The Locket

Prologue

 

January 27, 1821, Whitechapel, London

 

“Wake up ya little street rat!”

The guard’s boot struck swift and true.

Mare awakened with a gasp. Pain lanced through her, and her small body constricted into a tight ball.

The icy crust of the snow crunched beneath his boot. Clutching her side, she braced for the inevitable next strike. All at once, the rags she huddled beneath were yanked aside. Through the haze of falling snow, his big hand reached out, jerked her to her feet, then flung her from the shelter of the doorway and into the alley.

A loose cobblestone caught the toe of her shoe and sent her sprawling. She hit the ground hard. Cinders hidden beneath the snow sliced into the soft heels of her palms, forcing a small sound of anguish from her lips. His mocking laughter rose and echoed off the walls around her.

The red specks of blood that stained the snow blurred as tears suddenly welled in her eyes. She bit down on her lower lip to still its trembling, inhaled a shallow breath, and slowly regained her feet, refusing to acknowledge the sharp pain that shot through her ribs with every movement. Then, brushing the cinders from her hands, she turned to face the man who towered over her.

“You got somethin’ to say, street rat?” he growled, his grin taunting.

She was too small to fight him, but she would deny him the satisfaction of seeing her humbled, of seeing her cry, she thought defiantly, blinking back the sting of defeat. Forcing herself to look directly into his hard eyes, she wrapped the tattered cloths around her, squared her shoulders and stood tall, in defiance of the new injury inflicted by the guard’s boot. Then, without a word, she lifted her chin, turned and made her way to the bottom of the alley.

“Don’t you be letting me find you here again, or I’ll throw you in the roundhouse, you dirty little beggar!” he shouted after her.

A solitary tear finally broke free and traced a path down her dirt-smudged cheek. “I’m no beggar,” she muttered angrily, walking against the bluster. 

Warm thoughts.

Shuddering, she clutched the rags tighter.

Eliza…

“Oh, I miss you sorely, Eliza,” she whispered, making her way around the corner and out into the barren street, brushing away another tear.

This bitter season had been hard on everyone in London, especially the homeless and outcast. One stale heel of bread or discarded bone to clean off in the space of an entire day was getting more and more difficult to find. To eat meant to fight the others, and at twelve years, she was no match for the likes of those who waited in the alleys for cast off scraps of food.

But she wasn’t very hungry anymore anyway.

The snow swirled around her feet, so cold it seemed to burn her legs through the frayed old stockings. Keep walking, she told herself. She rubbed her hands together briskly until she felt the sting of the blood flowing to her numbed fingertips. Threading her fingers through the cloth again, she gathered it around her neck.

The faintest hint of glimmering red appeared through the curtain of white, drawing her gaze to a whorehouse—the house where Fiona worked now. Her step faltered and she found herself turning toward the house, making her way up the walk. She paused to stare into the window where the red lamp hung and gazed longingly at the fire that blazed within.

Pushing the cloth back from around her face, Mare stepped onto the stoop and raised her hand. But before her knuckles struck the wooden door, the wind seemed to whisper Eliza’s words. “Never forget you’re a lady.”

Her hand fell limply to her side.

Five years of boarding school at Cornwall had taken Eliza’s cockney from her inflection, and she’d mastered the finer points of propriety. But learning to hold a delicate teacup properly and sweep gracefully into a ballroom did not make her a lady.

Nor had her mother ever been a lady; she’d worked for Eliza—just as Fiona had worked for Eliza, before that night barely four months ago, when smoke and flames raged through the old house, taking Eliza and changing Mare’s life forever.

Swiping her sleeve across her tear-streaked cheeks, Mare turned and walked back into the piercing fury of the wind, back out into the street and along the row of old houses and buildings that lined the square. She would never sip tea with the elegant peeresses or enter a grand ballroom and waltz with a fine gentleman. The fluent French and beautiful dresses had merely disguised the truth.

But Mare would not trade herself for the warmth of a fire today—or any other day.

A harsh bout of shivering wracked her weary body, forcing Mare to her knees just past the gate of a rusted black iron fence.

Warm thoughts…

But this time, she could not find the strength to rise again.

With a quiet sigh, she let herself rest against the cold iron rail. Her hand rose, and drawing her mother’s locket from beneath her tattered dress, she enveloped it in her fingers. Closing her eyes, she imagined herself wrapped in the warmth of her mother’s arms again. And if she listened closely, she could almost hear her mother’s sweet voice singing softly.

Warm thoughts…

She rested her head in her hands.

