Eloise lost track of the number of questions she would have for him later. For now, she hung close to his side, opposite Nora, forgetting more than once that she was supposed to be a young, privileged, and reserved male of polite Society.
Then the service had begun, and time and place seemed to vanish. The preacher’s eulogy of William Campion soared over their heads with a rhythmic cadence that mesmerized her. The congregation broke out in spontaneous hymns that resonated deep in her chest, and when the preacher stepped aside for other speakers, Eloise was transfixed by stories about Bill Campion that traced his history—from his early days in England as a freed slave through the building of his business empire—and praised the work he had done for the community, for the people. Bill Campion was as highly favored among those he had helped as any peer of the realm. Probably more so.
Twice the preacher looked at Robert, providing an opening for him to speak. And twice he refused with a tight shake of his head. She understood. Eloise could see him attempting to hold back the grief that obviously consumed him—she had heard that horrific howl he had released after Bill’s murder. Now he blinked back tears and every muscle tensed, his fists clenched. And Robbie Green had never been intended as a public figure. While he wore Robbie’s uniform of a green suit and tartan waistcoat, Eloise knew the façade would fall if he tried to speak about Bill.
As the service ended, they waited until the coffin had been taken out to the black-draped wagon that would transport it to the cemetery. Then they took up their positions directly behind it, the five of them holding hands, as they walked the long blocks to the graveside. While the crowd at the church had startled Eloise, she watched as it grew, expanding as people came out of houses, shops, and pubs. They carried torches, murmured prayers, and sang songs. Upper windows opened and crying mourners waved handkerchiefs as the bier passed. The number of mourners increased from the one hundred or so at the church to two, then three, then more. Eloise looked back as they headed through the cemetery’s gates to see torchlights extending as far as she could see.
She had long known what Bill Campion had meant to the aristocracy—a man who controlled debt and wielded power. He had the ability to ruin families. Some admired what he had been able to achieve; most despised him for what he could do.
This, however, was admiration and love on a scale Eloise had never witnessed or expected. The vocal and relentless grief spoke of an adoration of a man who had helped many people.
It also underscored two things for Eloise. Lord Robert Ashton was not the jackanapes he led Polite Society to believe he was—which she already knew. But now she more fully understood how difficult the coming days would be for him. These boisterous mourners, most of whom lived, worked—or barely existed—on the outskirts of Society, were his family too, almost as much as the ones who lived at Ashton House. To do what his father and the Duke of Makendon expected of him would be to betray people he cherished.
She also knew she could help.
As the graveside service ended, mourners clustered around Robert and Nora, jostling to get close enough to clap a shoulder, shake a hand, or give the widow a quick hug. It was an emotional display foreign to Eloise, and she merely observed, standing to one side. As more moved in, she was pushed farther away from them, not really noticing the distance as she focused on Robert’s face. Tears had left salted trails on his cheeks, and his blue eyes were bright in the dancing torchlight. His Highland bonnet slipped off, and he caught it, shoving it into a pocket. Sweat plastered his black locks to his skull, although the stubborn curls still turned up on the tips. His shoulders were hunched, and his expression began to take on a distant stare, even as he remained pleasant.
As Eloise watched him, a deep ache built in her chest, a physical need, a deep longing that made her want to reach out for him. Brief images from the night before flashed through her mind, and the desire she felt for this man seared into her.
Was this what it felt like to love someone?
“No,” she whispered. “It cannot be.” She had only known him—apart from their brief exchanges in the company of Lydia Rowbotham—for a few hours. One did not fall in love that quickly. He also belonged to another woman. Eloise dropped her head, staring at the legs of those around them. “No,” she repeated. “It cannot be.” She closed her eyes as she was bumped and ignored. This was foolish, a fool’s errand. Whatever possessed her to think she could help a man like this? She should leave. Leave the search for Timothy up to the constable, to her father. She was just a woman. Although, dressed as a man, surely she could find her way safely out of Whitechapel, hire a hackney.
It was a nagging, relentless voice. One that blindsided her at the most inopportune times, like now. It was the voice of her mother. Of every governess she had ever had. Of the Society mavens who had declared her “on the shelf.” Of relatives who expressed their opinions in cruel, derisive terms on why she had never married.
You are a woman who does not know her place. Go home.Her eyes burned, and she squeezed them tighter.You are a woman who does not know her place. Go home.
Another shove and her butt hit a gravestone, and Eloise stumbled, almost falling. A hand latched onto her arm, steadying her, and she looked up to find those ice-colored eyes staring down at her. Robert’s words held the gravel of grief. “The carriage is waiting.”
She nodded and let him lead her from the cemetery. The Campion carriage had obviously followed the mourners to the gates, and Robert helped each of the four women into the vehicle. Silence reigned inside, although Prudence wept softly the entire ride. Hannah kept her arms around her sister’s shoulders, letting the younger woman cry into the bodice of her dress. Nora simply stared out of eyes so puffy Eloise wondered if she had any tears left to shed.
As the carriage slowed in front of the Campion home, Nora seemed to come back to herself, her eyes shifting to Robert. “You are welcome to breakfast with us.” She glanced at Eloise. “Both of you.”
Robert shook his head. “I thank you, but we should retire to our own homes.” As Nora gave a single nod of acknowledgment, he reached over to clasp her hand. “I will call tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thank you. The solicitor will be here on Thursday.”
The carriage halted and a footman opened the door, offering a hand to Nora, then the girls. He stepped back as Eloise moved to the entrance, and she almost tumbled out the door, catching herself at the last minute and swinging to the ground. Her top hat teetered precariously, and she slapped a hand up to steady it.
Behind her, Robert coughed. And Nora Campion smiled. A slow and sad smile, but a smile nonetheless. She leaned toward Eloise and whispered, “You are quite good, my dear, but some things take practice.”
Warmth spread across her face. “Thank you.” Eloise gave the ladies a reverent bow. “Good night, Mrs. Campion.”
Robert kissed each of the women on the cheek, then he and Eloise watched as they entered the house. Then he gestured toward the corner and walked away.
Being a man was going to take some getting used to.
Eloise trotted to catch up, then fell in step next to him. “Are you going back to the emporium?”
Robert pulled his Highland bonnet from his pocket and yanked it into place without looking at her. “I’m going to the rooms I rented a few blocks from here. Do you want me to help you hire a hackney?”
She stopped. The voice nagged at her again, but an annoyance pushed it away—an annoyance at the voice, at Robert, at herself. But Eloise refused to acquiesce without one more attempt to claim what she truly wanted.
Robert had almost reached the corner before realizing Eloise no longer walked beside him. He turned, scowling. “Why did you stop?”
“Because, sir, I did not dress like this and show up at a gambling hell in order to go to a funeral, hire a hackney, and return home.”
His shoulders sagged, as did his voice. “I have not slept since Sunday morning. I do not have the wherewithal to discuss business matters in the middle of the night, much less help you find Timothy.”
