CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“And gifts, Mr. Kilbrenner. Do not neglect the gifts.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in an addendum to a letter reminding said gentleman of recommendations for maintenance of domestic tranquility.
Sometime after luncheon, a package arrived for Augusta. Inside, she found a bottle of rose milk hand cream, a jar of sweet almond oil, and a pair of supple, white kid gloves embroidered with an exquisitely detailed bouquet of pink flowers and golden leaves. Beneath the gloves lay a note. It read, To Gus. For the hands I love best. Yrs Always, S.
Slowly, she smiled and ran a finger over the rose milk’s label, over the glove’s silk embroidery. He loved her. He must. To love her red, worn, callused hands, he must love her very much indeed.
Heat and painful pleasure filled her until she thought it would surely spill out or cause her heart to burst. It felt like … joy. Too much. It was too much. She wished to see him. To touch and kiss.
Augusta clutched the gloves to her chest, nibbling her lip and formulating a plan in which she would visit him in his office and refuse to leave until he gave her what she wanted—himself.
“What did he give you?” Phoebe said from behind her. Blue eyes were hollow, as before, only now they were also reddened. She’d been weeping.
Augusta drifted toward her sister, extending the box so she could see.
Phoebe gave the items a glance and nodded. “I am glad he decided to include the oil.”
Her heart sinking a bit, Augusta wondered if she’d read too much into the gift. Perhaps it was simply a token and not the carefully planned, love-inspired gesture she’d assumed. “These were your suggestions?”
“Only the oil. I discovered a formulation for a lovely salve. When he mentioned the gift he planned, I thought you might like—oh!”
Augusta pulled her sister into a hug.
Phoebe chuckled her surprise. “What is this about?”
“Nothing. Just that … he loves me.”
“Of course he loves you, ninny. The man is positively mad with it.”
“I never thought …”
Phoebe pulled back to meet Augusta’s eyes. “You deserve the greatest happiness. I thank God you found Sebastian, even if the circumstances under which you met have been trying.”
Augusta tucked a stray curl behind Phoebe’s ear and examined the dark circles beneath her eyes. “Tell me what is wrong, Phee.”
Her brow crumpled. Her lower lip trembled. “I cannot.”
“Yes,” Augusta commanded. “You can. You must.”
“I have burdened you too long.”
“You were never a burden.”
Phoebe snorted, her mouth twisting. “Do not lie. I’ve never been anything else.”
“That is utter rubbish, and well you know it.”
The small, delicate chin firmed and tilted to a familiar angle. It reminded Augusta of herself. She now had an inkling of how Sebastian must feel when she grew stubborn. The man must truly love her, for it was most vexing.
“If this is about Glassington,” Augusta tried, “I have promised he will be made to keep his word. You mustn’t worry.”
The assurance only seemed to increase Phoebe’s misery. Her eyes sheened.
“Dash it all! Tell me what is wrong,” she snapped. “This very moment, Phee.”
Phoebe’s mouth opened—whether to explain or vex her further, Augusta did not know—but she was interrupted by Anne, who bustled into the entrance hall looking harried.
“Beg your pardon, Mrs. Kilbrenner. Have you seen Ash?”
Augusta frowned at the housekeeper. She did not like the frantic concern upon the woman’s face. “No. Have you looked in the stables?”
Anne swallowed visibly. “I have looked everywhere. I think—I think he’s been taken.”
Cold rushed through her.
“John answered an inquiry at the service entrance yesterday,” Anne explained. “It was a man claiming to be a sweep, offering his services. John declined, of course. Our chimneys are spotless. But the man lingered outside the house. Teedle saw him an hour later, staring through the mews gate.”
The cold turned to ice, freezing Augusta from the inside. “What did he look like?” she whispered, trying to remember everything Ash had told her. It wasn’t much. The boy had slept in her room for weeks, too frightened to be anywhere else. She’d heard his nightmares. Held him as long as he would allow before squirming away. It had torn her heart in two. In time, Ash had begun to sleep soundly, but Augusta remembered his fear only too well.