Yes, she was getting warmer now.

It won’t be long, Mama and Eliza…   

The guard’s boot wouldn’t hurt the next time he tried to awaken her.

#

“Twila, my father was just buried. It is not the appropriate time to discuss this.” Aidan turned away from the woman who sat beside him and stared out the carriage window as the team plodded through the snow. The gray sky and barren streets only added to the dreariness of the day. With a heavy sigh, he leaned his head against his hand, hoping she would at last allow him some peace.

Of course she would not. Twila never let anything rest until she got her way, and not even today would there be an exception.

“Aidan, I am well into my eighteenth year.”

He did not move, even though every muscle in his body cringed at the sound of her whine. He heard a shuffle, and imagined her resituating the elaborate black velvet hat upon her head of flaxen, perfectly groomed curls, with a pinch to her cheeks in the event he might look her way.

“You are three and twenty. Why should we delay our marriage any longer?” She leaned closer, and he could feel that all too familiar covetous sparkle in her eyes as she purred, “After all, Chatham is yours now. Imagine the many things a wife might do to take your mind from caskets and corpses.”

Anguish tightened his chest and begged to lash out as a raging storm of anger against the woman. Stiffening in the leather seat, he turned on her, barely restraining his fury. The warning in his glare was enough to quiet her—at least for the time being.

Aidan Penuel, lieutenant-commander in the Royal Navy, and now Marquess of Wellsley, took a deep breath, faced the window once more and willed Twila from his thoughts.

He’d ordered his driver to take the most direct route to Tamen Hall, the Earl of Everest’s home in London’s West End, where he would deposit the earl’s daughter and her maid in short order. Unfortunately, this required passing through the seedy streets of Whitechapel—the remains of an old theater that had burned to the ground the year prior, Rag Fair, whorehouses, peasant beggars, thieves and drunks. He loathed this area of London, but on this day, the streets were empty; the homeless had taken shelter from the cold and snow somewhere, the Hebrew street merchants had packed up their wares, the thieves had no pockets to pick, and the prostitutes were safe within the confines of their houses.

The carriage turned to pass through the square, and even here, the riffraff were hidden and the dirtiness was covered in a blanket of cleansing white. There was nothing at all that would give this part of Whitechapel away for the slum it was, except…

He lurched forward in his seat, grabbing the door. “Bostley! Stay the coach!”

The wheels locked as the team came to an abrupt halt, and Twila tumbled to the carriage floor. Her maid scrambled to help her regain herself, and Aidan flew from the carriage and ran out onto the street.

Had it not been for the drab reddish-gold that contrasted the stark white, he would have thought the heap merely a small mound of drifted snow. But as he approached, his worst suspicions were confirmed.

Kneeling before the still form bundled in snow-covered rags, he lifted a portion of the cloth around the stray, dirty golden-red locks. A little girl crouched beneath the ragged material, her knees drawn to her chest. Gently, he lifted her face from her hands. Her pallid complexion, the dark circles beneath her eyes, and the bluish cast to her lips assured him the child was dead. But a faint glimmer of hope found him reaching for his pocket watch. He held it to her nose.

The sign was barely visible; a faint fog spread over the gold watch cover.

The coachman leaned close, gripping Aidan’s shoulder. “My God, she is still breathing, my lord!”

“We must get her inside at once,” he said, carefully lifting the child into his arms.

“Oh, Aidan!” Twila groaned from behind them with her maid in tow. “What is the loss of one more pauper? London’s all the better for it, I say!”

“I have seen enough of death this day.” Then, without another word, he headed for a boarding house across the way, cradling the child closer to his breast while making his way up the steps.

Bostley stood beside him and rapped the iron knocker.

“Who’s there?” came a gruff female voice from behind the door.

“Madam, I beg you, allow me entrance!” he called out against the harsh howl of the wind.

Slowly, the heavy carved mahogany door creaked open, and a short, plump woman peeked out warily. “I’m sorry, I am, sir,” she said upon realizing he was an officer, flinging the door wide, “but this bitter weather ‘as all the rabble on my stoop.”

Still shielding the bundle in his arms, he hastened inside. “I assure you madam, I will make this worth your while.”

“Aidan!”

He threw a warning glance in Twila’s direction. “May I lay this child before your fire?”

She motioned for the small band to follow her, scurrying into a large sitting room. “Lay ‘er down there,” she said, pointing to a raggedy davenport.

Aidan carefully laid the child down and peeled the dirty rags from around her. Horrified by what he saw, he looked to his driver. “Bostley, have Mrs…”

“Maesterfield,” she finished for him.

