Present Day - April, 1816

 

East End, London

(a very unfortunate place to be)

 

 

 

Felicity stared at the crooked wooden door and bit back a sob. Were she alone she might have sank to her knees, buried her head in her hands, and dissolved into tears. She could feel them stinging the corners of her eyelids like angry little hornets. But she was not alone.

Her children were with her, their small hands buried in the heavy folds of her skirt. She could feel them looking up at her. Waiting for what she would do. What she would say.

If she cried they would cry as well and then they would all be huddled on the sad little stoop crying together which absolutely would not do. For one thing it would attract unwanted attention, something which Felicity was trying very hard to avoid. Especially in this part of London with its narrow alleys and clustered tenements that housed all sorts of rabble and riffraff. For another she feared if she began crying she would not be able to stop. So she lifted her chin, plastered a smile on her face, and forced a lilting enthusiasm into her voice as she opened – or rather shoved – the door to their new home. A rather generous word to describe what awaited them.

“Look children!” she sang. “Isn’t it lovely?”

Even at six years of age Henry had the ability to look dubious. “It smells.”

Yes, Felicity thought silently as she ushered her children inside before firmly closing and locking the door behind them. It certainly does.

The rented flat, consisting of only two rooms, was old and dirty and stank like seawater left out to warm in the sun. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust including the meager collection of furniture which consisted of two chairs, a wobbly table, and one bed. There was a fireplace but it was backed up with soot. The floorboards creaked unmercifully. And what were those tiny brown pellets on the windowsill?

Oh heavens.

Was that – was that rat excrement?

“Do not touch anything,” she said sharply, grasping Anne’s hand just as her fingers were about to plunge into a pile of heaven only knew what.

“I don’t like it here.” Ever defiant, Henry pulled his hat off and threw it on the floor. “I want to go back to Aunt Scarlett’s!”

So did Felicity. Unfortunately, the country manor where they had been living since Ezra had unceremoniously thrown all three of them out on their ear was no longer in Scarlett’s possession. After Lord Sherwood’s will had been settled the estate had gone to some distant cousin who had a family of his own and no desire to provide for a woman and two young children tainted by scandal.

Scarlett had, of course, invited them to live with her and Owen, but Felicity had politely declined. Not only did Scarlett and Owen deserve time to themselves after a tumultuous courtship that had involved murder, treachery, and a deranged maid, but nearly half a year’s worth of charity had left a bitter taste in Felicity’s mouth. A person could only take so much before they began to feel like a burden and she did not want to be beholden to anyone.

Not to her oldest and dearest friend, who had just been through so much. Not to her mother, who was still desperately mourning her husband five years after his death. And certainly not to the man who had put her in this predicament to begin with. A man who was no doubt, at this very moment, enjoying his tea over a light breakfast of toast and poached eggs while his wife sat across from him in the very same chair Felicity had once called her own. Thus she and the children found themselves taking up residence in a dirty, dingy flat far from the fashionable townhome in Grosvenor Square where she had become a wife, a mother, and, ultimately, a social pariah.

Divorce in England, while legal, was almost unheard of. It was far better for all parties involved to simply live apart and conduct completely separate lives. The wife in the country with the children, the husband in town with his mistress. That was the way it had been done since… well, since forever. But Ezra – selfish, unfeeling bastard that he was – had wanted to marry his mistress. Since he’d already been married – to Felicity – that had posed a bit of a problem. One he had solved by divorcing her, disowning their children, and going on about his life as if she and Henry and sweet little Anne had never existed.

She’d had no say in it. None at all. And now she was completely ruined, her reputation in tatters and her life all but destroyed, while Ezra had escaped with only a proverbial rap on his knuckles. The unfairness and injustice of it all angered her beyond reason, but there was nothing she could do. Nothing but keep her chin up, keep her darling children close, and keep putting one foot in front of the other.

“Henry, please pick up your hat.”

A belligerent gleam in his bright green eyes, Henry folded his arms and stomped his foot. “You said not to touch anything.”

“I did not mean – very well. Leave it if that is what you want to do.” Too weary to argue, Felicity pinched the bridge of her and drew a deep breath as she prayed for patience. In addition to losing her husband and her home, she’d also been forced to give up her beloved nanny. At times like these it was Darcy she missed most of all.