“Big,” Anne said. “Not tall, but big. With great jowls, like a bulldog.”
The room swam and spun. The Dog. That was what Ash had called the monster in his nightmares. The Dog.
If that man had taken Ash, he might do anything. He might break the boy in two.
Dear heaven, Augusta could not bear it. “I must find him.”
Phoebe’s hand squeezed hers, taking the box Augusta had nearly dropped. “We must find him. You are not alone, Gus.”
Augusta glanced at Phoebe’s belly hidden beneath the folds of her gown. “No. Stay here, where it is safe.”
Her chin turned stubborn again. “I shall come along.”
“So shall I,” said Anne.
Augusta opened her mouth to refuse, but Phoebe continued calmly, “We shall stop at the club and retrieve Sebastian.”
Sebastian. Yes, of course. In her urgency, Augusta had forgotten she had … Bastian. Her protector. Her fortress. Her husband.
Phoebe was right. She was not alone. Augusta listened as Anne ordered John to have the coach prepared. Then, she tugged her sister toward the staircase. “I do not want you anywhere near this, Phee. You must think of the babe.”
“I shan’t put myself in danger.” Phoebe frowned. “Perhaps Mr. Duff could come, as well. I watched him dispatch an unruly gentleman from the club once. I suspect the man’s head may still be ringing.”
While they retrieved their pelisses and bonnets, climbed into the coach beside Anne, and braced against the sides of the carriage as it flew toward St. James, Augusta struggled against panic. It expanded her ribs, churning and tormenting her with visions of Ash’s tiny, broken body. Ash’s dark, vacant eyes. Ash’s slender arms, which had hugged her waist only once or twice, and that only when she’d refused to release him promptly.
She wanted to hurt the Dog for what he’d done to Ash already. Watch him be pummeled and bruised and crushed, hear him beg for mercy. But if he had further harmed the boy after she had promised Ash safety, she would kill him. She would find a pistol or a sword or a knife. She would cut the man in two.
They arrived at the club’s rear entrance after what felt like weeks to Augusta. While Anne and Phoebe spoke to Mr. Duff, Augusta rushed to Sebastian’s office, her heart and breath racing.
Frelling glanced up, startled. “Why, Mrs. Kilbrenner!” He adjusted his spectacles. “I fear Mr. Reav—er, Mr. Kilbrenner has gone out.”
Her heart fell. She needed Sebastian. Needed him more and more with every second that passed. “Where? Please, Mr. Frelling. This is a most urgent matter.”
“He has gone to speak with Mr. Elder. I expect his return within the hour.”
She could not wait. Time pulsed around her, wearing away at Ash’s odds. “Paper, Mr. Frelling. I need paper and a pen.”
Minutes later, she climbed inside the coach with Anne and Phoebe. Duff sat with the coachman, and John rode on the back. They careened through London’s wet winter streets, the pounding of the horses’ hooves echoing her galloping heart.
A small, steady hand squeezed hers. She looked to Phoebe, whose eyes were calm and smiling with reassurance. “We shall find him, Gus.”
Her face distorted as Augusta’s eyes welled and swam. She dashed away the tears impatiently. Unable to speak, she simply nodded.
Eternity passed before they reached Cheapside. The street was clogged with carts, carriages, horses, and men. It stank of animals and clamored with the shouts of those selling their wares.
Traffic lightened but the street narrowed as they rounded a corner toward the lodging house. Before the carriage fully stopped, Augusta threw open the coach door. Her feet could not carry her swiftly enough. Distantly, she heard Phoebe following behind.
As usual, Mrs. Renley was little help. The rotund woman, red-eyed and listing, squinted at Augusta’s inquiry. “Boy? Haven’t seen a boy.”
“Do you know where a boy might be staying round here? There would be more than a few. Chimney sweeps or—”
“Lot of pickpockets, ye mean. No.” She shook her head then appeared to think better of it as she wobbled on her feet. “Last pickpocket I saw made off with a week’s rent. If I knew where ’ee were, I’d have walloped ’im good.”