“Have Mrs. Maesterfield instruct you on where to find a physician and bring him to me posthaste.”

“As you say, Lord Wellsley.”

Mrs. Maesterfield’s eyes widened. 

“Bring blankets, Mrs. Maesterfield,” he said, ignoring her curious stare, before turning his attention back to the girl.

Kneeling, he finished unwrapping the soiled and wet cloth. Beneath the tattered dress, it was evident there was little more than skin and bones. Taking one thin and bruised little hand in his own, he tenderly rubbed the warmth back into it. But as he opened the other fragile, tightly fisted hand, he found a delicate golden locket clasped there. He marveled at the intricate detail carved in the gold and knew it could not possibly belong to the child. No doubt she lifted it from some unsuspecting peeress. Aidan tucked the child’s precious treasure beneath the ragged collar of her dress before gently closing his fingers around hers to warm them.

The ton will not falter with one less trinket, he said to himself, managing a fleeting grin.

His gaze finally rested upon her face; ghostly pale and gaunt and smudged by dirt, but delicate and beautiful. Her hair lay in damp ringlets and tangled curls around her face and down her back. Even as sick as she was, she looked more like royalty than a street urchin, with her straight nose, high cheek bones and full lips.

Long dark eyelashes fluttered, and all at once, her eyes opened and stared into his. “Are y-you an angel?” she whispered.

“No, child. But you are safe now,” he reassured, gently brushing the hair from her face.

The greenest eyes he’d ever witnessed pierced his soul, then drifted closed. A slight smile remained on her face as she lost consciousness again.

She will live, he thought, allowing himself a small sigh. But she would never live on the streets again.

One of London’s many overwhelmed orphan asylums was out of the question, but he could hardly take her to Chatham. The last thing he needed—or wanted—was the responsibility of a child.

For a moment he thought of delivering her to his Aunt Emalie. After all, she’d had a hand in raising him after his mother’s death. But Uncle Albert was not in the best of health, and the burden of a foundling would be more than he could place upon his beloved duchess.

With no other alternative, Aidan stood and turned to Mrs. Maesterfield. “This girl is to remain in your care.”

“My lord?”

“This is a boarding house, is it not?”

“Well, yes, b-but…”

“I will pay you handsomely, Mrs. Maesterfield.” He reached into an inside pocket and withdrew his purse. From it, he counted fifty pounds and placed it in her hands. “You and the physician that my man brings are to nurse this child back to health, whatever the cost. And then the girl is to have a roof over her head, her own room, and as much to eat as she wishes.”

Unable to tear her eyes away from the money, the woman nodded.

“You are to find out her age, if she knows it, and each month until she turns nineteen, I will have another ten pounds sent to you. By then she’ll be old enough to marry or find employment. In the meantime, the money I provide is to be used for her room and board, wardrobe and schooling. Then, whatever remains belongs to you as payment for your care. Is that understood?”

She nodded again, clearly at a loss for words.

“Care for her well and I will award you an additional twenty pounds for your services when the girl turns nineteen and can leave your care to make a life for herself.”

The promise of such a generous income for years to come rendered Mrs. Maesterfield breathless. “You can count on me, yer lordship! I will take fine care of the child!”

“Well and good. My solicitor will come daily until she is well to see that she is receiving the appropriate care, and then again the first of each month with your payment and to assess the girl’s well being. I see no need to complicate matters by telling her from whence the payment comes,” he added, feeling Twila’s glare.

Chapter One

Whitechapel, March 9, 1827

The candle crackled and its flame flickered, throwing dancing shadows across the dark, stone room, as Mare counted the distant chimes of the mantel clock on the ground floor above her. “Nine… ten… eleven… twelve…” Midnight.

Knowing she didn’t have long until the melted wax swallowed the flame completely, she hurriedly stretched the ivory linen shirt across the board, and sprinkled water over the material. Then, taking the iron from the stove, she pressed it to the shirt. Steam hissed as she slowly slid the iron across the fabric, smoothing the creases left from the laundering.

When she was finished, Mare set the iron to the shelf and once the material cooled, she carefully folded the shirt, and set it gently in the open burlap sack, atop the rest of the newly cleaned and pressed garments she would deliver to Mrs. Praddle in the morning.

Mrs. Praddle earned her living laundering for some of the more affluent London merchants who were not quite wealthy enough to afford a full household staff. Several years earlier, her work began to exceed what she could manage alone, and she’d sought out Mrs. Maesterfield, her brother’s widow, for help.

