by Anna Bradley
“I, ah…perhaps you’d better take me to my carriage, my lord. If you could return to the supper box to fetch my grandmother for me afterward, I’d be grateful.”
Samuel looked into her dark blue eyes, and shame washed over him. He’d just pawed a young lady in a public garden, had nearly taken her, on a stone bench at Vauxhall.
“Emma. I shouldn’t have…I beg your pardon for—”
“I think it’s best if I don’t return to fetch her myself.” She raised a hand to her tousled hair. “I’m afraid I must look…quite wild.”
She laughed a little, then reached up to tuck one of the loose locks behind her ear with a self-conscious gesture that hit Samuel like a blow to the gut. “Emma.” He took a step toward her, but froze again when she held her hand up to stop him.
“Please tell my grandmother I was taken with a bout of dizziness, and felt too ill to return to our box.”
“I don’t like to leave you alone in your carriage while I fetch your grandmother.” It was a paltry excuse, but everything inside him rebelled at the thought of coolly delivering her to her carriage, and then abandoning her.
It felt wrong. Dismissive.
“It’s all right, my lord. Our coachman is very good, and will take care of me until my grandmother arrives.”
Samuel wanted to beg her to return to the supper box with him, but she looked so small and fragile sitting there in the shadows that he couldn’t bring himself to argue with her.
So he did the only thing he could do. He held out his arm to her, and led her out of the Dark Walk, avoiding the bright, crowded parts of the garden. The silent walk to the Coach Gate seemed to take far longer than it ever had before, but at last they made it through the archway and onto Kennington Lane.
Lady Crosby’s coachman saw them coming. He leapt down from the box and stalked toward them, a hulking figure in the darkness, but it wasn’t until the light fell on his face that the hair on Samuel’s neck rose in warning.
He’d seen the man before, but never as close as this.
Christ, he looked like a murderer escaped from Newgate.
Samuel caught Emma’s hand, stopping her. “Lady Emma, I don’t think—”
“It’s all right, Lord Lymington. He’s harmless to me, despite his, er…menacing appearance.” Emma tried to tug her hand free of his, but Samuel held her fast as he sized up the threatening coachman with narrowed eyes.
“Let the lass go, Lymington,” the man growled, his enormous arms bulging as he crossed them over his chest. “Now.”
Samuel didn’t let her go, but stared the man down. “I don’t take orders from you.”
The man took a threatening step toward him, and things might have gotten ugly, indeed, if Emma hadn’t intervened. “Please, Lord Lymington. You promised me you’d fetch my grandmother for me.”
Samuel gazed down into those big, dark blue eyes, at those red, trembling lips, and reluctantly released her hand.
“Wise choice, my lord.” The coachman held out a hand to Emma. “Come on then, lass.”
Samuel watched them go, somewhat mollified by the gentle way the brute took Emma’s arm to lead her to the carriage, but his heart gave a curiously miserable thump as she vanished inside, and the coachman closed the door behind her.
Chapter Sixteen
Emma pulled her hood low to hide her face, sweat trickling down the back of her neck even in the cool evening air. If any aristocrats happened to see her wandering around Covent Garden alone at night, searching for a courtesan turned street prostitute, her brief time as Lady Crosby’s virtuous granddaughter would come to an abrupt and final end.
She was amazed it hadn’t already.
A lady could only tempt the wrath of fate so many times before the consequences caught up to her. This wasn’t the first foolish risk Emma had taken in the last few weeks, but it could well be the last.
Yet she kept pushing forward along the edges of Tavistock Row, until she was steps away from the glare of lights emanating from the gaming hells arrayed on King and Henrietta Streets like a row of rotten teeth. She could hear the shouts and drunken laughter from here, the shuffle of feet, the low buzz of fortunes being won, then lost again.
Emma kept her head down as she headed west toward Brydges Street. She was dimly aware she was muttering nervously to herself, prayers and curses both—prayers that Helena was still in the alley behind Drury Lane Theater where Clarissa said she’d last been seen, and curses on Helena’s name for putting herself in danger again and ending up here on the London streets, the very place Emma had begged her not to go.
