Seventeen

Julia had not intended to scream. She liked to think she would not have screamed if she hadn’t been tossed onto the couch and told to get down and stay there. That was an order Julia had no trouble following. She had seen and done a great deal in the time she had dedicated herself to the orphanage. More than 90 percent of what she had seen and done were not the sort of things ladies should ever see or do. She had broken up fights, cleaned up vomit, nursed sick children, buried the carcasses of dead animals who had chosen the orphanage’s stoop as their final resting place. She had endured hunger, cold, lack of sleep, and what she had thought of as fear.

But now she realized that she had never before known real fear. Real fear struck her when she watched Neil hurtle himself across the room and slam into Slag. The two men fell back against the hearth, Neil narrowly missing being thrown into the flames. She tore her gaze away from Neil at a loud crash behind her. One of the tables had fallen, and it was no wonder, as the four thugs had encircled Mr. Mostyn, hiding him from view. She only knew he was still on his feet and fighting because she caught flashes of his light hair.

And then one of the thugs stumbled back and toppled onto a chair, crushing it, and Mostyn slid through the opening, grasped the table in one hand, broke off a leg, and brandished it at the other thugs. One didn’t move quickly enough and took a crack to the head. He fell back, crashing into the couch and almost falling on top of her.

It was then she decided that perhaps she might be more out of the way if she climbed under the couch. She scooted under the furnishing just as the thug did tumble onto the couch, causing the entire thing to creak in protest.

Julia winced and turned to catch a glimpse of Neil again. She caught sight of him and Slag, still near the blazing hearth, just as Slag swung his stick and struck Neil’s arm. Neil faltered but didn’t go down. He swung with his good arm and his fist collided with Slag’s nose. Blood sprayed, a rain of crimson, and Slag raised his walking stick for another strike. Julia closed her eyes. She couldn’t stay under the couch until this was over. If Mr. Mostyn and Neil lost the fight—and that looked very likely—she was doomed. She had to find her own way out.

More importantly, she had to save Billy.

She could squeeze out from under the couch and… Her thoughts trailed off as she caught a whiff of smoke. She risked another look at Neil. His head was still round, not caved in as she had feared, and he continued to wrestle with Slag before the hearth. Neil had one end wrapped around the end of the walking stick, and he and Slag played tug-of-war with it. Behind them, the fire burned inside the grate.

And she still smelled smoke. She turned and looked at Mostyn, her eyes widening. She couldn’t see much but legs from this angle, but she could see the overturned lamp and the small licks of fire eating at the rug.

“Oh no,” she breathed. In this old building, the fire could spread quickly, blazing into an inferno before any of them had a chance to contemplate escape. The patrons in the front room might get out, but anyone upstairs, where Billy was likely hiding, would burn to death.

Julia looked at Neil again. Still fighting for his life. If the shuffling feet on the other side of the couch were any indication, Mostyn was engaged in the same battle. It was up to her. Julia slithered out from under the couch, covering her head when one of Mostyn’s attackers looked like he might trip and fall on her. He fell the other way, and she scrambled to her knees. She crawled to the fallen lamp, reaching out to right it and then snatching her hand back at the intense heat. She bent and attempted to blow out the burgeoning fire, but too much of the lamp’s oil had soaked into the carpet and her efforts made no difference.

Her last hope was smothering the flames. Fingers fumbling, she ripped off her cloak and threw it over the fire, then lifted and lowered it yet again. But she had missed her chance—when the flames had burned through the oil but not yet found other fuel. The fire had slid its talons into the rug’s fibers and held on. She watched the trail of fire snake out along the pattern of the rug and away from her useless cloak.

Julia dropped the garment and did the only other thing she could think to do. “Fire!” she yelled. “Everyone out! Fire!”

The men fighting Mostyn had already taken notice and scrambled to avoid the flames. Julia glanced at Neil in time to see him wrench the walking stick from Slag’s hands and swing it at the crime lord’s head. Slag blocked the blow with his arm, but even across the room, she imagined she heard the crack and pop as bone splintered.

Her gasp was cut off when she was grabbed about the waist and lifted off the floor. Julia kicked and tried to wrench free.