Though Mrs. Maesterfield received the wage, the responsibility fell to Mare. And as Mrs. Praddle’s patrons steadily increased, so did Mare’s workload.

Every day was the same. She rose at four o’clock each morning to make the first meal for Mrs. Maesterfield’s boarders. Then, before the sun rose fully, she began the nearly two hour walk, pulling her small cart behind, and made her way to Stahling Street, where she’d deliver her work from the day before and collect a new cart load of dirty laundry, that, upon returning to the boarding house, she would wash and press in between her regular chores.

Truth be told, Mare enjoyed the long walks, even with the heavy load, because it meant time to herself. And she did not mind the extra work, because Mrs. Maesterfield usually kept her distance when there was work to be done.

It had been seven years since Mrs. Maesterfield found her that long ago day and brought her in from the cold. Under the old woman’s rule, Mare scoured the floors and walls, washed and cooked for the boarders, and waited on Mrs. Maesterfield hand and foot.

It was soon after she turned seventeen that Fionna showed up at Mrs. Maesterfield’s door with an offer of employment—a respectable position as a maid, in an unrespectable establishment. A notorious busy body, Mrs. Maesterfield had been eavesdropping, and before Mare could refuse Fionna—for she had no intention of working in a whorehouse, even as a maid—the old woman interrupted and pleaded with Mare to stay on at the boarding house, in exchange for her room, board and a shilling each week.

At the time, she’d reasoned she owed Maesterfield a great debt for saving her life that long ago day.

And so Mare had lived for more than two years, as she had the nearly five years prior, and she saved all of her wages, plus the shiny penny Mrs. Praddle tucked into her hand each week and the five pence twice each year—one on the occasion of her own birthday, and another on the occasion of the Lord’s—except for the ha’pence she placed in the alms box on Sundays.

Until recently she’d believed her life, as it was, was better than living on the streets—and a far better fate than her mother had known. But of late Mrs. Maesterfield’s disposition had grown so contemptuous, Mare concluded any debt she owed had long ago been paid, and it was time to make her own way in the world.

But the little more than three pounds she’d managed to hoard away wouldn’t last long in London. So for the past two weeks, she’d taken the opportunity provided by her journeys through London to stop at one merchant each day along the way and inquire if there were any open positions, whether it was as a seamstress’s apprentice, labor in a factory or even gutting fish in the market—anything that would provide an income so she could at last leave the boarding house and Mrs. Maesterfield far behind.

As Mare picked up the candle, her empty stomach growled, reminding her that this had been the second day in a row she’d gone without supper. Yesterday, it had been because she forgot to fill the coal bin, and today it was for the fish stew she’d scalded when she’d made the mistake of sitting in a chair and leaning her head against the wall, while waiting for the stew to come to a simmer. The next thing she remembered was being awakened by a harsh slap across the cheek, accompanied by Mrs. Maesterfield’s shrieking.

The stew had scalded beyond salvation, and the old woman stood over Mare while she cleaned enough dried beans to fill the kettle, and then set the kettle on the stove to cook. And when Mrs. Maesterfield sat down at the table to eat the beans and bread with the five men who occupied the house, Mare was sent back to the first floor without any supper, after being reminded for the hundredth time what a burden her stupidity was to the woman’s purse.

Shielding the fragile flame with her hand, Mare walked quietly to the pantry, in search of anything she could take to her little room on the third floor. At last she found a block of old cheese in the cupboard. Cutting a piece off the block, she sliced the top layer to remove the mold, and then squirreled it away in her apron pocket, along with a crust of the leftover bread.

The wick sputtered and the flame finally died, forcing Mare to make her way in the dark. She tread softly through the pantry and up the staircase, lest she make any noise that might awaken Mrs. Maesterfield before she and the forbidden bread and cheese were safely locked within her chamber.

Just as she reached the final stair, Mrs. Maesterfield’s “Mare!” made her leap from her skin. Believing she’d been found out, she quickly turned to retrace her steps, but halted in place when the old woman continued. “Why her?”

Another woman laughed.

Allowing herself to breathe again, Mare turned back and tiptoed down the corridor. Peering around the archway of the dining room, she saw Mrs. Maesterfield sitting at the table, drinking her honey-laced whiskey. Across from her sat Margaret Cocker, the bawd of the square’s most notorious brothel.

 “A virgin whore,” Margaret eagerly explained, “calls a high price, and I’ve an earl with particularly odd lusts willin’ to pay it and then some. I’m not a greedy woman. I’ll give ya three pounds for the girl, full half of what he’s givin’ me.”