Only this time, it was worse. So much worse, because while Helena was accustomed to managing drunken rakes, a kidnapper and murderer was another sort of beast altogether. Whoever had taken Caroline Francis might be searching for Helena even now, and the reckless girl had just made it easier to find her.
Not just find her, but hurt her.
Fear flooded Emma’s throat, choking her. Dear God, how could Helena not have seen how much danger she’d put herself in? Once a woman found herself down here in the seamiest part of London, it was very difficult to rise to the surface again. Emma could grab Helena by the hair and wrench her from the muck only so many times before Helena sank to the bottom forever.
Then again, Amy and Kitty had met their disastrous fates in the countryside, at Lord Lymington’s grand estate, a place where they should have been safe.
For a certain sort of lady, no place was ever safe, even under the best of circumstances, but for Helena to venture onto these streets alone, in the dark, with a conscienceless villain after her?
They were not the best of circumstances.
But Emma wouldn’t think of that now, nor would she think of the promises she’d made, not only to Lady Crosby and Lady Clifford, but to herself, and to Amy and Kitty, who hadn’t done anything to deserve the awful fate that had befallen them.
Drury Lane Theatre was dark, the play having let out already, but tight knots of gentlemen were still hanging about, some of them lounging in front of the theater, others making their way down Russel Street toward the mayhem on offer closer to the center of Covent Garden.
Emma kept to the dark corners of the streets, her gaze darting this way and that. Where there were drunken gentlemen with coins to spare there would always be women, gliding through the darkness like spirits, smiling, whispering, luring. Offering.
There was no telling how long it would take before Helena turned up, but Emma would keep searching for her until she did. All she had to do was stay out of sight, and pray to God no one would see—
“Tempting fate again, I see. Was the Dark Walk not dangerous enough for you, Emma? Whatever ugliness you might encounter there is, admittedly, nothing in comparison to the dangers lurking in Covent Garden at night.”
Emma froze at the low hiss in her ear, the voice much closer than it should have been. If she’d been paying proper attention to her surroundings, she would have heard footsteps approach well before he got close enough to be heard in whispers.
Covent Garden at night was not the place to become distracted, but she knew this voice, recognized the touch on her arm, and before she could forbid it, relief flooded through her, so profound her knees shook with it.
“Is that sinister coachman of yours in the habit of letting you wander about the London streets at night, without protection?”
He was not. Emma had been obliged to argue herself hoarse to get Daniel to agree to head north, toward Long Acre, then loop back on Drury Lane. If it had been anything less than Helena’s life hanging in the balance, there wasn’t a chance he’d have left her side. “Don’t blame Daniel.”
Samuel dragged a hand down his face, sighing. “Why are you here, Emma?”
“I might ask you the same question, my lord. Did you follow me?”
“Of course I followed you. I’ve ma
de quite a habit of it of late.” He took her arm, as if he were certain she’d attempt to flee, and was determined not to let her slip away from him this time. “Let’s try this again, shall we? What are you doing in Covent Garden, alone, at night?”
Emma hesitated. Samuel was already much deeper into this business than she wanted him, but once again, she couldn’t quite bring herself to lie to him.
Or perhaps it was just that she didn’t want to do this alone, and he…
He hadn’t lied to her yet, or pretended to be someone he wasn’t. To another person his honesty might have been of little consequence, but to her, it was…everything.
So for the third time in as long as she could remember, Emma told him the truth.
Not all of it, but enough.
“Helena went missing from the Pink Pearl last night after an incident with Lord Peabody. It wasn’t her first offense, and Madame Marchand isn’t a patient woman.” Nor a forgiving one. God knew Madame hadn’t forgiven Emma for escaping her clutches five years ago, and now Helena was being made to pay for Emma’s sins.
“Madame Marchand has parted ways with Miss Reeves?” Samuel’s tone was grim. For all that he was an aristocrat with a grand townhouse in Mayfair and an estate in Kent, he was under no illusions about how an unprotected woman fared on the London streets.
