Page 96 of The Marriage Method

“That may be so, ma’am,” Mrs. Bright replied as she tied off Nell’s plait with a satin ribbon. “But may I say what a pleasure it is to see him so well occupied.”

Nell settled back in her chair by the fire, her injured arm tucked safely in the sling Miles had made for her. He wasn’t the only one who had been well occupied today. Nell had spent hours reading every scrap of paper he’d given her about Mr. Cowgill and the Fawn-Purvis family. It had been exhausting work in her condition. Though her head was vastly improved from this morning, her shoulder and hip were paining her dreadfully.

She reflected that she shouldn’t have spent so much time in bed today. She should have got up and walked around her room, if only enough to keep her leg from cramping. But the very thing that helped her old injury seemed to aggravate her new one—and vice versa. It was exceedingly frustrating.

Mrs. Bright set a tray down on the table by Nell’s chair. It held a small porcelain pot and cup. “I’ve brewed some willow bark tea for you, ma’am. It will help the pain. And Cook’s preparing a bran poultice for your shoulder.”

Nell was vaguely disappointed that it wasn’t Miles who had brought the tea. She hadn’t seen him since she’d withdrawn for her bath. “Has Mr. Quincey already retired?”

“Retired? Heavens no. He’s gone to the Courant.” Mrs. Bright poured the tea, oblivious to the effect of her words.

Nell stared at her. “At this time of night? Whatever for?”

“I expect he realized he’d left something unfinished.”

A shiver of apprehension traced down Nell’s spine. Standing abruptly from her chair, she limped to one of her bedroom windows. She drew back the heavy curtain to peer down toward the street. It was pitch black out, save for the faint glow of the too-few street lamps that dotted St. James’s Square. A dense fog was visible, swirling around the lampposts and clinging to the black iron fence along the green.

And Nell asked herself: What unfinished business could Miles possibly have to attend to that was important enough to draw him away from her side on a dark and moonless night?

She could think of only one answer. And it had nothing to do with journalism.

• • • • •

Miles didn’t mind the darkness. He’d spent most of his childhood in the shadows. Indeed, on this occasion, he was far more concerned with someone seeing him than he was with his own ability to see.

He’d dressed for invisibility, all in black, with his hat pulled low over his brow, and the collar of his heavy overcoat standing up to shield the lower half of his face. No one meddled with him as he strode through the narrow, fogbound lanes of the Whitechapel slum. He carried himself as if he belonged here. As if he’d spent his life on these streets, with these people. The few who dared look at him askance cast him a wide berth. He was too big. Too intimidating. Too bloody furious.

It radiated off of him in menacing waves, all the rage he’d bottled up throughout the day every time he’d looked at the darkening bruise on Nell’s shoulder. Every time he’d seen her grimace with pain, exhale a trembling breath, or hold her arm to her breast like an injured dove.

Miles had known what he was going to do from the moment Flora Brent had revealed that Silas had struck Nell. It mattered little that Inspector Garrick had warned Miles and Gabriel against retaliation. This wasn’t vengeance. It was justice.

Up ahead, Mrs. Pritchard’s Gentlemen’s Establishment stood amid the billowing fog, its entrance illuminated by a string of lanterns. Silas towered in front of the door. He was talking to a shifty-faced gentleman in a poorly fitting suit. A customer, presumably. Silas stepped aside for the man, admitting him into the house. As he turned, the light shone over his face, casting the jagged red scratch on his cheek, and the new one across his brow, in harsh relief.

Miles’s muscles tightened on a fresh surge of anger. Miss Brent had said that Nell had cut Silas over the eyes with the tip of a parasol, and here was the evidence of it. A flesh-and-blood reminder of how Silas had threatened Nell, and of what she’d been obliged to do to defend herself.

She shouldn’t have had to. Miles should have been here to protect her. That he hadn’t been was, objectively, no fault of his own. Even so, he couldn’t forgive himself.

Steering clear of the lantern glow, Miles took up a position in the shadows of a urine-soaked alleyway that ran alongside the entrance to the brothel, and he waited.

And waited.

He’d been there nearly an hour before Silas at last abandoned his post and ducked into the unlit alley to relieve himself.

Miles remained concealed by the dark and fog until the bully boy was rebuttoning his trousers. Only then did Miles emerge, as silently as a phantom, to grab the man by his wilted neckcloth.

Silas grunted in surprise. “Who the—?”

Miles hit him square across the jaw. There was a satisfying crunch of shattering teeth.

Silas let out a howl of pain. He lunged at Miles with upraised fists.

Miles evaded him, using the darkness to his advantage.

“Show yourself!” Silas snarled, swinging wildly. He was a huge brute of a man. All brawny muscles and raw power. A true brothel bully who could effortlessly subdue disobedient working girls and unruly customers.

But Miles wasn’t as easy an opponent. Nor was he untutored in the ways of violence. He hit Silas again, and again. Punishing blows to the face and stomach.

Silas continued to strike out into the swirling fog, never making full contact. All he did was further exhaust himself. The metallic smell of his blood soon warred with the stench of urine.