Muffling her gasp with her hand, Mare pressed her back to the wall. Maesterfield had never made it a secret that she disliked Mare, but surely she would not deliver her into Margaret’s cruel hands! The seconds dragged on into eternity, and just as she braved peeking into the dining room once more, she witnessed the twisting of Mrs. Maesterfield’s fat jowls into a vile grin.

“On the condition you wait two weeks.”

The proposal left Margaret aghast. “Two weeks?”

“Aye, Maggie. You know I’ve got me twenty pounds, a damn sight better than your three, comin’ from his lordship for all the lovin’ care I been givin’ her all these years, the day she turns twenty.”

“I thought you got that when she turned nineteen?”

Mrs. Maesterfield crooked her finger and thumped Margaret on the forehead with a scowl.

“Ah,” she said, rubbing her forehead with a grimace, “so you lied to ‘em.”

Mrs. Maesterfield shrugged. “He told me to find out her age, but who can fault an old widow for not hearin’ her rightly? My hearin’ ain’t what it used to be, ya know .”

Margaret snickered, then frowned. “I don’t know that I can be holdin’ the earl off that long.”

“I’m certain you ‘ave ways to persuade him that she’ll be worth the wait. After all, it ain’t often a gentleman finds honest-to-God virgin flesh in a whorehouse.”

“But no longer?”

She shook her head emphatically. “With all I’ve tucked away over the years from his lordship’s payments, along with ‘is final payment, I won’t need to be takin’ in no more laundry, so the girl’s no use to me. I can hire a house girl with the money I make lettin’ out Mare’s room. You can ‘ave her then and good riddance,” she assured with a clap of her hands. Then she added, “For the three pound you promised, of course.”

“God rot your tightfisted soul,” Margaret chuckled, pouring some whiskey into her cup.

Dripping honey from the jar, Mrs. Maesterfield laughed along with her. “And yours, Maggie.”

They lifted their cups to toast a bargain struck, and with the clink of the glass, panic settled in a tight knot in the pit of Mare’s stomach. In her mind, she tried to make sense of all Mrs. Maesterfield had said, but nothing was making sense at the moment.

Who was this man who would pay a sum as high as twenty pounds for her care? And why? There was only one his lordship the old woman had ever spoken of, she thought, stealing cautiously up the staircase; her cousin, whose only contact with Mrs. Maesterfield seemed to be through the plump little man with the spectacles and snow-white hair and beard.

It was on his lordship’s account the otherwise miserly Mrs. Maesterfield always made certain Mare had one fancy dress, forbidden to be worn on any day but the first day of each month when his lordship’s man made his call.

At precisely ten minutes before three o’clock on that day, Mare would be summoned to the sitting room just beyond the entrance. It was always the same: “The burden of carin’ for you is more than an old widow can manage alone,” she’d complain, handing Mare a book. Then she’d brush her skirt and pat her hair into place. “Out of the goodness of his heart, his lordship, my cousin, is sendin’ a few quid to keep me from the poorhouse. I’ll not ‘ave you shamin’ me, so not a peep, understand?”

Upon his arrival, the two would whisper in the doorway for but a few moments, the little man would cast a quick glance into the sitting room, and then hand over a small pouch before making his exit.

Obviously his lordship was no relative of the old woman. But who was this mysterious benefactor who would pay for her all these years, and then reward Mrs. Maesterfield a full twenty pounds upon Mare’s nineteenth birthday?

Twentieth, she reminded herself, at last reaching her tiny room.

Did it matter when, at this very moment, Mrs. Maesterfield and Margaret were sorting out the details to hand her over to the earl with particularly odd lusts?

“To the devil with them both,” she murmured, shedding her apron. Mrs. Maesterfield would not be collecting her pay from his lordship and Margaret would not see a ha’pence from the depraved earl.

Lifting the pretty light blue muslin dress from the hook on the wall, she stepped into it. Then, after donning her stockings and shoes, she pried the floorboard loose, lifted it, and reached for the cloth sack full of coins and tied it securely around her waist.

 Then Mare sat on her bed, eating her bread and cheese while she waited. At last she heard Mrs. Maesterfield’s heavy footfalls in the corridor below, and then heard the thud of the old woman’s chamber door close fast.

#

With no notion as to where she was bound, Mare made her way through the dark, cold Whitechapel streets. Shivering, she hugged her coat tighter to her body and quickened her step to put as much distance as possible between herself and the boarding house.