“If by parted ways you mean Madame has tossed Helena onto the street without any means of protecting herself, and doubtless without a shred of remorse, then yes, my lord. They’ve parted ways.”
Emma sucked in a breath of the cool night air to steady herself, but she could hear the fear in her own voice, the bitterness that always lurked under the surface, like a sour aftertaste.
It could have been me, so easily…but for Lady Clifford, it would have been me.
“Is that why you followed Lord Peabody into the gardens tonight? What did you hope to accomplish?” Samuel spoke calmly, but anger vibrated just beneath the surface. “Did you think you could force an apology from him, or make him sorry for what he’d done? Men like Peabody aren’t ever sorry for anything, Emma.”
“I didn’t follow him.” Not precisely, anyway. “I was following Clarissa, one of the courtesans who was with him.”
In truth, Emma hadn’t taken any time to reason it out before she’d slipped away from Samuel. When she saw Lord Peabody drinking and laughing without a care in the world while Helena was wandering the streets, prey to every blackguard in London, she hadn’t thought at all. She’d simply reacted. “I thought she could tell me if anyone had seen Helena. At the moment, that’s all that matters to me.”
He gazed down at her with some emotion Emma couldn’t read in his dark eyes. She thrust her chin up, expecting him to argue with her, but he only said, “Very well. Where do we start?”
Emma opened her mouth, but any protests she might have made withered on her tongue. It wasn’t that she trusted him—she didn’t trust many people, least of all a haughty nobleman. It was just that the overwhelming bulk of him, his commanding presence were…reassuring.
“On Drury Lane, behind the theatre. Clarissa told me another one of the courtesans from the Pink Pearl saw Helena here earlier this evening.”
He nodded, and together they ducked around the corner of the theatre, his hand still wrapped firmly around her upper arm, but aside from a few drunken noblemen wandering about, there was no one there.
Emma wandered from White Horse Yard down as far as Blackmoor Street, peering into every shadowy alcove and around every corner, her hopes dimming with every step. Helena might be anywhere by now, and with each moment that passed, she was in greater danger.
Please, please let us find her…
She made her way back to the corner of Drury Lane and Princes Street where she’d left Samuel, but as she drew closer to him, she noticed he’d gone still, his face tense, his head turned toward Stanhope Street. “Samuel? Are you—”
That was as far as Emma got before he exploded into motion, his heels striking the street, his long legs devouring the distance between Princes Street and Hartford Place.
“Samuel!” Emma ran after him, her heart rushing into her throat.
He didn’t slow at her frantic shriek, but charged passed Hartford Place, ducking instead down the dark, narrow alleyway that led to Bennets Court, a tiny courtyard surrounded on all sides by buildings.
“Samuel, wait!” Emma shot after him, stumbling on the hem of her skirts, but within seconds he was already out of sight. “Samuel?” She came to a breathless halt at the mouth of the alleyway and peered inside. It was dark, so dark, but she thought she saw a flash of movement, then the echoing sound of footsteps, a thud of heels on gritty streets, running—
Emma jumped as a terrified scream rent the air, her heart nearly bursting from her chest. It was coming from the direction of the courtyard beyond, so bloodcurdling every hair on Emma’s neck rose in reaction.
That voice, she knew it—
“Helena!” Emma didn’t hear her own shout, didn’t feel her feet slapping against the filthy street as she dashed down the alleyway, only to come to a screeching halt in the middle of the courtyard, her mouth falling open in shock.
Samuel had a howling, thrashing, clawing Helena in his arms. She was incoherent with panic, her face smeared with dirt, the shoulder torn clean off her dress, her lip rapidly swelling, and her neck…
Emma froze in horror.
Bruises, the size and shape of a man’s fingers circled her neck.
Bile flooded Emma’s throat, but she choked it back and darted forward, her arms outstretched. Helena, who was too overwrought to tell the difference between her attacker and her rescuer, was growing more hysterical by the moment, and Samuel wisely relinquished her into Emma’s arms.
