck before she had even realized the side door had opened. Mrs. Merrywent had boxed the boy’s ears before he could do damage.
The time Caine was smacked on the back of the head with a club in the middle of the street. It had sent Caine to the mud, and sent the girl he had just bought screaming, running for ten blocks.
And then there was the debacle with the girl that wanted to be a whore, and had been happy to end up in the brothel. She had taken none too kindly to being bought and freed. So they had delivered her to a more reputable brothel closer to Charing Cross.
But all of those events had happened early on. Ara and Caine had gotten smarter with the passing years and now had this endeavor controlled—as much as possible when dealing with blackguards and perverts.
Buying virgins would always be dangerous, but at least they mitigated the risks where they could.
Yet Ara’s foot still tapped endlessly. It always did until Caine was safely inside the carriage.
This was taking an inordinate amount of time tonight.
A tiny bell clinked three times, the high chimes interrupting Ara’s thoughts. Her eyes dropped to the front door of the brothel and then swung to the alleyway on the left of the building.
She stared, brea
th held, until Caine appeared from the shadows. His arm was wrapped around the shoulders of a short girl draped in a flimsy chemise. Good. He got her.
Ara exhaled a long breath.
Caine quickly ushered the barefoot girl across the street and along the block to the carriage.
Within seconds, he lifted the girl into the carriage and followed, plopping himself down on the bench opposite Ara as the carriage wheels started to roll. Mrs. Merrywent sat up, alert, and Caine lit the interior lantern. Ara gave him a quick glance to make sure he was whole and then turned to the girl.
The girl was whimpering softly and tried jerking away as Ara lifted the red veil covering the girl’s face.
Scared eyes. Terrified. The girl’s head swiveled, darting about for escape.
Ara swallowed hard. This one couldn’t be more than fourteen. They had been getting younger and younger during the past year.
She tamped down on the rage swamping her chest. These first seconds were critical for how the night would unfold.
“Child, you are safe. Safe.” Ara grabbed the girl’s shoulders, dodging her face about to get in front of the girl’s eyes. “You are safe. I swear it. The man that bought you will not touch you. No one here will hurt you. Do you understand?”
The girl wouldn’t focus on Ara, fear swallowing her. Ara gave her a shake, setting her nose almost onto the girl’s face. “No one will harm you. I swear it. I have been where you are, and you have no reason to be frightened. Not anymore. We are taking you away from here, somewhere safe. Do you understand?”
The girl finally looked into Ara’s eyes. One timid nod.
“Good. Good girl. What is your name?”
“Va…Va…Valerie,” the girl stuttered, fighting for her voice.
Ara dropped her hands from the girl’s shoulders, but did not break eye contact with her. The girl had snapped out of her shock, so Ara softened her voice, coddling as much as she could manage as the carriage bumped down the streets. “Valerie, may I cut your ropes? I can untie them, but it will take longer.”
Valerie nodded again.
“I am going to pick up a knife, but I am not going to hurt you with it.”
Ara grabbed the dagger that sat hidden between her thigh and the wall of the carriage. The blade sharp, she worked through the scratchy rope quickly. She tucked the dagger and rope back by her side.
Silent, Caine handed Ara the cloak that had sat next to him on his bench.
Ara wrapped it around the girl, tucking the front of it down to her shins. “Are you hurt, Valerie? Anywhere?”
The girl shook her head.
Ara only half believed her. “Any hurt at all? Now is the time to tell me, Valerie, if you have been. We can call a physician to tend to you if so.”
“No. I be bruised, nothin’ more.” Valerie’s eyes swung from Ara to Caine and back again. “Who—who ye be?”
This was good. The girl wanted to know who they were. It often took hours for that question to arise. “My name is Ara. And we have a few options for you.”
“Options?”
“On what you would like to do next. It is your decision.” Ara smoothed back the thick brown hair that had fallen in front of the girl’s right eye. “We can bring you to your home, wherever you are from, if you think they will accept you back after this. If you do not think that is possible, you can start a new life here in London. I will be your guardian until you are of age to marry or find employment if that is what you would wish.”
Valerie nodded slowly. Ara could see her debating, see how her eyes had tightened when she mentioned the girl’s home. “Have you been away from your home for long? Do you think they will accept you at home after this?”
Slowly, tears rising in Valerie’s doe eyes, she shook her head. Her face dropped, the tears falling to the heavy wool cloak on her lap.
Ara’s arm went around the girl’s shoulders instantly, tucking Valerie against her side. Her free hand stroked the thick hair along the side of the girl’s head. “Then do not think on that, sweet child. You will come home with me and we can discuss everything after you have eaten and slept and taken a hot bath. Then you will think on it when you are ready. Will that do?”
An awkward nod came from Valerie’s huddled form.