The odor of coal and horses lingered heavily in the hazy yellow fog that rose from the damp street. The sounds of the square surrounded her—men shouting from the Blue Boar down the lane and a stray barking dog, an argument between a man and a woman, and the cries of a hungry baby. And if it wasn’t enough she had to steal through the shadows to avoid the vagrants and drunkards that roamed the streets this time of night, there was also the fear gnawing deep inside that Mrs. Maesterfield would find her and drag her back to the boarding house in chains.

Footsteps against cobblestone sounded from somewhere behind her. Mare darted into an alley and quickly ducked into a dark corner. The footsteps followed, echoing off the buildings. Crouching down, she listened, her heart thrashing madly against her chest, certain Mrs. Maesterfield had found her out.

As the footsteps approached, she shrunk herself up, inching as far into the shadows as possible. The unsteady footsteps faltered. Glass shattered. A slurred curse.

A drunk, she realized, exhaling shakily as he began to move on.

Tiny claws scurried over her shoes and beneath her skirt. Startled, she leaped to her feet, brushing frantically at her dress. A rat dropped to the ground with a shriek and scurried off.

The drunk staggered around just as the wind pushed the clouds away from the moon. A patch covered one eye, but even half-blind and half-dazed he made her out amidst the shadows. With a low, sinister laugh he stumbled toward her. “Been waitin’ for me, have you, darlin’?”

Desperately Mare searched for an escape, but she was surrounded by walls, and the giant man blocked her only way out.

“Yer a pretty one,” he growled, grabbing her arm, then leaning closer, assaulting Mare with the stench of stale whiskey and filth. “I just might take my time with you.”

The very thought of him touching her made her stomach wretch. “I-I’m not that kind of w-woman,” she stammered, jerking out of his grasp.

“Yer exactly the kind of woman who’ll make Blade and his friend feel welcome tonight.” He yanked at his trousers.

Knowing it was her only hope, Mare ducked and attempted a mad dash, but he caught her roughly by the arm and slammed her against the brick wall of the building, his huge, filthy hand silencing her scream.

Struggling for air, she fought to break free. Then all at once, she heard metal scrape against metal, and felt the cold broadside of a blade pressed firmly to her throat.

“Fightin’ will only make it hurt,” he hissed, pushing his weight against her.

She couldn’t breathe. The world around her grew dark as consciousness began to slip away. She saw a vision of herself lying in a pool of blood in the alley, raped and murdered, and heard the faint sound of the knife being thrust back into its sheath.

She was not ready to die—not before she’d had a chance to live. And not this way.

Mare reached out and groped frantically.

“Ah, that’s it,” he growled, mistaking her desperate grasps.

Precious air suddenly filled her lungs with a gasp when he pulled his hand away. Then all at once, her fingers wound around the knife handle and she ripped it from its holster, drawing on all the strength she possessed, and plunged it to the hilt in Blade’s thigh.

Tightening her grip on the knife, the blade tore through his flesh. He stared at her, stunned, and then howled in pain as he fell against her before staggering back a few steps and crumpling to the ground, blood flowing heavily from the gaping wound.

The knife fell to the ground at her feet and Mare stared in horror at the blood-covered weapon.

“You’ll pay fer this, ya fuckin’ whore!” he shouted suddenly, ripping her out of her daze.

She spun away and ran, but he lunged and caught her by the hair, bringing her back around.

His fist rose and she closed her eyes, unable to bear witness to the coming of her own demise.  “I swear I’ll make you—” Blade’s threat ended with a dull thud. His cruel hand released her. He groaned.

Mare opened her eyes just in time to leap back as his body jerked and then collapsed into a heap on the street.

A man stepped forward through the thin haze and into the dim moonlight that filtered through the mist. Cloaked all in black, like some sort of mysterious rogue highwayman, he knelt and held his lantern above Blade.

Tossing the brick to the ground, he reached a black-gloved hand into Blade’s coat. Withdrawing a piece of paper from an inside pocket, he unfolded it and held it up to the lantern.

“I-is he… dead?” she whispered, taking an uncertain step back, away from him and the motionless body that lay on the ground.

Shaking his head, he returned the paper to Blade’s coat. “He lives,” he said quietly, rising to his full height, “and you have nothing to fear from me.”

Holding the lantern high between them, he pushed his hood down and at last she saw his face. Deep, icy hatred glinted in his black eyes when they met hers. Clenching his teeth, he glanced again at the unconscious man at his feet. Then, drawing a breath, he let his gaze rise, and those dark eyes took her captive once more.

