Page 27

“No. But I’m going anyway. Because I know who to look for.”

Richard felt a jolt of worry for her. He had a hard time imagining a lady like her being completely safe in Whitechapel.

But he would be with her and be able to protect her.

“As your brother requested, I must show you around the ton,” he said as the carriage drove through the dank, narrow Whitechapel streets. “So we have certain events to attend. Tomorrow, I managed to secure invitations to Lady Brewster’s annual soirée dedicated to her famous roses.”

She chewed her lower lip. “Can I not be spared?”

“Your brother cannot suspect a thing. Nor can my family. Grandmama, Calliope, Preston, and Penelope were impressed with you yesterday, but they still voiced their suspicions after you departed. We must convince them and the rest of the ton. You need to brace yourself, Miss Grant. There will be more events we must attend. And if you want to look the part, you must dress accordingly.”

“I do not want any of that,” she said stubbornly. “I’m perfectly fine with the way I look. I don’t need to impress anyone.”

Spoken like a true bluestocking, he chuckled to himself. An adorable one. For once, it was refreshing to be in the company of a lady who was beautiful but did not care about her looks. Lady Charity was always greatly concerned about wearing the latest fashions and hairstyles.

“You do not,” he said. “But it will be more convincing and a more pleasant experience for you if you do. I will help you. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to Grandmama’s modiste. Apparently, she’s one of the best in London and can work very quickly, given an appropriate monetary reward, which I’m happy to offer. She will provide the attire you need to get through the next few days until we can break the engagement.”

Jane looked sadly at her hands, which were crossed in her lap. “The last time I saw a proper modiste was over five years ago, when she made the gown for my coming out. For the most part, I wore Mama’s old dresses, which were repurposed for me by seamstresses.”

His chest tightened. “Your mama…when did she die?”

Her big, glistening eyes met his. “She died giving birth to me.”

Richard’s heart sank with sadness. His own mother had been so dear to him. He had spent wonderful years being loved and taken care of, and the thought of Jane not having even met her mama hurt him deeply.

Just like Jane, Mama hadn’t been accepted with open arms in the ton. Papa had worked tirelessly behind the scenes to gain acceptance for his Spanish wife among the English upper class. Although money and power could buy some respect, it wasn’t enough to erase the stigma of her foreign bloodline, even if she was descended from the renowned House of Habsburg. No matter how hard he tried, she was never quite good enough for the rigid British social order.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured.

He almost reached out to her to grasp her hand despite her earlier rule of no touching. But the carriage came to a stop, indicating that they had arrived at their destination.

She met his gaze for a moment, her eyes wide and questioning. Then she quickly looked away, and he felt a sharp ache in his chest as the invisible thread that seemed to connect them snapped.

Richard climbed out and helped Jane get out, too. The street here was also muddy, and beggars sat on the ground. Some windows were boarded up, and it smelled like excrement. A man on the other side of the street laughed hysterically. A woman stood one house down, leaning against a wall, waiting. The only light came from the rising moon and the few candles in the windows of the poor, old houses.

Someone retched, one hand pressed against the wall of a tavern with a sign that read Red Donkey above the open door. The reek of stale ale and vomit wafted out. Richard didn’t usually frequent places like that.

As they made their way through the narrowly set, round tables, his protective instincts roared to life. Men in poor clothes, with unwashed and uncombed hair, sat talking, laughing drunkenly, playing cards. These were thugs, highwaymen, thieves, and, quite likely, killers. He could see knives and pistols tucked underneath their belts. As a barmaid passed by one of the tables with mugs of ale in her hand, one of the patrons, a bald man, slapped her on her backside and said something foul to her. She rolled her eyes and told him if he tried that again she’d knife him.

He caught Jane by the elbow and leaned close to her ear. “Ladies like you shouldn’t come here. Stay behind me.”

She only chuckled at him and shook her head. To his surprise, she actually smiled to people and greeted them as they made their way towards the bar. To his even greater surprise, Jane transformed here. Instead of the stiff, wooden look she’d worn yesterday at Sumhall and the day before in Hyde Park, she flourished. Her smile broadened, her eyes sparkled, and the tension in her shoulders and back melted away. And unlike in Mayfair and Hyde Park, where she’d seemed like a shy mouse, here she exerted confidence.

She was no damsel in distress. Here, she was a princess of thieves.

Jane reached the bar and leaned over the counter towards the barmaid, who poured ale into a mug.

“How are you, Georgia?” she asked, taking a seat.

Richard did the same. The barmaid put the mug on the tray and started with another one. “All right, Jane,” she said as she gave Richard a frown. “Did Mr. Blackmore send you? Everything all right with the ale?”

“Yes, yes,” said Jane. “Your ale is perfect. I’m looking for Atticus. Have you seen him?”

“No, ’aven’t seen ’im today. ’E was ’ere last night. You should wait for ’im. ’E'll probably come ’ere sooner or later. It’s rarely a night that ’e doesn’t show up.”

“Thank you,” said Jane as she tugged at the fastening of her cloak. “We will.”

“Can I get you somethin’?” she asked.