Augusta gritted her teeth. She’d pinned all her hopes on Mrs. Renley’s assistance. She should have known better. The woman hadn’t been helpful in so much as removing dead rats from the staircase. Cursing beneath her breath, Augusta turned to Anne, who appeared as frantic as she. “We shall have to begin a search, house by house. He and the other boys stayed somewhere near here. I just don’t know where.” She rubbed her forehead, wishing Sebastian were there, holding her.
“Augusta,” Phoebe said softly from behind her.
Augusta turned. Her sister stood beside a tall, slender woman with dark-brown hair and a flat bosom. “Miss Honeybrook?”
The woman with the cynical smile and unusual assortment of costumes sauntered forward. “Miss Widmore. I understand you’re searching for a band of young brigands. Fancy themselves sweeps, though they’re more likely to clean your pockets than your chimney.”
“Yes. Do you know where I might find them?”
Miss Honeybrook’s head nodded in the direction of the alley on the south side of the building. “Four houses down. I see them come and go. An older one propositioned me once.” Her mouth quirked and she rolled her eyes. “I told him he’d a few more years of diving before he could afford me.”
Phoebe grinned at Augusta, and Augusta grinned back, her heart pounding in relief.
“Thank you, Miss Honeybrook!” Augusta called over her shoulder as they rushed out the door. She halted before the door closed. “Oh, and if a black-haired giant should come asking where I have gone, please tell him.”
“Giant?”
“Yes. Do not offer your services. He is mine.”
The cynical smile returned. “Yours. Understood.”
The alley was scarcely wide enough for the carriage, so they went on foot, Augusta and Phoebe first, followed by Anne, Duff, and John, while the coach took the long way around to the adjacent street. The fourth house down was more dilapidated than Mrs. Renley’s hovel, even from the front. The bricks were crumbling, some having fallen away and ground to dust. The few windows were cracked and filthy, their frames sagging. The door was latched, as Augusta discovered to her frustration when she tried the knob.
Big hands grasped her shoulders and pulled her away. It was Mr. Duff. He shook his head at her. “Let me, Mrs. Kilbrenner, if ye please. Reaver will pound me proper if any harm should come to ye.”
She swallowed. Backed away. Looked around at Phoebe, who glared in concern, her hand resting on her belly. Realizing she had once again charged forth as though she were still battling alone, Augusta nodded and retreated to stand near the coach.
“You must be sensible, Augusta,” Phoebe admonished. “We’ve no idea what this villain might do.”
Augusta nodded, feeling like a girl being reprimanded by her mother. In fact, at the moment, Phoebe greatly resembled their mother. Strong. Steady. Calm.
They watched Duff and John first knock then crack the door with a hard shove of Duff’s shoulder. The jamb appeared to be half rotted, making their entrance easy. As they entered, Augusta could see debris littering the floor of the murky interior.
Her chest wound tight as she watched the two men disappear inside.
Long minutes passed in which the vise squeezing her tighter and tighter grew painful. Her stomach writhed, wanting her to move. To find Ash. To make sure he was not hurt or …
She could not bear to contemplate the “or.” He must be alive.
“They will find him,” Phoebe murmured, clasping Augusta’s hand.
“They will,” Anne affirmed. “Duff is strong, and John dotes on our little mouse.”
She prayed it was true, but the fear in her belly, quivering and making her want to retch, weighed heavily with doubt. She despised this waiting. Ordinarily, she was too busy with her plans and her battling to simmer in a broth of fear. Sitting idle while others battled suited her not at all.
A flicker of something in an upper window caught her eye. She shaded her brow and squinted, trying to see past the grime. It was an arm. Slender and slight. Then it was a hand, small and flattened against one of the panes. Then it was a shoulder, jammed against the glass.
Augusta’s heart stopped. That window was too high for a boy’s shoulder to reach the third pane. Someone was holding him up. Pushing him hard.
The little body jerked and a cheek slid flat along the mullion.
