He was a Trewlove? That was no doubt why he looked familiar. She’d probably seen him at the spate of recent weddings when a number of Trewloves had married nobles. The owner of this establishment had married the Duke of Thornley. Would this Beast fellow tell his sister how rude she’d been to him? Would she lose her position? But then why would he have left her a little extra with which to line her pocket if he was going to take action to see her gone?
“Go on, take it,” Rob said as he began running a damp rag over the table.
Very carefully, she picked up the coin and slipped it into her pocket. “Does he come here often?”
“Depends what you calloften. The brothers all used to spend a good bit of their time here before they got married. He’s the only one who’s managed to escape the matrimonial shackles but doesn’t come ’round as often now that the others are scarce.”
When Mr. Trewlove returned she would not only let him know that Jimmy had apologized, but would also thank him for having a word with the rambunctious young man. She didn’t think anyone at his table was going to be giving her bottom any attention in the near future.
Certainly no one troubled her the remainder of the night.
Still, she was grateful when the customers were ushered out at midnight and the front door was bolted. She and the other workers began placing chairs on tables, sweeping, mopping, tidying up. It was a little over half an hour later when they all stepped into the alley. Mac locked the back door behind them, said his farewells, and headed up to the rooms that came along with his position. As the others—Polly,Rob, the cook, another bartender, and another serving maid—wished her good-night and carried on, she wandered to the street that the tavern faced. Her brother was usually leaning against the front of the building, waiting to escort her home. He didn’t like her walking alone about Whitechapel at night.Shedidn’t like walking alone at night.
Once she reached the street, a fissure of dread speared her. Griffith wasn’t there. He was always prompt, which at first had come as a shock to her. As the spare, he’d only ever been interested in play, had never taken responsibility for anything other than having a grand time.
The streetlamps dotting the area couldn’t hold at bay all the shadows. Glancing around, she saw a couple of people walking in the distance, becoming smaller as they moved away from her, but he wouldn’t have come from that direction anyway. Perhaps he was only running late.
Please, dear Lord, don’t let anything have happened to him.While he was skilled at shooting at targets, had mastered fencing, and engaged in boxing for sport, she wasn’t entirely convinced all of that translated well to dealing with the villainous scoundrels who made Whitechapel their home. He was no more accustomed to wandering these dangerous streets than she was.
Drawing her ermine-lined cloak more tightly around her, she began walking, hoping to meet up with him shortly and to be that much closer to their residence when she did. After ten hours at her labors, her feet, lower back, and shoulders ached. She wanted to be home. Even as she had the thought, she acknowledged they’d never go home again. It had been taken from them, and what they had now could barely be described as a residence.
Unexpectedly, the fine hairs on the back of her neck quivered as though someone had placed a warm hand against her nape. She swung around.
The people she’d seen earlier were farther away, weren’t coming for her. While she didn’t feel in danger, she couldn’t shake off the sensation that she wasn’t alone, that someone was near enough to hear her harsh breathing, that she was being watched.
But she saw only the shadows, heard only the occasional skitter of rats.
Reaching into her reticule, she pulled out the small dagger her older brother had given her and taught her how to wield, before he’d taken his leave to go God knew where. She doubted the four-inch blade would kill anyone, but it might at least give a miscreant pause, hold him at bay.
Besides, it could just be her imagination playing tricks on her. Until three months ago, she’d never gone anywhere alone. Her lady’s maid, footmen, her mother, a friend—someone always accompanied her. She’d never had to be aware of her surroundings, never had to worry about being accosted. But now she’d become extremely vigilant and wary. She hated all the worry, the uncertainty, and tried not to recall all the years of security she’d taken for granted, assuming she would always be spoiled, well tended, without care. When every day had been filled with fun, laughter, and good cheer.
Turning back around, she came up short at the sight of Griffith a few steps away and very nearly screamed at his sudden appearance. Doing so would have angered her more. “Where the devil have you been?”
He ducked his blond head. “Apologies. I got caught up in something and lost track of the hour.”
“In what, precisely?”
“It’s not important. Let’s get you home.” He came nearer, put his hand protectively on her shoulder, and ushered her forward. Just like her, he was more aware of their surroundings, his head continually swiveling, as he searched for anything amiss.
Before the upheaval in their lives, he’d barely given her the time of day. She’d never been particularly close to her brothers. The heir, Marcus, was five years older than she. Griffith three. She’d had the impression they viewed her as a nuisance more than anything, avoiding her whenever possible, seldom engaging her in conversation when they weren’t in a position to escape her company. They’d just sat in awkward silence. It seemed the only thing they had in common were their parents.
After taking several steps, she realized that warm sensation of being touched against her nape had melted away. She glanced over her shoulder. Had someone been watching her and backed off with Griffith’s arrival?
“Did you see anyone about when you came up?” she asked.
“No one near, no one appearing to have any interest in you. Again, I apologize for my tardiness. I miss having the convenience of a bloody carriage whenever we damned well wanted one.”
In all of her twenty-four years, she’d never heard him utter a profanity. Now his sentences were often peppered with words that shouldn’t be spoken in the presence of a lady, but then she was no longer a lady. She, too, missed being able to call for a carriage, especially when she wasn’t certain her legs could hold her upright much longer.
But they did their duty, kept moving forward until eventually they arrived at the shabby little residence they were leasing. It was two levels. They lived in the lower level. Someone with extremely heavy feet inhabited the second level, which was only accessible from stairs on the outside. Griffith unlocked the door, shoved it open, and waited until she’d preceded him inside. It was not a newer accommodation. No gas to make their situation a bit more convenient. An oil lamp rested on the oaken table near the empty hearth and her brother was quick to light it.
“Looks like Marcus has been here,” Griffith said as he reached for a parcel wrapped in brown paper, secured with string. Opening it, he revealed a few pounds. “This will keep a roof over our heads for a bit longer.”
“Why is he so mysterious? Why doesn’t he visit with us, instead of just leaving little gifts when we’re not here?” When they’d lost their standing within Society, lost everything really, he’d taken them under his wing, found them this residence. Once they were settled, he’d simply disappeared. She’d not seen him since.
“It’s safer, for us, for him.”
“Why won’t you tell me precisely what he’s doing?” She’d asked several times.