Ara squeezed Valerie harder into her hold, letting the girl sob onto her shoulder. Lifting her head, Ara looked across the carriage to Caine.
He had waited in silence, blending into the cushions as he always did. The mere presence of a male in these situations was more than many of the girls could take, so terrorized had they been. So he waited and watched, ready to assist, but never inserted himself into the situation. He had done his part, and now it was Ara’s turn to do hers.
Her eyebrows rose at him, silently asking the question she no longer had to vocalize.
He nodded with shrug. The auction had gone fine—as fine as purchasing a virgin in a brothel could go.
His eyes left hers to stare out past the curtain he had pushed aside.
She stared at Caine’s profile, the strong angular lines of his jaw, the dark hair curling along the back of his loose cravat. He still had the build of an athletic man, his shoulders only broadening during the six years since he had come into her life. His odd blue eyes set off by his strong nose, the tip of it slightly lifting. His was the face she now knew better than her own.
A familiar pit sank into her gut, rubbing it raw.
Ara tried to ignore it. Now, with the girl sobbing on her shoulder, was not the time.
But she could not push the worry from her mind. Something was wrong with Caine. He had barely looked at her tonight on the way to the brothel, and now he was avoiding her stare. A stare that could usually make him flinch—or at least make him groan with a smirk, if nothing else.
A deep sob shook the girl. Ara glanced down at her.
Not the time to wonder on Caine. This was serious business at the moment—it always was. Ara never breathed properly until they were five blocks past Charing Cross.
Whatever had set Caine’s eyes into evading hers could wait.
She would have to pin him down about his avoidance in the morning.
~~~
Ara leaned back in the cushioned chair, letting her shoulder blades sink into the comfort. Her back still knotted in tension from the previous night, she said a silent thanks for the cushion.
She had never once complained about the hard wooden chairs in Caine’s study, but one day two years ago, this chair had appeared to the left of his desk where she always sat when they were discussing business. He had never mentioned its sudden appearance, but she had seen the smile touch the corners of his mouth when she sank into the softness of the light turquoise fabric the first time. Ara was positive it was more comfortable than any chair in her own home and had thought more than once about asking him if she could steal it to the Gilbert Lane townhouse.
Her fingertips tapped along the side of her jaw as she scanned through the neat column of numbers again on the paper, mentally calculating. She leaned forward and set the paper on a pile along the edge of Caine’s behemoth walnut inlaid desk, picking up the next set of expenses from the stack in her lap.
She loved this most in the world—sitting between Caine and the fire, Patch holding down her toes, and the numbers in front of her. There was not a safer place in the world. And her mind could be occupied by the simple black and white of the numbers. No nuances to discover, no agendas hidden, no human cruelty she could not grasp.
Numbers did not lie. Numbers she understood.
She had always been good with mathematics. Her father had given her the task of keeping his ledgers when she was young and he had discovered how good she was with numbers. So while peculiar, the progression of Ara’s involvement in Caine’s affairs had happened naturally over the years. She had continued to help Caine with his correspondence after his brother died. Then his mother had stolen Mr. Riggers to be butler at her townhouse, and Caine had asked Ara to help run his household d
uring the transition. From there, Ara’s involvement grew.
She knew Caine’s household accounts, knew his schedule, and little by little, he asked for her to put extra eyes on the affairs of the estate. Caine’s man-of-affairs had been his father and brother’s, and the man’s eyesight was failing, which also meant that the numbers had started to fail to make sense. Caine’s loyalty to the man meant he needed a covert way to check the numbers, rather than risk his man’s pride by having one of Caine’s stewards involved.
So Caine had enlisted Ara’s help. And years later, Ara was ingrained in all of Caine’s affairs and spent hours with him every day.
Ara blinked the dryness from her eyes and set the last of the papers from her lap onto the desk, looking to Caine. “I only had those few corrections. We are done with these?”
“Yes.” He kept his head down, quill scratching along a piece of vellum.
“Excellent.” She set her elbows wide on the chair’s arms and clasped her hands. “Then I have a new topic to discuss.”
His gaze lifted to her, the first time he had actually looked in her direction since she walked into his study this morning. His eyes instantly widened. “You look…”
Her eyes darted about, wishing there was a mirror in the room to wipe off whatever he saw on her face. “What?”
His head shook, and she could see his eyes try to unsuccessfully flicker away. He blinked hard, his face hardening as he gathered himself from whatever thoughts he was having. “Exceptional. You look exceptional today.”
A flush ran up her neck. Blast it. She hoped she wasn’t glowing outwardly at the compliment.
At least she thought it was a compliment. Maybe she was inferring that merely because she was in love with Caine, and had been for the last six years.
Vow: A Lords of Action Novel Page 6
