by Eliza Knight
When her red hat flew from atop her head with a gust of sultry wind, she didn’t stop to grapple for it but let it go—something she should have done long before now. It was the hat that had her caught in the first place. She should have known better. Did know better. But she refused to think about why she thought it was acceptable to wear it at all, let alone when passing by his house—even if she thought him in the country.
“Elizabeth!” Terrence’s calls for her to stop went unheeded.
She raced down the street, refusing to look back and acknowledge him. Elizabeth jumped out of the way when a carriage driver shouted at her and nearly collided with many a heavily laden wagon. Her heels clipped against the cobblestones of Shaftesbury Avenue onto Charing Cross Road, sloshing in the muck, and stamping on spilled rubbish. She dodged hawkers touting their wares—newspapers, oysters, apples, flowers.
Get away, get away, get away…
Elizabeth had been fully aware of the risk she took by working for another wealthy nobleman near Hyde Park—after all, she had to walk near Terrence’s manse every morning; her “husband’s” family had a blasted road named after them. But for nearly a week, he hadn’t noticed her, and working was not a choice. She needed it. Desperately. Without steady pay, she and Sarah would be homeless, starving—and they were nearly there as it was. The route she’d taken at this new house, just as her previous place of employment was the longer way to avoid his home. But the person who cared for Sarah each morning had been pushing back the time causing Elizabeth to need to rush, which meant taking the shorter route right past him—a tactic made easier when she believed him to be out of town.
Many times over the past two years, she’d thought about seeking him out, if only for relief. But she had principles, even if he thought them nonexistent. But she had a duty to her daughter, and that was the one thing that kept her on the steady path forward, not looking back.
The hat. The blasted hat. It was the only reason she’d been caught, and now poor Sarah would suffer for it. What a fool she’d been to think she could marry such an influential, powerful man and come away from it unscathed. Even if their marriage was a legal farce—and she was well aware of that irony.
Elizabeth was so lost in her head that she didn’t see an oncoming carriage until the horse’s breath swooshed against her forehead. She leapt out of the way a second before she would have been trampled.
“Get out o’ the way, ye strumpet,” the driver called, passing her by with a rude hand signal.
Elizabeth swallowed her shock at being publicly branded a prostitute. She might not be wearing a hat, and her shoes and the hem of her gown were covered in muck, but she…she had once been a countess, even if she was only pretending. Never mind that—every human deserved respect. But she couldn’t let one grumpy driver’s words ruin the rest of her day. Keep your mind on the present.
Her hand pressed to her pounding heart. She needed to pay more attention, or Sarah would suffer the loss of another parent. That thought was enough to scare her more than the exhalation of the horse on her face.
Her throat tightened, forming a lump she could hardly swallow around. Her breaths came in rapid gasps, and she couldn’t seem to even them out. Backing farther from the road, she bumped into one person after another, panic rising.
Without a word of reply at the offensive man or the people she knocked against, Elizabeth slipped into a narrow alleyway, grateful that at least some luck was on her side as it was empty. Her legs shook; she could barely feel her feet. She slumped down onto someone’s stoop, her back leaning against the saggy wood panels, and prayed they wouldn’t open the door until she’d had her cry and gone.
The last time a horse had nearly trampled her had been a situation of her own making—and the moment she’d met Terrence.
Tugging a handkerchief from the inside of her sleeve with shaking fingers, she brought it to her mouth and sucked in air, trying to calm herself. It felt like her heart was in a race against her breath. Ever since she’d moved forward with her plan two years ago, it seemed as though everything was spiraling out of control. Faster and faster until she was scarcely steady on her feet.
What was she doing?
Not just sitting here. But in general. Why was she even still in London? Wouldn’t it have been better to take Sarah to a small, quiet, remote town in Scotland, near her family, away from Terrence? At least there they’d be far enough that there wouldn’t have been the chance to pass by his house or run into him on the street.
Or was there something else at play here? Maybe running into him had been what she secretly hoped for, that he’d find her and…and what? She’d get to live happily ever after?
A great sob shook her then. Happy endings weren’t made for women like her. Not her class. They were meant to work hard and serve the ones who got their happy endings, never to find them for themselves. Part of the reason she’d agreed to leave Scotland with Linden was the hopes he’d filled her with. That life in London would be so much different than the little fishing village they hailed from.
They’d have money and an elegant flat. They’d drink champagnes and have a bath whenever they want.
She was an idiot. A fanciful idiot.
An idiot who had to get to work, or else she’d be fired, and then her darling daughter wouldn’t be fed. Elizabeth didn’t care so much if she herself starved, but she had a duty to see her daughter wasn’t tormented by her parents’ faults.
The window beside her banged open, and whoever was within the building tossed out the contents of a chamber pot onto the alley cobblestones. The stench was overpowering. Elizabeth was lucky to jerk out of the way before anything landed on her skirts.
“What are you doin’ there?” a woman shouted. “Get off my steps, else I toss another pot on your ’ead.”
Elizabeth didn’t doubt that she would; she’d seen it done plenty of times before. She didn’t waste any time bounding up and hurrying away. Slipping, hopefully unnoticed, through the streets and alleyways, she arrived at the back of the great house and through the servant’s entrance unscathed of body, though she was of mind.
