Was her birth a reason for celebration and her death a cause for mourning…
She would have had a proper burial, of course. A church service, prayers uttered at her grave. That was, of course, if there had been a body to bury…
He needed to see the vicar.
* * *
Ernest heaved open the church’s heavy oak door and stepped into the stillness. Though he attended services here at St. Stephen’s each Sunday, he couldn’t remember the last time he had seen the place empty like this. There was something calming about the silence. Something calming about the way the sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting colored shadows on the floor. He drew in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of candle smoke.
He made his way toward the vestry, his shoes clicking rhythmically on the tiled floor. He had known the vicar, Reverend Williamson, his entire life. Trusted him to answer his questions honestly.
Trusted him with his secrets.
But before he reached the vestry, a younger man stepped out into the church, dressed in customary black robes.
He smiled at Ernest. “Good day, My Lord.”
Ernest hesitated. “Reverend Williamson. Is he here?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. But he’ll be here tomorrow to meet with one of his parishioners about an upcoming wedding. Perhaps you might come by in the morning?”
Ernest felt his heart sink. He had charged here full of restless energy and he needed answers now. He forced a smile. “I’ll do that. Thank you.”
Disappointed, he made his way back to the manor.
Perhaps I’ll go to the coffee house this afternoon. Seek out a little intelligent conversation. Perhaps I’ll call on Archie.
Ernest smiled wryly to himself. Whether or not Archie Worthington could deliver intelligent conversation was still under debate.
Still, he’d take anything to distract him from the chaos inside his head. Anything to distract him from the blonde-haired beauty who would not leave his mind.
As he approached the manor gates, he stopped walking. Approaching the house from the opposite direction was one of his father’s footmen, Jones. His head was down, and his hands were dug into the pockets of a dark greatcoat.
Strange. In almost thirty years, I’ve never seen Jones outside the house.
He allowed himself a faint chuckle. Surely, not so strange. The man had a life outside of serving his father, Ernest was sure, even if he had never considered it before.
But would my father release a footman from his duties in the middle of the day?
Jones gave him a curt nod as he approached the gates. “My Lord.” His voice was husky and clipped, as though irritated at being seen.
Ernest nodded in response. “Good day, Jones.” He forced a smile. “Has my father sent you to run his errands?”
Jones’ lips quirked into a thin smile that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Something like that, sir.”
The footman slipped through the gates and marched toward the house with his head down, leaving Ernest in his wake.
Chapter 27
Rachel could see Burns waiting at the corner of the street.
He was dressed in the long black coat he had been wearing the day before, his hands clasped behind his back. She could see his eyes darting back and forth as he waited for her, as though keeping an eye on the street for any people he knew.
She’d seen this many times, of course. Men waiting in the shadows or huddling in the corner of the tavern, praying they’d not be seen taking an escort to their room.
Rachel had always found this behavior slightly strange. Men from every rung of society had sought her company, had sought the company of the other women at the White Lion. Some did it openly, others whispered behind their hands. But in a world where love for one’s wife was all too rare, it was no secret that taking an escort was a widely-done thing. Why should a man be ashamed of doing that which every other man around him was doing?
If you’re the escort, Rachel found herself thinking, then you’ve a reason to be ashamed…
She wrestled the thought from her head.
I do what I do to survive. I’ve no choice. And besides, I’ll be done with it all soon.
She pinned her eyes on Burns, letting herself think of the coins that were no doubt jangling in his money pouch.
Tonight, she was wearing her new underskirts. She had bought them brand new from a dressmaker in Clerkenwell. She’d had no thought that skirts could be so brilliantly white. She felt sure it was the first item of clothing she’d ever owned that had not previously belonged to somebody else. Even as a child, when there’d been a little money floating around her father’s house, she’d still worn clothes outgrown by the other children on the street.
“No point spending the money on something we don’t need”, her mother had always said. “Why buy something new when we’ve got perfectly fine dresses right here?”
But new clothes, Rachel was coming to realize, was something she did need. There was something so satisfying about wearing skirts that had never been worn by anyone else. They made her feel strangely worthy. Made her feel as though she was worth more than taking a stranger to her room for a quick servicing. The feel of the new skirts against her legs made her believe she had a chance of finding work in an honest, decent job.
But as worthy as she felt, it didn’t change the fact that there was a man waiting on the corner for her. That honest, decent job would have to wait just a little longer.
Sucking in her breath, she smoothed her crimson skirts and made her way toward him, shoulders back and chin held high.
The last time, she told herself.
This will be the last time I ever have to do this.
