He urged his horse forward, his hooves silenced by the sand laid down on the roadway to deaden the noise of carriage wheels. A hansom cab pulled out of the rank and Archer urged his horse into a trot to keep it in sight, a grim expression on his face. He knew it shouldn’t matter to him where the wretched girl was going but also knew that it did and that he could no more turn round and forget about her than fly through the air like a bird.
The traffic in the streets was heavy and Jane’s hansom made slow progress down to the river but eventually as dark was falling, she was glad to see they were crossing Westminster Bridge, the dark river flowing deep and silent beneath them. There were still plenty of small boats out on the water, lanterns beginning to show green and red, pointing their position and speed.
She peered out from under the canopy and looked back to where the bulk of the Houses of Parliament, Lords and Commons, were outlined against the dark blue of the October sky. It was a magnificent sight and one she had never seen before from this side of the Thames. Little wisps of cloud seemed to float across her vision and then they turned off the bridge and the view was lost.
The horse picked up speed on the other side of the bridge and it only took minutes until they turned down a street running parallel to the river bank where old boarding houses leant against each other, looking dirty and run down with several of their windows broken. The street seemed to be empty, but it was hard to tell because the shadows around the houses were so deep.
With shouts to his horse, the cab driver pulled up in front of one. “This ‘ere is the address you showed me, Miss. But it’s no place for a lady, especially not one on her own.”
“Thank you for your concern, Sir, but I shall be quite all right. If you would kindly wait for me.” She didn’t wait for him to dismount from his box and help her down, but turned impatient to reach Grace, feeling for the step with her foot.
Then Jane felt hands grip her waist and with a shriek of fear, she was lifted clear of the hansom and, struggling and kicking, found herself clasped in Archer’s arms that were holding her so tightly she was sure she would never breath easily again.
“Miss Darcy! Jane! What in God’s name are you doing here in this place? Are you mad?”
“If you will unhand me, I might be able to reply,” Jane gasped, gazing up into the face she loved so much that was now dark with anger.
He loosened his grip, although slowly, as if reluctant to let her go.
“Oi! Are you all right, Miss? Is the gent bothering you?”
A flicker of a smile twitched Archer’s mouth. It seemed that even a hansom cab driver would protect this girl.
“Thank you, I am quite all right. I know the gentleman. I am quite safe in his care.”
Archer handed over a pocketful of silver to the man who was still gazing down at him, his expression doubtful. “I thank you for your concern. You need not stay. I will convey the young lady home on my horse.”
With muttered thanks, the driver flicked his whip and the cab took off down the street.
“Miss Jane?” A hoarse whisper sounded from the shadows at the side of the house. “Who’s that with you? Not the Peelers?”
“Grace? Yes, I have come as arranged. Don’t be alarmed. This gentleman is certainly not a policeman. I promise he will not harm you.”
The girl stepped out into the street, still wearing the scarlet cloak, gazing apprehensively at Archer.
“This is Mr Archer Maitland, a friend of our family—this, Sir, is Grace Frost who used to be in our employment at Pemberley. She came to London, having been promised a good life by a certain gentleman but, alas, was lied to, misled and treated ill. I have brought her a little money so she can travel down to Devon, to her aunt.”
She held out the parcel of guineas and with a soft thank you, Grace shot out her hand to take it.
Archer understood immediately what was happening. He could not but admire Jane for her good intentions, her lack of condemnation and her bravery in coming to this dubious part of town on her own.
“Can we help in any other way, Miss Frost.”
Jane bit back a gasp at the use of the word “we”. He was allying himself to her and she was almost overcome with the joy that gave her.
“The—man—concerned. Do you wish us to ask him for support for the child in the years to come?”
Grace fingered the guineas that were now deep in her pocket. She coughed and her eyes watered, something was stinging them. She stared into the gentleman’s face: did he really believe that the famous artist, Edmund Avery, a well-known, popular figure about town, would admit to being the father of her child?
She coughed again, thinking bitterly that if this had happened to her whilst they had been together at Pemberley, then perhaps a case could have been made. But even then he would probably have sworn his innocence and insisted that she had lain with Archie Biggs, the head groom she had been walking out with or one of the footmen or even his own valet. It wasn’t, after all, an action that usually had many spectators!
“It is mortal kind of you, Sir, but I think not. I want nothing more to do with the devil and me and my child will do better without any connection to him. Now, you had better take Miss Jane home. It grows dark.” She coughed again and suddenly all three of them were coughing as the air seemed to swirl with acrid smoke.
Archer was about to reply that yes, it was getting dark, when he realised that was a lie. Above the rooftops, the sky towards the river was no longer dark blue but tinted with red and orange light that reflected up against the clouds. And now the air wasthickening even more as thicker smoke blew towards them and faintly he could hear a weird rumbling thunder.
“There’s a fire! A big one, I fear, but it’s on the far side of the river, I think. You should be in no danger, Grace, but stay outside, just in case it spreads. Quick, Jane, put this across your nose and mouth. I need to get you home. Your parents will be distraught that you are out.”
He tore off his cravat and Jane buried her face in the soft material. Then, with a gasp, she realised he had mounted his horse and was bending to pluck her off the street and swing her up behind him in a flurry of petticoats. Automatically she wrapped her arms round his waist as he urged his mount into a trot and headed back towards Westminster Bridge.