“Come with me,” he said, a sudden urgency in his voice, extinguishing his lantern and reaching for her hand. “There are others who may have heard his bellowing, and you won’t be safe here.”

There was no reason to trust this man, but the prospect of encountering more men like the monster who lay bloody on the ground at her feet gave her little choice, and Mare found her hand within his waiting palm. Together they raced up the alley.

The moment they ran out onto the street, the man pulled her to him and the next thing she knew, she was pressed against the wall of a building, beneath a flickering lamp post. Her scream was muffled when his mouth came down over hers. He turned her face away from the light, and easily rendered her struggle to break free futile, commanding her body with the weight of his own.

Then she heard them—the men he’d warned her about, the drum of hooves against the ground, as they rounded the corner onto the street and bore down upon them. She knew then that the man was not accosting her, but protecting her.

Mare tried to breathe, but his tongue slipped between her lips, and the breath she drew into her body was his. Her heart pounded to the fast rhythm of the horses’ hooves, louder and louder until the thump-thump of her heart was the only sound.

The oncoming riders seemed to fade into the fog that surrounded them, and Mare yielded to his tender kiss, the gentle movement of his lips, the light pressure of his tongue as it explored then met hers. His arms came around her, and embraced her, even as his scent, masculine and sensual, enveloped her, and the sweet taste of him intoxicated her like wine.

She felt his body tense, bringing her back to the moment and the danger, just as the riders went speeding past them.

“Wait!” one of them called out.

“Don’t move,” he whispered against her mouth as both riders halted their mounts. One arm moved from about her and then between them. Both horses retraced their steps. She heard a soft click, and knew then that the man who embraced her, who kissed her, even now, held a gun, and he was preparing to use it.

“Bleedin’ bastard’s piss drunk!” one of the men exclaimed pulling his reins and heading down the alley.

The other followed.

The man twisted slightly and slowly removed his mouth from hers.

Her knees buckled, and if he hadn’t still been holding her, she would have collapsed, though she wasn’t certain if it was because of the threat of the riders, or the kiss of the man who now peered around the corner of the building and down the alley.

Mare willed her racing heart to slow.

“Are you all right?” he asked, staring intently at whatever was taking place in the alley, while tucking his gun into the waist of his trousers.

Bracing herself against the building, she took a deep breath and steadied herself. “Yes.”

He turned to her. Something gentle had replaced the anger in his eyes, and the ice had become a glittering fire, sending an unsettling heat quivering down Mare’s spine.

It was only a moment, but it seemed an eternity passed between them before the voices from the alley broke the spell.

His arm loosened from around her waist, then suddenly she found herself pulled back to him, and for the space of a heartbeat, his lips claimed hers once more, before his arm fell away.

Bringing her fingertips to her lips, she stared up at him, confused.

The strange man grinned briefly, and then his expression went staid. “You must go,” he said in a low voice, nodding his head toward the square. “While there’s still time.”

#

Aidan stood rapt, watching the fleeing figure of the woman until at last she disappeared into the blanket of mist. Regaining his wit, he peered around the corner of the old brick building once more, and watched the two men struggle to get the wounded and unconscious Blade to his feet. Under Blade’s immense weight, it was all they could do to lift and throw him, face down, across the back of one of the horses and secure him, before they both mounted the remaining horse.

Bringing the hood of his cloak over his head, Aidan moved swiftly out of the lamppost light and ducked into a doorway, pressing back into the darkness, just as the clip-clop of horses’ hooves sounded on the street.

Shrouded by the veil of shadows, he watched until they rode out of sight, and then made his way on foot in the other direction to the outskirts of Whitechapel.

He thanked fortune for the convenient twist of fate. It had been almost too easy to get his hands on the missive from Jean-Luc Monteau, a general under the French assassin Raphael DuBois.

For weeks he had followed Blade, convinced he’d finally found the Englishman who’d betrayed his country by assisting DuBois and his band of renegades in escaping him for more than a year. Meanwhile, DuBois, who’d been rutted out of hiding in Ireland and captured by the king’s troops there, had been locked away in a location known only to a special force of English soldiers.

King George IV, anxious to rid himself of the burden of the threat of DuBois, commanded Aidan to not only bring DuBois to justice and flush out the traitorous Englishman, but to also capture all in league with the notorious Frenchman.

Since then, Aidan had hand-selected a handful of England’s finest to accompany him on his mission; men whose allegiance to the crown was unquestionable, men trained to fight—and kill. And he had, at last, discovered the Judas who would trade his honor and country for a few pieces of silver.