“It’s Mostyn,” came the voice of the man holding her. “I’ll get you out.”

She stopped struggling as Mostyn carried her through the open door of the chamber. Slag’s men had fled before them, and she could hear their shouts of “Fire!” as they ran into the taproom. Mostyn made to follow them, but Julia fought him again. “No!”

He could have ignored her. He was strong enough that her struggles didn’t impede him, but he paused and set her down. He bent and looked into her face. “My lady, the Warrior will find his own way out.”

Julia was suddenly ashamed that she hadn’t been thinking of Neil. She’d wanted to go back for Billy. “It’s not him,” she said. “I want to find Billy. We have to get him out.”

Neil stepped into the doorway beside them. Perspiration ran down his face from the heat of the fire, making the spattering of blood run down his cheeks in macabre rivulets.

“I’ll get him out,” Neil said, his voice hoarse from the smoke that was beginning to burn her throat and lungs. “You go with the Protector.”

“No. I’m coming.”

Neil bent and took her chin in his cupped hand. “Not this time, and don’t fight me on this.” He gave her a hard kiss that surprised her not simply because it was unexpected but because of its intensity. Then he looked at Mostyn. “Get her out and keep her out.”

“Yes, sir.”

She didn’t even have the chance to say goodbye before she was lifted again, this time slung over Mostyn’s shoulder and carried through the smoke-filled building. Outside, Mostyn didn’t pause and lower her to the ground. He continued walking until they were well away from the burning Ox and Bull. Then he set her down, not exactly gently, but carefully at least, and turned to look behind him.

Julia found her balance and followed his gaze. The building was engulfed in flames. The dark sky was lit with a haze of red and orange. All around them men and women rushed toward the building. Some carried buckets of water, but most just wanted to watch. In the rookeries of London, few buildings were insured in case of fire. Even if they had been, the fire brigades were unlikely to venture into those parts of Town. If a building caught fire, it burned. Attempts might be made to save the nearby buildings, but if those caught on fire, the best one could hope for was a dousing rain.

Julia watched the smoke billow up from the burning alehouse in great plumes. Neil was inside. Neil and Billy. Billy was only a child. He had made a poor choice to go to the Ox and Bull, but he did not deserve to die. She would hold herself responsible if Neil died. He hadn’t wanted to take responsibility for the orphans and the orphanage, and she had put him in a position that left him no other options. In fact, since she’d met him, he’d done nothing but take care of her and the boys, thinking of her needs before she even thought of them herself.

And then instead of urging him to get out of the burning building, she’d likely sent him to his death. She had made many mistakes in her life, but this was the first she truly wished she could undo.

“Wait here,” Mostyn said, his voice low and filled with gravel from the smoke. In fact, even away from the fire, the smell of smoke still rose from her clothing and choked her throat closed.

Or perhaps that was fear and guilt.

She nodded, pressing her lips together and watching the flames lick at the roof through watery eyes. What else could they do but wait?

“I’ll go back for him.”

Her gaze snapped to Mostyn. “You’re going back? You can’t!”

“Wait here,” he said and walked away, his long legs taking him out of sight before she could think of an argument.

“Idiotic men,” she muttered. “Who walks into a burning building?”

She would have to spend the rest of her life feeling guilty for the death of three males. She was such a fool. She should have listened to Wraxall in the beginning. She should have brought an army of men into the orphanage to keep the boys safe and Slag out. She didn’t know where she would have found the funds for such an army, but that seemed like a paltry concern at the moment.

And now Slag was dead. Neil’s blow might not have killed him, but the fire would. Would his cronies come after her? Would they know she had been responsible, indirectly but still responsible, for his demise?

Julia took a deep breath and tried to quiet her mind. A group of men ran past, and she pushed herself into the shadows. She knew where the orphanage was from here, but she dared not go alone, especially now that she’d lost her cloak and her copper hair would be a beacon to anyone looking for her.

But how long should she wait for Mostyn to return? What if he never returned? What if he returned carrying the lifeless body of Neil? Please let him be alive, she prayed. She had no right to ask God for anything after the sins she’d committed today. Sins for which she was not even sorry, for the pleasure Neil had given her seemed a small price to pay for a mark against her name, if indeed St. Peter was keeping track.