She plastered on her most charming smile. “Good evening, Mr. Burns.”
He gave her a short nod. In the dim light of the street lamps, the lines on his face seemed accentuated. “Miss Turner.”
His voice was stiff and unfriendly. He had been this way the previous night too. Cold and distant. She would have assumed herself not to his liking if it weren’t for the ludicrous sum he’d paid for her company.
Determined not to lose the opportunity for such a payment, Rachel didn’t let her smile falter. She waited for him to offer her his arm. Instead, he dug into his pocket and produced a handful of coins.
“Two pounds,” he said gruffly, pressing them into her hand. “And two pounds at the end of the night.”
Rachel took the money and slid it into her pocket. “Thank you.”
Money for a new dress. Money for new underskirts.
Money for a new life.
“In exchange,” Burns told her firmly, “you will do all that I ask.”
Rachel swallowed. She could feel her heart beginning to quicken. “And what exactly do you intend to ask of me, sir?”
He fixed her with hard eyes, unsmiling. “Nothing I’m sure you’ve not been asked before.”
Rachel nodded. She was sure the man was right. Three years as an escort had led her to experience more quirks and fetishes than she had ever thought were possible.
Money for a new life, she reminded herself.
“Very well, sir. Shall we?” she asked finally.
Burns nodded. “I’ve a coach waiting.”
She took his half-heartedly offered arm and walked with him toward the carriage. He opened the door for her and helped her inside, before climbing onto the bench beside her.
The carriage was lavishly decorated, with plush velvet benches and neat, elaborate paintwork. It reminded Rachel of the coach she had ridden to the theater in with Mr. Jackson. She felt an unbidden rush of desire.
Burns rapped loudly on the wall of the carriage, signaling for the driver to leave.
Rachel fluttered her lashes. “Where are we going?”
Finally, a thin smile. “That’s no concern of yours.”
She gave an airy giggle. “I do love surprises.”
She felt her stomach roll. She tried to peer
through the window, but the blinds were pulled low and she could see little but passing grey flashes of the city.
“A coffee house?” she ventured, desperate to fill the wordlessness. “The opera perhaps?” She giggled again, hearing the strain in her laugh. She wondered if Burns could hear it too.
“Like I said,” he barked, “it’s no concern of yours.” This time, there was no smile.
Rachel felt the back of her neck prickle. Suddenly, she wanted to be anywhere but this coach.
To hell with the money.
She would find another way to earn what she needed.
She glanced out the window again. The coach was moving steadily, but not quickly. What would happen if she were to throw open the door and hurl herself into the street? A few cuts and bruises, perhaps, but surely she would survive.
Did he lock the carriage door?
She eyed the latch.
Before she had a chance to act, the carriage came to an abrupt stop. Rachel felt herself lurch forward.
“We’re here,” Burns said. He threw open the door and it thudded heavily against the wall of the carriage.
She waited for him to offer her his hand. When it was not forthcoming, she gripped her skirts in her fist and climbed carefully from the coach. The street was dark and narrow, barely wide enough for the carriage to fit. The bustle of the inner city had been replaced by a hollow stillness. She could hear the distant clatter of hooves. A dog barked in a nearby alley.
Burns made his way to the box seat and mumbled to the driver. And there was the snap of reins and the coach disappeared around the corner, leaving her and her client alone.
The clattering of the carriage faded and disappeared. Rachel pulled her cloak tight around her body, gripped with a sudden chill.
She looked about her, trying to determine where she was.
Is that the spire of St. Bartholomew’s rising between those roofs?
The street was lined with brick and stone houses, each more crumbling than the last. Some were leaning so sharply they seemed to be holding each other up. The single street lamp on the corner flickered in the wind, making grim shadows dance over the cobbles.
“Where are we?” Rachel’s voice felt trapped in her throat.
He gave her a thin smile. “My lodgings.”
Rachel swallowed. “Your lodgings?”
“Yes. It’s always been my greatest desire to have a beautiful young woman in my home. I’ve never before had the opportunity.” His words were stiff and controlled.
He strode up to the front door of the house on the corner and wrenched the handle. The door opened with a groan, revealing a lightless hallway.
Rachel thought of Burns’ silk scarf. Thought of his luxurious carriage and the money in his pocket. Either he was an accomplished thief, or he had been lying when he’d told her he lived in this dilapidated hovel.