“Helena! Helena, it’s me!” After a struggle Emma managed to grab Helena’s chin and force her to still. “Look at me, Helena! It’s Emma.”
“Emma?” Helena’s eyes stopped their panicked rolling, and she snatched at Emma as if she were drowning, her fingernails sinking into Emma’s forearms.
“Yes, dearest. It’s all right. You’re all right.”
Emma patted and crooned and soothed until at last Helena calmed enough to loosen her death grip, whereupon she immediately burst into a storm of hysterical tears.
“I…he grabbed me, Emma, and dragged me—” Helena looked wildly around her. “Dragged me here, and it’s so dark, and I…I tried to scream, but he put his hand over my mouth, and no one could hear me!”
“I know, dearest, I know, but you’re all right now, you see?” Helena wasn’t all right, but against all odds, she wasn’t dead, and for now, for this moment, Emma could only feel gratitude for that small mercy.
The anger, the ugly, all-consuming bitterness and fury would come later.
It always did.
Helena grasped Emma’s shoulders with desperate fingers. “The pendant, Emma! You remember, I told you about the pendant? He crept up behind me, so I didn’t see his face, but it was him, the same man who took Caroline! He demanded the pendant, b-but I don’t have it! When I didn’t g-give it to him, h-he grabbed me by the neck, and he…he…”
“Shh. Calm down, and let me take you to Daniel.”
But Helena was beyond listening, and the words kept tumbling from her bruised lips. “It wasn’t Lord Lovell, Emma! We were wrong about him. This man is much bigger, much taller. Lord Lovell didn’t take those girls from Lymington House…w-we made a mistake.”
Emma squeezed her eyes closed, praying with everything inside her Samuel hadn’t heard Helena’s words, or by some miracle hadn’t understood them, but before she could even turn her head to look at him, she felt him go unnaturally still beside her.
Helena was still clutching at Emma and babbling incoherently, but Emma didn’t see her, didn’t hear her. For an instant everything went silent as she turned to face Samuel. H
e was staring at her, his face white but for the blood trickling from his nose, where Helena had struck him with her elbow.
“Lovell? You thought Lovell had…”
He trailed off into silence, but Emma could see the wheels turning behind those dark gray eyes, see him fitting the pieces together.
Emma’s flirtation with Lovell, her interest in Caroline Francis, the snatches of conversation Samuel had overheard between Emma and Helena that first night at the Pink Pearl, the lie she’d told Lady Tremaine to escape the picnic, and later that night, when Samuel had seen her at the brothel once again…
In the time it took Emma to draw a breath, it went from bad to worse. Samuel’s jaw hardened, his hands clenching into fists. Somehow, Emma knew he was recalling their interlude in the rose garden, their yearning kisses in his carriage, their stolen passion at Vauxhall tonight, and drawing his conclusions.
The wrong conclusions, but before he’d even said a word, she knew he wouldn’t ever believe the kisses they’d shared, the tender moments between them had happened for no other reason than she wanted them.
Wanted him.
When he looked at her again, his eyes had gone ice cold.
“Emma?” A shaking hand clutched at Emma’s sleeve, and she turned to find Helena staring at her, her dark eyes filled with tears. “I shouldn’t have said that about Lord Lovell. I’m sorry.”
In all the time Emma had known Helena, she’d never once seen her cry. If Helena’s swollen lip and torn gown hadn’t been enough to make Emma hold her tongue, Helena’s tears should have been, but the look in Samuel’s eyes, the accusation there, the pain—everything rose up at once in Emma’s breast, every raw, painful, ugly emotion, and the next thing she knew she’d opened her mouth, and it was too late.
“You promised me, Helena.”
Helena’s face crumpled for an instant, but the anguish was there and then gone as quickly as a flash of lightning, sullen defiance in its place. “It was bound to happen, Emma. Madame Marchand despises me. She’s been looking for a reason to turn me out, and—”