“Lord,” she whispered, “if you save him, I promise to entertain no more impure thoughts and refrain from any further impure behaviors. Just save him.”

She opened her eyes and a woman with a scarred face and loose but matted brown hair stared at her. Julia inhaled sharply—immediately wishing she hadn’t, for the woman smelled truly rank—and pressed farther back. But she was up against the building and had no room to hide herself more.

“Was you praying?” the woman asked, her accent so thick even Julia could hardly understand her.

“I was.” Her voice shook from fear and emotion. “My friends are in that fire.”

“Good.” The woman stepped forward. “Then they’ll be no one to ’elp you.” She moved closer, so close that she pressed against Julia, who was forced to turn her head to the side to avoid touching her nose to the woman’s as well as the stench.

“What do you want?” Julia asked, trying not to breathe too deeply.

“I want yer blunt.” As she spoke, her hands grasped hold of Julia’s waist, then skittered like bony beetles all up and down her sides. “Where do ye keep yer purse?” She felt for pockets in the dress and, finding them, delved inside. Julia resented the violation and pushed the woman back.

“Leave me alone. I don’t have any coin with me.”

“Come, now. Fine lady like you.” The woman looked her up and down, then shoved one shoulder into her chest and continued patting Julia. Julia tried to catch her breath even as the woman’s hands felt up her arms and over her breasts.

“Remove your hands! I’m no fine lady. I live at Sunnybrooke Home for Boys.”

The woman leaned her head back. “Where?”

Julia blew out a breath. “St. Dismas—the orphanage. I don’t have any blunt.”

The woman pulled an embroidered handkerchief from Julia’s bodice. “Maybe not, but I can sell this for a ha’penny.”

Julia shoved her back. “Then sell it and be gone.”

But the woman was staring at her hair. “Not so fast. Your hair is a fine color.”

Julia put her hand to her head. “Get away.”

The woman produced a dull knife with the dexterity of a professional. “Might fetch me a crown or more.”

“You cannot have it. Go on before I scream.”

The woman laughed—or rather cackled. “Scream all you want, dearie. No one will ’ear you.” She raised the knife and moved toward Julia.

Julia had two choices at that moment—give up her hair or fight. She’d always been rather proud of her hair. It was vanity, she supposed, and unfounded vanity, as the color was not fashionable. Still, she knew it suited her, and more men than she could count had complimented it. One had even had the audacity to touch it. But her hair was not worth dying for. And yet, if she didn’t fight now, when would she fight? She couldn’t hide under couches—metaphorical or otherwise—for the rest of her life. She couldn’t close her eyes and hope those who wished to harm her—men like Slag—would simply disappear. If she’d fought Slag from the beginning, maybe Neil wouldn’t be in a burning building. Maybe Mostyn wouldn’t be risking his life to save him. Maybe she wouldn’t be on the street being accosted by a foul-smelling hair thief.

“Leave me be,” Julia said and took a step toward the woman and—dear God—the knife.

“Stand still or I’ll slit yer throat and then take yer ’air.” The woman advanced, but Julia didn’t cower. She had no room to back away. Instead, she made a grab for the knife. The woman slashed down, and bright pain flared in her arm. But Julia grabbed the woman’s wrist anyway, pushing her assailant’s arm back. A quick glance showed her the pain in her arm was accompanied by a stream of blood.

“Now look what ye done,” the woman said, struggling to wrench free of Julia’s hold.

“What I’ve done?” Julia used her momentum to push the woman a step back. “Who knows what sorts of filth you have on that blade?” She would probably die of some horrible as-yet-undiscovered disease. She forced the woman back another step, but it was a hard-won victory. The woman was tall and Julia was barely medium height. Both women were breathing hard, and Julia was grateful the struggle had forced the woman to stop speaking.

Her muscles burned and blood ran down her arm, but she refused to give in to fatigue. This was life and death. If she failed, Mostyn would find her lifeless body when and if he returned. Her bald, lifeless body.

With a growl, the woman pushed back, and Julia stumbled. Her feet scrambled for purchase, and she regained her balance and fought back. She might be small, but she had spent the last few months carrying small children, laundry, and heavy pots. She was strong.