She looked up warily at the crumbling façade. One of the windows on the second story had been boarded up, and she could see remnants of white paint flecked across the front of the house. A carved stone face loomed over the front door, its features worn by countless years of wind and rain. It reminded Rachel of the gargoyles she had seen on some of the city’s older churches. She shivered.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Burns. I don’t wish to go in there. Perhaps we might go somewhere else.” She tried to force a steadiness into her voice. “The Montague Hotel perhaps? Or I’ll happily take you to the White Lion. It can’t be far from here.”
Burns turned to look at her, fixing her with his cold eyes. “I paid you well,” he said coldly. “And you assured me you’d do all that I asked.” He stepped closer and she caught a hint of brandy on his breath. “This is what I’m asking.”
Rachel dug into her pocket and held out his coins. “Take them,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I’m sorry. I ain’t going in there.”
Burns looked down at the coins glinting in her palm. Then he looked slowly back up at her. Rachel’s heart hammered against her ribs.
Run.
Seized with desperation, she turned and raced back down the dark street, her skirts held in fistfuls above her knees. She heard footsteps behind her, getting closer, getting louder.
She kept running. Her lungs felt as though they were on fire.
Closer came the footsteps. Louder still.
Burns reached into the dark and snatched her arm, yanking her back toward him. Rachel tried to scream, but she felt strangely unable to make a sound. She thrashed wildly, her breath coming out fast and furious. Burns pulled against her arm, dragging her back along the slippery cobblestones.
“Help me!” Rachel managed. “Someone help me please!” Her voice disappeared into the emptiness of the street.
Burns yanked her closer and shoved a hand over her mouth. As he did so, she lurched toward him, bringing her knee swiftly to his groin.
He hollered in pain and released his grip on her. Rachel ran and ran without looking back.
Chapter 28
Rachel ran until her lungs blazed and her legs were aching.
She wove through alleyways and along streets lined with locked-up shops and houses. She wove through drunkards stumbling out of taverns, and two young boys chasing a ball along the street. Finally, when she could run no further, she leaned back against the wall of an apothecary and gulped down her breath, tugging at her stays so she might fill her lungs.
Has he followed me?
Around her, the street was still. Somewhere inside a house, she could hear a baby wailing. The street lamps flickered as a gust of wind tunneled through the street.
She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to slow her racing heart.
I can’t stay here. He could be right behind me.
She looked about her. These streets of the east usually felt so crammed and noisy. People on every corner, spilling from every doorway. How was it possible she might suddenly be so alone?
Where can I go?
The streets around the White Lion would be busier, she knew. There would be drunkards and beggars lining the roads, voices bouncing across alley walls. But return to the tavern and Burns would know exactly where to look. Her apartment? No, she knew she’d not feel safe alone. Besides, she had felt herself being watched from her tenement many times.
What if it had been Burns following her? What if he knew where she lived?
Seized with fresh terror, Rachel began to run again. Where she was going, she had no thought. She only knew she needed to move. Slowly, the streets grew familiar. Busier. She was on the outskirts of Bethnal Green, she realized. Follow that road and it would take her to the White Lion. Follow this, and she would end up at Betsey’s bakery.
Rachel grabbed her skirts in her fist and hurried toward her friend’s shop.
In the late night, the bakery was empty. Rachel knew it would be several hours yet until Betsey and her husband awoke to begin making the bread.
She thumped loudly on the narrow door beside the shop that led up to their living quarters.
Silence.
She knocked again, harder. “Betsey! Let me in! Please!”
After a moment, she heard the stairs creak. Betsey pulled open the door, in her nightshift, a blue woolen shawl tossed over her shoulders. She clutched a candlestick tightly, her coppery hair hanging down her back in a long plait.
“Rachel? What’s happened?” She ushered her inside and locked the door behind them.
“Someone’s after me,” Rachel coughed.
Betsey’s eyes flashed. “Is it that nobleman?”
“Mr. Jackson? No, of course not.” Rachel gulped down her breath. “It’s a client. He tried to take me into this dreadful old house. It was all run down and dark. He said it was his, but I didn’t believe him.” Her words spilled out in a breathless panic. “I managed to get away. But I’m afraid he’s come after me. I’m afraid he’s been watching me. And following me. I don’t know why. I—”
Betsey pulled an arm around Rachel’s shoulders and held her tig
htly.
“It’s all right,” she soothed. “You’re safe here. You’re safe.”
“I didn’t know where else to go.” Rachel’s words were muffled against Betsey’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I—”
“Don’t be foolish. There’s nothing to be sorry for.” Betsey put a gentle hand to Rachel’s back, guiding her up the stairs. “Come on now. I’ll make you some tea.”
A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 16