A week past, he had announced to his crew that they were to take supplies to the troops in Ireland, and along the way, bring aboard Raphael DuBois, so he could be escorted to England for trial.

All that had been left to do then was follow Blade.

On this night, Aidan witnessed his meeting with Monteau in the Blue Boar. Though unable to hear most of their conversation over the boisterous shouting and cursing of the inn’s rowdy patrons, he’d heard enough; Blade had supplied the word Monteau sought, and Monteau had given Blade instructions to be delivered to the others.

The attempt to rescue DuBois, and the attack upon Aidan’s ship, would take place between Dublin and Cork

He turned from the street and walked quickly into the park. Putting his thumb and finger to his mouth, he let go a sharp whistle.

Leaves rustled and the soft light of a lantern shone through the darkness. “Did you get what you was after, Captain?” his first mate asked expectantly, stepping from behind a cluster of trees, leading two horses.

“We now have the wax to seal the assassins’ fate, Randy.”

The old seaman grinned a wide, toothless grin and ran his hand over his knit cap. “So the poxy bastard gave ‘em the bait, just as you expected?”

Nodding, Aidan took the reins of his black mount and lifted himself into the saddle. “Daybreak is almost upon us.” Pulling his purse from the inside of his cloak, he handed Randy a fistful of notes. “In a few hours, the port will come alive. I want you to purchase a supply of rum from one of the West Indies merchants—be sure to sample it to assure it is of good quality—and then bring it on to the ship.”

“What about you, Captain?”

“I must deliver this news to Wakefield so he can make the appropriate arrangements for our return. If you board the ship before I do, tell the others our mission will proceed as planned.”

“Aye, Captain.” Randy hoisted himself up onto the back of his tan mare and with another grin and a nod, rode off.

Aidan allowed himself a slight smile as he watched his first mate ride away. It had been a long night, but one well spent. Now it was only a matter of allowing this little game he’d set in motion to play out to its conclusion. In the end, England and her monarch would remain secure, and he would have his long-awaited revenge against the man who had eluded him so long, he thought, his countenance darkening.

Randy’s mare disappeared into the mist, and DuBois and the game were abruptly forgotten as Aidan was reminded of the woman fleeing the Whitechapel square. Under his breath he cursed Blade; first a traitor, and tonight, had it not been for the woman’s determination and then Aidan’s intervention, he would have committed rape—and possibly murder.

Hoping merely to overhear anything of the conversation he would have with those he was to meet with Monteau’s missive, Aidan had followed. At first, he’d thought it an inconvenience that Blade was diverted from his task by the lure of one of the square’s many prostitutes. He’d kept his distance, just beyond the alley, waiting impatiently for Blade’s drunken lust to be sated. Then he heard the woman cry out, telling Aidan she was no eager or willing whore. And he knew he could not leave her to Blade’s mercy, for the man had none. But before he could reach them, he witnessed the woman plunge Blade’s own dagger into his thigh, crippling her attacker.

In less than the space of a heartbeat, Blade fell, the woman turned to run, only to be caught again by the beast. Just as he raised his fist to strike her, Aidan seized a fallen brick and with all his force, drove it against the back of Blade’s skull.

At that moment, he wasn’t certain which had provided him the greater pleasure; retrieving Monteau’s message, or rendering the bastard bloody and unconscious.

He’d thought to lead the woman to safety before setting out to see the king, but DuBois’ men had been upon them, and in order to avoid recognition, he’d drawn the woman into his arms and kissed her. The act had done the trick; the riders had obviously assumed them lovers and ignored them. But Aidan had found himself enjoying the kiss a good deal—so much in fact, that it had been all he could do to stay focused on his mission with her thighs pressed to his and her bosom rising and falling against his chest.

Her reaction to his kiss had told him in no uncertain terms that this woman was no whore; whores did not tremble from a mere kiss. Indeed, his kiss had left her blushing and breathless!

He had watched them take Monteau’s orders from Blade’s coat, and while DuBois’ henchmen were occupied with Blade, Aidan could not resist pulling her to him for one more taste of her sweet lips, before sending her off into the night.

His hand unconsciously rose to his mouth. The night had been bountiful in more ways than the one intended. Pity he hadn’t even had an opportunity to get her name or find out what she’d been doing on the streets of Whitechapel in the wee hours of the morning.

Aidan shook his head and smiled to himself. Then, putting a sharp heel to Devil’s flank, he took off in the direction of St. James palace, with the first rays of sun seeping over the horizon.