“You’re late,” the head housekeeper said, hands on her hips and the pinch of her face sharp enough to cut glass. “I ought to fire you for it.”
“Apologies.” Elizabeth gripped her gown and curtsied, keeping her gaze respectfully on the floor and hiding her teary eyes in case there were questions. “I had an unfortunate incident with a horse.”
“Pay attention next time. We don’t need no trouble here, and maids must keep to their time, else we’ll find someone who can.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Elizabeth curtsied again and then slipped on her apron, grabbing her cleaning supplies and hurrying to the nursery to begin cleaning.
Throughout the entirety of her workday, she dusted, mopped, scrubbed, made beds, gathered laundry, sweating at the intensity of the work that needed to be done. But her mind was not in this house. Her mind was in Hyde Park, years before, wondering if she hadn’t tossed herself in front of Terrence’s horse if he would have noticed her in the end.
5
Terrence stood in the street a long time, the red hat in his hands, staring into the crowds of moving people, hoping to spot a glimpse of his wife. He stationed a man at his gate too, in case she walked past. But there’d been no further sign of her. Where was she going that she passed his house each day?
Elizabeth—the woman he’d fallen in love with, courted for months, and then married, thinking he’d been gifted the greatest of happiness—had been Linden’s wife? Terrence had thought her dead. Kidnapped. Abused. Lost to him forever.
And this whole time, she’d been in London and letting him believe a lie. More than one lie, to be exact.
Terrence was still reeling from what Elizabeth had revealed. He’d not heard from Linden in over two years. The dockhand had taken a hefty chest of silver to deliver to a supplier and never returned. Terrence had sent out men to look for him, but Linden had never
turned up—and neither did the silver.
But with no trace of his employee, Terrence had concluded, as had the Bow Street Runners, that Linden had taken the coin—worth more than the man would have seen in his lifetime—and run, probably back to Scotland. It wasn’t like Linden to do such a thing, but desperate men did desperate things, and Terrence had no real idea of his social life—as clearly evidenced now.
For months after the incident, Terrence had funded the Runners to scour all of London, and even sent a man to Edinburgh. What he didn’t understand was how Terrence had ended up marrying Linden’s wife—and nobody knew a thing about it!
A staggering pain seized his chest. He wasn’t truly married to her. Not if Linden were still alive. Terrence had to stop thinking of her as his, for she wasn’t. Had she been merely a ruse to keep him blind to the heist Linden had been planning?
And just where in bloody hell was the thief?
“James!” Terrence shouted.
His valet slipped into the room from the hallway leading towards the kitchen. James was always near, his job including many more duties than that expected of a simple valet. “Yes, my lord?”
“Go down to Bow Street and speak with Smith. Tell him to help you pick up his search of
Linden. Tell him we’ve had a lead, and explain to him that my wife—sorry, no—that Linden’s wife was here this morning. Her name is Elizabeth Markum.” It pained him to say her name paired with Linden’s.
It would for the rest of his days, he imagined. Every time he thought of her, heard a similar name, saw the color red, his lying little wife would come to mind. And the heartbreak that came along with it.
James nodded, and Terrence watched from the window as his valet left the house and went through the gate. Soon, he’d have answers, and hopefully, the thief would be in jail.
When Elizabeth had left Terrence, she’d taken the hat and several banknotes supposedly for the milliner’s shop, but other than that, nothing else had been missing. She hadn’t stolen from him, only broken his heart.
Now that he knew her husband was the man who’d pilfered the chest of silver right out from under his nose, it seemed silly that she’d only bothered with a few notes. What had her ultimate plan been? Knowing what a conniving heart she had, Terrence couldn’t help but wonder what she was up to now. She’d been so calculated, not to be found in the last two years. Why, all of a sudden, had she popped up into his vision? It had to be on purpose, of that he was certain.
Good God, the questions skittering through his brain set him on edge. He stormed into his library and poured another finger of liquid fire, then another, forgetting to measure and pulling at least three times what he needed. Walking towards the window, he looked out at the bustling streets, now fully alive.
Another ten minutes this morning, and he would have missed her, the city swallowing her whole.
“My lord,” his housekeeper, Mrs. Ball, interrupted.
“What is it?” Terrence said, without bothering to turn away from the window.
“A Lord Ainsley is here to see you.”
“Ainsley?” Though he’d heard of the man, Terrence was not an associate of his, and he had never conversed with him other than casual remarks at the club when he occasionally made an appearance. What could he want?
Mrs. Ball stood patiently, waiting.
“Send him in.” Terrence set the tumbler on the mantle and turned, prepared to greet his unwanted guest with a glower for not being able to drown his confusion and his bruised ego.
Lord Ainsley burst into the library in a cloud of bluster. “I say, Lord Shaftesbury, what have you done with my new maid?”
“Pardon me, sir, I’ve not the faintest clue what you’re talking about.” They’d not hired any new staff lately, so it wasn’t as if he’d stolen a maid out from under him.
