Page 39 of The Viscount of Shadows

Chapter 13

Oliver listened attentively, concentrating on her words to forget his misery and the searing ache in his side. Whinstone? That loathsome excuse for a human being? Watford’s cruel stepfather, who caused no amount of trouble leading to his incarceration? To begin her life at Eaton Place, only to be moved constantly to cheaper lodgings?

“The money stopped completely when I turned 12 years old, and, for a short period, my mother made money the only way she knew how.” Claudia hesitated. “You are not shocked and disgusted?”

“Why would I be? Why would I judge anyone in a dire predicament?”

His answer must have satisfied her, for she continued, “Then, she met a man. By my thirteenth birthday, we lived with him in a small three-room flat in Vauxhall, within a cluster of boarding houses where manual laborers resided. Thankfully, William Murphy was not a cruel man. He was a sailor, away more than he was home. But when there, we were happy. William was more of a father to me than Whinstone ever was.”

“I am glad for that,” Oliver interjected quietly.

“William taught me how to defend myself. How to handle a knife, and where to cut to cause injury, either with a glancing slice or a fatal stab or evisceration. Regrettably, his ship sank off the Atlantic Ocean coast of Nova Scotia. There was no more money, but worst of all, no William coming home, his arms laden with parcels of food and gifts, or his laughing face greeting us each morning as he made us a hearty breakfast. Going shopping and for walks about the park, stopping for an orange ice or even vanilla bean ice cream.”

Claudia gave a shuddering sigh. “I cried for his senseless loss. I cried for my poor mother. We were down to less than two pounds in coin, as William was due to make shore in a few weeks. How could we stay in that flat? We sold William’s clothing and furnishings and found cheaper lodgings elsewhere. My mother was wracked with grief, for she absolutely loved William. He wasn’t the most handsome of men, nor all that tall, but he was kind, generous, and loving. They had discussed marriage. I loved him, too. The thought of my heartbroken mother returning to the streets to earn coin twisted my insides.”

“What did you do?” Oliver asked, genuinely moved by her story. To find contentment within a family formation to have it cruelly ripped away? Unfathomable.

Claudia remained silent.

“You can trust me,” he urged gently. “I can sense you already do, to a point. Anything you say will not change my high opinion of you.”

“High opinion? You do not know me at all,” she replied matter-of-factly.

“Not completely accurate. You forget I know you as Tensbridge and The Sentinel. I observed your courage and determination—and how you labor at keeping people at a distance. Including me.”

“Bringing people close is allowing vulnerability, a lesson I learned the hard way. That I cannot tolerate.”

“You cried when you learned of William’s death. That shows compassion, not weakness. And vulnerabilities show that we are human, capable of deep emotions.”

Claudia snorted. “What does it matter? Any of it leaves a person defenseless. I will not put myself in that position. Not ever again.” She paused. “Or so I try and tell myself.”

Oliver wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms. But he remained on the pallet not only because of his injury but he did not wish to invade her space. “In my family, we show our affection readily. For one never knows when a certain day may be the last. Why have regrets over what was not done or said? Live and love to the fullest. ‘’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’”

“Alfred Lord Tennyson. I do have some education. ‘I am mistress of mine own self and mine own soul,’ also from Tennyson. I am in charge of what happens to me. If I remain detached in certain situations, that is on me.”

Oliver smiled in the darkness. Oh, he adored this woman. Of that, there was no doubt. “But you are not remaining disconnected with me. You are telling me of your past.”

“Because you have been stabbed and are sick with a fever. I reckon that you will not remember most of it. How do you know I am even telling you the truth? I could be a consummate storyteller, weaving an overwrought fiction for your entertainment to keep your mind off your injury.”

“But you are not,” Oliver murmured. “I hear the sorrow in your voice. The anger when speaking of Whinstone. The regret and utter sadness when talking of your mother and William Murphy. It is sincere and deeply felt. I can ascertain that much. ‘The shell must break before the bird can fly.’”

“Oh, please. No more Tennyson.”

Oliver chuckled, then sobered. “Saying I am sorry for what you had to endure sounds futile, for I have no idea about any of it.”

“Don’t apologize for being raised in a loving and privileged home. Thank your lucky stars instead.”

“Does that upbringing make me a dullard in your eyes? Women seem to prefer the brooding, tortured type.”

“Brooding and tortured describes me, certainly not you. If I were to pick certain attributes preferable in a man, I would select stable, honorable, and confident. And a dullard? Come now, you are a vigilante! That gives you a wild and dangerous streak that is immensely appealing—to other women.”

“But not to you?” Oliver asked softly.

“Perhaps to me. You are certainly a wonder.”

A jolt of triumph raced through him. Oliver was about to speak, to tell her that she appealed to him in all ways when a scratching sound from above made Claudia grip his arm.

“Is it a rat?” she whispered worriedly.