The woman bared her teeth and pushed Julia back again, lowering her knife hand a fraction of an inch. Julia tried to raise the knife, but gravity was not on her side. She was tiring.

The woman pushed her back again, and this time Julia lost ground, her feet sliding backward. She concentrated all her strength on keeping the knife high and away from her face. But as she watched, the knife came closer and closer. The dull blade, red with her blood and black with God knew what, dipped lower and lower.

Julia tried to muster the strength to make one last push, but all she could manage was to keep the knife from plunging into her forehead.

Dear God, she would die this day. She had survived the Ox and Bull, survived Slag, and made it out of a raging fire, only to be killed on the street by a hair thief.

She closed her eyes as the knife moved closer, infinitesimally nearer to her skin. She did not want this woman’s face to be the last thing she saw.

And then suddenly, the woman’s wrist sprang free of Julia’s grip, and the knife clattered to the ground. Julia opened her eyes in time to watch the woman’s feet leave the ground as she flew backward. A dark-skinned man had the woman about the waist and shoved her at a pale man streaked with soot.

Julia’s gaze flew to the man who’d saved her. It was Neil, his skin covered with soot and ash. Only his sea-blue eyes were recognizable to her. He was alive!

“Mr. Wraxall,” she gasped.

“Good God, but can no one leave you alone for even a moment?”

She wanted to tell him if he insisted on being so surly, he could go straight back into the fire, but just then her legs gave way, and she wobbled. His arms caught her around the waist even as she caught herself. But he swept her up anyway, bringing her closer to his chest and the overpowering smell of smoke and fire.

“I can walk,” she insisted.

“And step into the middle of a dice game or a street brawl? I think I had better carry you for your own good.”

“You are acting like an arse,” she said, too tired to care that she’d used language unbecoming a lady.

“Yes, well, watching you almost stabbed through the eye brings out the worst in me.”

She looked up at him, hoping to discern something from his face. Was his statement an admission that he cared for her or was he simply angry that she might die and he be blamed for not meeting his responsibilities? But she could not see his features through the black grime. And then she remembered Mostyn. And Billy.

She struggled to look behind her. “Where is Billy? Did you find him?”

“I’m here, my lady,” came a voice from somewhere nearby. Wraxall was moving quickly through the dark streets of Spitalfields, and she could not pinpoint the voice. But she knew it.

“Billy.” She reached out a hand, and the boy took it. His hand was the same size as hers but rougher. He squeezed it.

“Major found me, he did. Got me out just in time.”

“Thank God. I will scold you later for all the trouble you caused, but now I am so thankful to have you alive.”

“Could we save the speeches for when we’re safely indoors?” Wraxall muttered. “The less attention we draw to ourselves, the better.”

“What about Mr. Mostyn?” she asked, ignoring Neil’s injunction. “I thought I saw him—”

“Here, my lady.” He moved from behind Neil so she could see him and then back again. He truly did seem to always be at Neil’s back.

“Thank you,” she said to him. He gave a curt nod and went back to his position. They were all accounted for and safe, or nearly safe, at any rate. Slag was gone. His alehouse was gone. She did not know if Goring had survived or not, but she did not think he would dare show his face again.

But most importantly, Billy and the other boys were safe. She hadn’t lost one. She could rest now.

Leaning her head on Neil’s chest, she closed her eyes and dreamed of fire.

* * *

Neil had felt fear. He had known dread and profound loss, but nothing could compare to the terror he’d felt when he caught sight of Juliana and the street wench struggling with the knife. In that moment, the rank, muddy street in Spitalfields became a battlefield once again, and he was racing against time to save Christopher.

He raced to save Juliana, but in his mind, they had become one and the same. He hadn’t been able to reach Christopher in time, and he would not be able to reach Juliana. He would live the rest of his life with the image of her death imprinted in his brainbox—the way he stored the images of the deaths of so many of those who’d trusted their lives to him.

Neil knew if she died, he would not live long. This was one death he could not survive.

He’d begun to run, pushing through the crowd still heading for the Ox and Bull and the spectacle of the fire. When he’d reached the wench with the knife, he was certain he’d been too late. He’d pulled her off Juliana, prepared to rip her to shreds with his bare hands, when he’d heard Juliana’s voice.