Ainsley railed his fist in the air, the man’s white hair waving with force in time with his loose jowls. “Mrs. Markum. I saw your man pull her in here on my way home from the park. What did you do with her?”
Markum. Linden’s—Elizabeth’s—surname. Bitter envy scorched its way up to his throat.
“I did nothing with her. Mistaken identity, ’tis all. She went on her way. You’ve nothing to worry about on my account.”
Ainsley wagged his finger and narrowed his bushy brows. “Your man accosted her. I know what I saw.”
“I do not doubt you believe what you saw, Ainsley. But I assure you, there’s been no accosting of anyone. Now, if you please.” Terrence waved toward the door, rejecting the man. He had some drinking to do. He picked up the tumbler, feeling the effects of the whisky and wanting to drown in it.
“Are you dismissing me, sir?” Ainsley asked, clearly exasperated. The older man’s ruddy face grew three shades darker and spittle flew from his lips. Quite disgusting.
“Indeed, Ainsley. It’s been a pleasure getting to know you this morning, and if I should happen to see your maid, I will be certain to send her to her post and also be certain she does not feel she was accosted.”
Maid—his wife, a servant.
Not his wife, a fact Terrence needed to come to terms with.
When she’d leapt in front of his horse—her cheeks rosy against the cream of her skin, her blue eyes wide and frightened, her flowing hair silky and shiny—she had—mesmerized him. He’d yanked on the reins, terrified as his horse reared, front paws clawing at the air only inches from her face. Her voice had been soft music to his ears, and, despite her ratty clothes and the trouncing society would give them, he’d known then that she was the one for him.
Terrence had never been one to follow society's edicts. He only occasionally went to his gentleman’s clubs. He did his duties for the House of Lords, maintained his properties as he should, but his true passion lay in his business: ship building. Not just any old ships, though. Terrence built luxury ships. And it was a very lucrative business, one he’d constructed from the ground up. And he loved every aspect of it, making sure he was involved in all parts, involved with his men.
Not involved enough.
At the dock that cold wintry morning three years earlier, when snow had fallen, and the men’s breath looked like the smoke coming from the ship’s pipes, Terrence had spotted Linden stacking crates. The man was diligent, productive. And despite the chill of the morning, he labored as though it were a pleasant spring day, his eyes filled with determination. Terrence offered him a job on the spot. He needed someone like Linden Markum to work for him, to put that fiery spirit inside his other employees.
Terrence clearly hadn’t known the darker side of Linden—or that the man would swindle him. How was he supposed to know? He’d seemed perfectly respectable. A good, hard worker. Was Terrence supposed to question everyone's morals—judging them guilty before really finding out if they were?
Worst still, he hadn’t known the man to be so devious that he’d involve his wife in the con. Whatever the extent of the scheme was.
More fool, Terrence.
Forgetting Elizabeth would be difficult but necessary. And he couldn’t wait to put this nasty business behind him. The Runners should have more information soon—and now that he knew where Elizabeth worked, he would make sure the Runners were there every day, following her.
6
The stairs to the little tenement in Charing Cross, which Elizabeth had rented for her and Sarah with the last coins to her name, smelled of overcooked cabbage and spilled gin—along with other unmentionable odors.
She climbed up the four flights, feet crying out for relief, her head heavy and her eyes still stinging with the tears that hadn’t ceased since she’d seen Terrence the day before. Her fingers were clutched by her young daughter, who’d spent the day helping the building owner and his wife maintain the building. It wasn’t at all what a five-year-old child should be doing, but it was necessary to get by. And little Sarah wouldn’t have been the first child to do it, either. There was a gaggle of them.
The thing that scared
Elizabeth the most was that Mrs. Crum had started to hint that Sarah was becoming old enough to start working with the other chimney sweeps. If her child were forced to work in the cramped, soot-laden chimneys, it would condemn her to an early death. Perhaps it was time she thought about moving back to Scotland. Not that life there would be any better. Her parents barely had enough to eat when she’d left them years ago—Elizabeth didn’t even know if they were still alive.
“Mummy, I’m hungry,” Sarah murmured, her voice tired as she wiped her nose on her sleeve.
“I’ll fix ye supper, then we both need to go to bed.”
Sarah nodded, stifling a too large yawn. Since when did her daughter agree to go to bed early? The poor girl had probably been worked to the point of exhaustion.
“I’ll tell ye a story, too, if ye eat all your supper.”
“Yes, please do, Mummy.” A little spark of light came into her sweet eyes then.
“How was your visit with Mr. and Mrs. Crum today?”
Sarah shrugged, about all the answer she usually got, unless her daughter had been asked to do something different—like the chimneys. So the shrug today was a good sign.
They reached the door, and just as Elizabeth inserted the key, someone spoke from behind her in a deep voice. “Mrs. Markum.”
Elizabeth jumped, dropping her key, and Sarah cried out in surprise. Terrence’s valet, James, lurked in the shadowy corner several feet from her doorway. No wonder she hadn’t seen him.
“What do ye want?” she asked, holding tighter to Sarah, who sank closer to her mother’s hip, folding her body in the safety of Elizabeth’s skirts.
