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Hers was a tale straight out of a nightmare, told in a voice as calm and unruffled as if she were speaking of a stranger. In a way, he supposed she was. She’d left behind the name Raquel to become Jacqueline Trouvère. But it was clear she hadn’t escaped her former life entirely. It had left its mark—and not just on her body.
“So you see, Monsieur Danbury, you are not the only one who has kept secrets.” Her following chuckle sounded broken. “I fear mine are somewhat more damning than yours.”
Finding his tongue amid the tumult in his mind proved impossible. He was, quite simply, astounded. But while he viewed her story as both tragic and triumphant, he knew others would see only as far as the word “prostitute.”
She’d called herself one. That she’d only ever been with one man—and only for the sake of avoiding starvation—could simply have been termed a mistake. Many women sold themselves in marriage for the same reason. In her innocence, she’d even imagined herself in love with the bastard. But the fact that she’d gone to Boucher with the intent to sell herself colored everything.
Or did it?
Understanding why and how she’d ended up in a brothel served only to further skew his perspective. Was it fair to ask a woman to die of starvation rather than turn to immorality to feed herself? Of the good people he knew, the overwhelming majority would piously answer that question with a quick “yes” before condemning and reviling her. And they would expect him to do the same.
But Will couldn’t find it in himself to do so. It was all too easy to sit in judgment without empathy when one hadn’t suffered the plaintiff’s plight. Unlike many who claimed to be good, but acted otherwise, she truly was good. The evidence in her favor was overwhelming.
“Mon Dieu, say something,” she implored with another soggy laugh.
“I—” He cleared his throat. “You were alone and frightened, and you acted out of desperation. I don’t blame you for—”
“Don’t labor under the impression that I’m asking forgiveness,” she snapped, suddenly wrathful. “God alone will judge me! He knows I did only what I had to in order to survive. I went everywhere seeking employment, but was denied honest work. No one in this godforsaken city would hire me!”
She covered her trembling lips with a shaky hand. “Even your Church of England turned me away when I begged help. I was a French papist, they said. Those who claimed to be God’s merciful servants cast me out into the street. In the end, I had nowhere else to go but Boucher or the docks. I will not apologize for my decision to live.”
“You’re not the one who needs forgiving.” A strange pain erupted in his chest at her look of surprise. “The unkindness you endured was no fault of your own.”
“And I don’t need your pity!” she flared, though her chin wobbled a little as she raised it in defiance.
Pity. He did feel sorry for her, for what she’d suffered. But his admi
ration for her was greater by far. “I’m angered on your behalf,” he said quietly. “I’m in awe of your courage and amazed by your strength. There is little room for pity in my heart when such sentiments fill it.”
Tears streamed from her eyes.
Without thinking, he reached out and thumbed them away. Blood roared in his ears at the contact, and his head felt light. Something was happening, something both exhilarating and terrifying. He was taken by an almost overpowering urge to kiss her.
But the last shred of reason he possessed stopped him.
She’s not like other women. At best, kissing her would likely result in a slap. At worst, he remembered she had a gun tucked away somewhere on her person. His intent would most certainly be misunderstood.
Her hazel eyes had darkened, and her cheeks were flushed. Was it rage that brought such richness of color to her skin? Or was it something else? After what she’d been through, he wondered if she would ever want to be touched again. “I cannot speak for anyone else,” he said at last. “But for my part, I cannot and will not condemn you. Though I lied about my name and my intentions in coming here, I am your friend, and I want to help you.”
More tears fell. “Was any of it true?”
“Yes, everything save what I do for a living, I swear it. You can ask Dr. Horton.”
“Dr. Horton?” Her brows pinched. “What—do you mean to say he knows about this, about you?”
“Don’t be angry with him. He knew nothing until he saw me here, and I threatened him with prison if he gave me away,” he answered, chagrined. “We’ve known each other since we were boys.” A nervous laugh found its way out of his throat. “His brother nearly married one of my sisters. He knows I work for Sir Gonson and can vouch for me.”
Her face tightened with fury. “Yes, you men can all vouch for one another. Dr. Horton, Lord Mulgrave. Who else, I wonder, has lied to me?”
Damn. “No one else knows my real identity—and I prefer to keep it that way until we get to the bottom of this.”
“We? You expect me to trust you after this?”
Confound it all! “I know it’s a lot to ask, but you need not do it blindly. As I said, Horton can vouch for me.”
“What of Mulgrave and Gonson? Ought I to ask them?”
A cold frisson of fear raced down his back. “If you do, I’ll be pulled from this assignment before I have the chance to help you discover who is threatening you and put a stop to it.”