The woman had been forgotten, and in that moment, there was only Julia.

He held her close and stood in the entryway of the orphanage. When they’d come in—just the three of them, as Mostyn had melted away once they’d reached the building—Jackson had bustled the older boys off to their beds, taking Billy by the shoulders and threatening a bath. Rafe had only glared at him, taking in his soot-stained face and clothing.

“I get all the worst missions,” he complained before leaving in a huff. Neil rolled his eyes.

The cook’s brows lifted and then she retreated to the kitchen to prepare something soothing, but Mrs. Dunwitty had seemed unperturbed. “She always was a trial, this one. I told her father on many occasions her life—and mine—would have been a great deal easier had she been born male.”

Neil supposed that would have made his life easier too, but he couldn’t wish for it. Not when he held her soft body in his arms, loving the way her curves pressed against him.

“Don’t just stand there, Mr. Wraxall; carry her to her chamber. I don’t suppose there’s a maid about,” she said as she ascended the stairs in front of him. “I imagine I will have to see to that as well. Ah, Jackson, there you are.”

Jackson had been shepherding the boys into their room, but he took a few steps into the corridor. “May I be of service, Mrs. Dunwitty?”

“Yes, you may. I need hot water for a bath and clean linen for a bandage. My lady is filthy and injured.”

Jackson glanced at Juliana, who looked relatively clean compared to Neil. “I will have Mrs. Koch heat water and bring it personally.” He gave Neil a direct look. “While the lady is bathing, sir, perhaps you might do the same downstairs.”

Neil frowned. He didn’t want to leave Juliana, but Mrs. Dunwitty would hardly allow him to stay while she bathed Juliana, even if he’d already seen far more of her than he ought.

“Very good, Jackson.” Neil looked at the former governess. “Shall I hold her until the water arrives? If I set her on the bed, the sheets will need washing.”

“No need,” came a small, quiet voice. Juliana moved in his arms. “I am awake. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Shock and exhaustion, I imagine,” said her former governess. “Let us just hope you have not caught some dreadful disease of the lower orders whilst you were out and about in those dreadful streets.”

“You know I am never sick,” she told the woman, pushing out of Neil’s arms. He was forced to release her, his body protesting at the loss of her warmth and her softness.

“And I intend to keep it that way. Now, out of those clothes. Jackson will draw you a bath.” Mrs. Dunwitty gave Neil a pointed look.

“Excuse me,” he said and moved into the hallway. There, he was confronted by four sets of small eyes, each wider than the last. “What’s this?” he said. “I thought you were all in bed.”

“Will she die?” asked Chester, his dark hair rumpled and his cheeks wet.

“You can’t let her die,” Charlie said, or something to that effect. His thumb was firmly in his mouth.

“She ain’t going to die, is she?” said Jimmy.

“No,” said Neil. “She will not die.”

“I told you,” James broke in, hand swiping at the wetness on his cheeks. “I told you Major would keep our lady safe.”

Neil put his hand on James’s shoulder. “And so I will. I’ll keep all of you safe, and that is a promise.” He did not know how he would keep that promise, but he meant it. “Now, back to bed with you.”

“Lory?” Charlie asked.

“No story tonight,” Neil translated. “My lady or I will read you one tomorrow.”

The boys groaned.

“I’ll read them a story.”

Neil turned and saw Robbie behind him. He also spotted Juliana leaning on the casement in her doorway. Their eyes met—hers shiny with unshed tears—before she closed her door.

“You can read?” Neil asked before glancing back at Robbie. The boy shrugged. “A little. Come on, boys. Climb in bed. Uncle Robbie will tuck ye in tonight.”

The boys cheered and raced into their rooms, all fears for Lady Juliana momentarily put to rest. Robbie made to follow, then looked back at Neil. “And if I can’t read the words, I can always make them up, right?”

Neil nodded. “A time-honored tradition among storytellers.”

“That’s what I thought.” He wrinkled his nose. “You’d best clean up, Major. You stink.”

“Thank you, Robbie.”

He moved toward the steps, listening as Robbie said something that made the little boys giggle. For the first time he could remember, Neil felt like he was home.