The young, energetic Irish girl had had a wonderful way with the children, especially Henry. But nannies could not work for free and Darcy had been forced to find another family when Felicity had been unable to continue paying her.

“Shall we have a treat and then unpack our belongings?” Rummaging inside her reticule, she pulled out two sugar sticks.

“Yum!” Anne said enthusiastically as she plucked one stick out of her mother’s hand and immediately popped it into her mouth. Sucking vigorously she wandered over to the window, leaving a pitter-patter of dusty footprints in her wake.

“Here you are, Henry.” Felicity knelt down and coaxed her son forward with a smile. “Don’t you want it? I thought these were your favorite.”

But her son, who was far more observant than her daughter, noted the lines of strain creasing the corners of Felicity’s mouth and shook his head. “I don’t want a stupid old sugar stick. I want Father and Aunt Scarlett and Nanny!”

“Of course you do. Of course.” There was anger in Henry’s face, but there was uncertainty there as well, and it was the uncertainty and the fear and the sadness that Felicity appealed to when she opened her arms. After a moment’s hesitation he ran into them and burrowed his face in the crook of her shoulder, clinging to her neck with all the strength his small body could muster.

“There now.” Her heart ached when she felt him tremble. And it cracked wide open when she heard him sniffle. “There now,” she repeated softly, stroking his back with loving hands. “There now, my darling boy. It will be all right. We will see Aunt Scarlett tomorrow, and we will plan an outing with Nanny as soon as we can. I promise.”

“I’m sorry, Mama.”

“There is nothing to be sorry for.”

Anne toddled over, what remained of her sugar stick firmly lodged in her cheek, and wiggled between them. “Pawk?” she said brightly, tugging on Felicity’s sleeve. “Howsies? Pawk?”

“That is a splendid idea.” Felicity kissed both of their brows before she stood up. “We shall have to walk there, but it shouldn’t be very far. Do you remember what I told you?”

“Stay close,” Henry said solemnly.

“Stay cwose,” Anne echoed.

“And?”

“Do not talk to strangers.”

She skimmed her hand across Henry’s head, fingers sliding through the golden locks that were so very different from Ezra’s dark hair. “Very good. We will–”

A brisk knock sounded at the door. Immediately Felicity gathered her children close and then pushed them behind her. She was not expecting anyone. With the exception of Scarlett, no one even knew where they were.

“Hewo?” Anne trilled, her mother’s warning not to talk to strangers already blissfully forgotten. She began to jump up and down, waving her half-eaten sugar stick in excitement. “Hewo! Hewo!”

“Henry, take your sister into the other room and close the door,” Felicity directed tersely. For once her son did not argue but rather grabbed Anne by the arm and pulled her into the bedroom. Felicity took a deep breath, her hand sliding into her reticule and emerging with a small, sharp knife.

She was not a fighter. She never had been. But if it meant defending her children she would battle the devil himself until he stole her last breath…or she stole his.

“Who is it?” she demanded, her voice solid and strong despite the erratic racing of her pulse. Were she in her townhouse in Grosvenor Square she wouldn’t have thought anything of an unexpected visitor. The footman would have ushered them in to the parlor where they would have dined on tea and scones while they waited for her to arrive. But here, tucked away amidst the desperate and the downtrodden, there were no footmen or parlors or scones to be had. There was only herself, and her children, and whoever waited for them on the other side of the door.

The old brass knob began to turn. There was a soft, subtle click as the lock was picked. Knowing she would only have the element of surprise for a few scarce seconds, Felicity gathered her courage, raised the knife, and sprang forward. She caught a glimpse of startled amber eyes before her wrist was caught in a vice-like grip and her only weapon went clattering to the floor. She cried out as she was spun around and pinned up against a man’s chest.

A very hard, very familiar chest.

“Felix Spencer,” she choked the name out as the thief-turned-Bow-Street-Runner loosened his hold. Stumbling forward, she caught herself on the back of a chair and whirled to face him, violet eyes flashing with anger and indignation. “What are you doing here?”

He lifted a tawny brow. “Isn’t it obvious, love? I’ve come to rescue ye.”