Oh, God. It was Ash. She knew it. He was being tormented.
She didn’t think. There was nothing but her boy. No sound. No thought. No consideration apart from one: She must save him.
Inside the building, she found the stairs quickly. Hiked up her skirts and climbed, automatically avoiding cracks and snags, but stumbling twice.
Needed to get to him. Needed to kill the Dog. Needed to save her boy.
She located the room in the corner of the second floor. Heard a thud just before she charged through it. And saw the Dog, fat and short and mean, looming over a spitting Ash.
Saw it all through a red haze. “Lay another hand upon my boy, and I shall rip you apart,” she growled.
The Dog turned, his jowls shaking with the motion. Then, he laughed. The whoreson laughed.
At his feet, Ash groaned and rolled up onto his elbow. “No,” the boy panted, struggling to stand. “Lady Reaver. Ye must go.”
“Reaver, eh?” The Dog’s smile faded into a sneer, his jowls undulating as he swallowed. “You his woman?”
“I am his wife. Now, release the boy.”
“Boy belongs to me. Way I see it, you stole ’im.”
Augusta strode further into the room. Distantly, she heard heaving breaths behind her. Anne, she guessed from the sound of the gait and the wheeze. “M-Mrs. Kilbrenner. You must get behind me, now.”
The Dog’s eyes narrowed, the fat of his cheeks nearly engulfing the gleaming slits. “Kilbrenner. Not Reaver, after all.” The grin returned, vile and satisfied. “Stupid whore. Come to take what’s mine, ’ave ye?”
“The boy is mine,” Augusta said, the words emerging low and resonant, straight from the center of her being. “You will give him back to me, or so help me, I will see you dead.”
He whistled mockingly. “Mighty big threat. You and that fat bitch couldn’t see a rat dead.”
Ash, wide-eyed and trembling, bolted past the Dog, but the vile creature grasped his arm and threw him backward. Ash landed with a wince and an arm around his ribs.
“Stay put.” He pointed at Augusta. “Get out, both of ye. Or I’ll show ye what I do to those what steal from me.”
Everything happened slowly, yet all at once. Augusta’s fury turned the room bright red. Her feet carried her forward at a dead run. Ash shouted. Anne screamed. The Dog stumbled back, astonishment flashing in serpent eyes. She hit the wall of disgusting flesh full force, shoving and clawing, grasping his ears and yanking hard enough to tear. Meaty hands grabbed at her arms, but she pinched and twisted whatever she could reach, making the Dog yelp and squeal.
Suddenly, pain exploded in her middle. She couldn’t breathe, staggering backward. The Dog was shouting something. Cupping his ear. Charging her. Ash escaped Anne’s hold and latched onto the whoreson’s leg, biting until blood seeped and spilled.
A scream. Gasping.
The gasping was hers. She couldn’t breathe. Oh, God, her chest wouldn’t work. It hurt. So much. He must have hit her. The pain was radiant. Consuming. No air. Her lungs worked to fill themselves. She slumped against the wall, struggling to rise when she couldn’t breathe. Spots floated in her vision.
Needed to protect Ash. Needed to help Anne, who was hitting the Dog with the remnants of a chair. Augusta’s back slid against the wall.
Spots and stars and no air.
Her backside hit the floor. Her head floated, and the room went gray.
That was when she heard it. The rumbling. The roar. A mad, thunderous squall unleashed upon the world with murderous fury. Thuds came as the squall met flesh. Piteous, vile pleas for mercy. Then, only the rumbling and the sickening sounds of cracking bone and someone’s deep voice saying, “Enough, Reaver. Enough.”
Next, she felt tiny hands stroking her hair. Too-thin arms holding her tightly. A small, sweet voice whispering in her ear. “Didn’t mean to break me promise. Didn’t mean it, Lady Reaver. Sorry, I am. So sorry.”
She wanted to answer, to tell her boy she was the one who was sorry for failing to keep him safe. But the spots were growing, and her head was fading until even the pain disappeared.
*~*~*