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ows are covered in ironwork, and the nearest trees are across the street. We are perfectly safe now.”
“Where does Sally sleep?”
She frowned. “Above the dining hall with the other kitchen staff. You really believe her a spy?”
“I don’t know, and that makes me nervous,” he admitted. “I’ll want to check her window tomorrow to be certain it’s not been tampered with.” Casting about, he spied the padded bench he’d sat upon during his first visit. “I can sleep there until dawn, run to Mrs. Hayton’s to change clothes, and be back here before the morning’s first class begins.”
Though she looked doubtful, she nodded. “I can see there is no persuading you to do otherwise. Allow me to fetch a pillow and some blankets.”
“Thank you.”
It seemed forever before she returned with a sour-faced Mrs. Sloane. Despite recent events, the woman clearly disapproved of him staying the night. The tension in the air was palpable as they made up the narrow couch. The older woman kept darting furtive glances at him, while her mistress appeared determined to pretend he wasn’t there. When at last all was ready, Trouvère bade them both a brisk good night and departed, leaving him alone with Sloane, who all but bolted for her own quarters a moment later.
He bit back a chuckle as the snick of the bolt sliding home sounded faintly through Sloane’s door. The temptation to shout that a lock was unnecessary to secure her virtue was a strong one, but he refrained. Voices carried, and nerves were already stretched taut enough around here.
Weariness made his lids heavy as he laid aside his jacket and pulled off his shoes. Thoughts flitted in and out too rapidly to seize upon any one for more than a few seconds. Suspicions, concerns, and an overabundance of emotions too complex to untangle in his current state threatened to overwhelm him.
I care for her—far more than I should. But their situation wasn’t favorable for a romance. In fact, it was all wrong.
She was once a courtesan, a prostitute.
Granted, she wasn’t one now, and in his opinion she hadn’t ever really been one to begin with. But who else would see it thus? No one. Not his family, certainly. Mother would die of mortification.
And what of his place among Gonson’s Boys? His employer had carefully selected only those men beyond reproach to become part of the elite force. How could he possibly consider a romantic relationship with a woman who’d once sought employment in a brothel, regardless of her reason? As to the nature of said romantic relationship, there was only one viable option. Marriage. The Jacqueline he’d come to know would certainly never settle for anything less than a wedding ring. Whatever she might have been before, she was a proper lady now. To propose anything but a formal union would be an unforgivable insult to her—and it would be damned dishonorable of him.
Still, he had to weigh the potentially disastrous consequences of such a union. What if they did marry and someone from her former life one day recognized her? He’d be ruined. Everything he’d worked for would be gone—his reputation, his job, his entire future.
Even these considerations did nothing to abate his desire for her. Just the memory of being close to her made his breeches uncomfortably tight about the crotch. He stifled a groan.
Stop it. Concentrate on your task!
The Archangel was Boucher’s greatest threat. But Emma, Rose, and anyone they might have talked to was also in danger. He didn’t doubt for a moment Boucher had ordered the killings in Covent Garden. The Temple of Aurora’s owner possessed no conscience. She wouldn’t balk at arranging the deaths of every woman and child in this place.
Despite Jacqueline’s assertion that Boucher had fallen on hard times, logic told him she must still be in business or she wouldn’t have coin to pay for the services of those who’d left her nasty messages here. One thing was certain; he’d kill the bitch himself before he let her lay a finger—her own or a hired killer’s—on Jacqueline or any of the girls.
Jacqueline. Will didn’t blame her for leaving the name “Raquel” behind. He’d never known that unfortunate girl. He knew only the woman she’d become. And he admired her more than anyone he’d ever met.
His pulse thudded in his ears, and his head began to ache.
What have I gotten myself into? Extinguishing the lamp, he sighed into the darkness. At least now he didn’t have to lie to her anymore. All the cards were laid out in full view. She knew who and what he was.
Someone was shaking him. The first thing Will saw on opening his eyes was another pair of eyes—about three inches away. He yelped as every nerve in his body simultaneously awakened.
“Sir?” whispered the little girl before him.
“Yes, what is it?” he gasped, trying to wrestle his heart back down his throat. Frowning, he sat up and peered at her in the lamplight. Sarah, seven years old. The high, narrow window above was pitch black. What time is it? “Why are you not asleep?”
“I’m too scared to sleep,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“What are you afraid of?” he asked, striving to be gentle despite his irritation over being awakened in what was surely the blackest middle of the night.
“There’s a man outside.” Her bottom lip trembled. “He frightens me. No one would tell me what happened during dinner, but all the teachers were so upset I know it had to be something really bad. Jane said she overheard one of the kitchen staff say somebody had got in, and that there was a lot of blood. Now there’s a man outside. I came to find Mrs. Sloane, but then I saw you.”
“Where is this man?” Will asked, careful not to show his own trepidation.
“I saw him from the common room window. I know I’m supposed to be in bed, but—”
“Show me.” Standing, he offered his hand, gratified to note there was no hesitation before she took it and started tugging him along.
