Chapter 2
THE STENCH OF gunpowder and gore surrounded Richard, the Earl Blackthorn, as the ghostly white mist stilled like a thick blanket. In the distance, wounded men howled for help that would not come.
Richard dropped to his knees, dug his fingers deep into the earth, and spooned fistful of dirt into his hands. Sweat and tears dripped down his cheeks like an endless dreary rain, grief clutching his heart. There was nothing he could do, not a damn thing; the man was already dead.
He slowly poured a thin layer over the dead man—enough to cover the body. The person he was burying was dead because of him. Without warning, the dead soldier opened his eyes, and his arms stretched out to grip Richard’s neck. Richard pulled at the rigid, cold hands, but they felt like steel as he struggled to breathe.
"You did this," the soldier said, blood oozing out of his wounds and nose. Abruptly, the soldier’s face morphed into Richard’s dead brother, Max. "You did this to me!"
"No." He fought; each desperate breath became shallow, slowly pulling him deep into the abyss . . .
Richard opened his eyes and gasped, his hands gripping his own neck. Air filled his lungs, his heart pumping away wildly in his chest. It was the damn nightmares again. Nightmares that had plagued him since his arrival in London.
The faint light of the lamp pierced the grimy window next to him, reminding him where he was—in his carriage on his way to visit Mrs. Bell, a widow with six young girls whom his brother, Max, had taken under his wing. His brother had been a good, honorable man with a soft heart for the less fortunate.
Ever since he'd returned home to London from his absence of nearly a decade, the eerie dreams had haunted him. And every damn time, he was reminded he should have been by Max’s side when he was dying. Perhaps there was something Richard could have done to prevent his brother’s death. But then again, he hadn’t even known of Max’s death until his mother wrote to him, urging him to come home.
Richard ran his fingers through the thickness of his hair in frustration and stretched out his legs. He detested London. There was nothing here to call home, he thought, looking out the grimy window again.
His father’s passing several years ago had left the family with insurmountable debt from gambling and whoring. And his selfish mother continued to withdraw from the family’s nearly empty coffer, spending her days in Bath in the comforting arms of her young lover.
His brother had inherited nothing of their parents’ wicked character. Richard, on the other hand, had inherited his father’s bad temper and his mother’s penchant for avoiding people and large crowds. He chuckled to himself. His parents were rumored to have fallen madly in love, only to detest each other three years later to the point where his mother had left his father, permanently.
He ran his hand through his tousled hair again and let out an exhausted sigh. Leaning into the seat, he closed his eyes and listened to the clip-clopping of the horses’ hooves and the occasional shouts of the residents nearby. The carriage jolted, and it sent a sharp sting through the joint in his shoulder—a knife wound he'd procured in his service to the crown. He’d seen enough of the human greed for power and money, enough corruption to last several lifetimes.
He was tired. He was done. There was only one reason for being in London: to close down the Blackthorn Estate and Somersby Hall and try to settle the debt to Sir Kendall his father had accumulated, then go hibernate somewhere quiet and retire. When he was dead and long gone, his cousin could inherit the damn properties and the title for all he cared. However, before all that could come to fruition, he needed to do one more thing for his dead brother. It was for his brother that he was making this visit to East End.
Within minutes, the carriage came to a full stop in front of an old bakery, its broken facade hidden by shadows. Being here brought a strange sense of wretchedness. Opening the door, he stepped out to the stench of rotten sewage.
Several feet away, he saw a gentleman's carriage parked outside of the Black Bull Tavern. The driver was gone, which meant, the carriage would be stolen in no time. The owner was going to be quite disappointed when he returned to find it gone; those steeds alone were valuable and could fetch a high price in London.
Above the bakery, a woman lived with six girls, all orphans once. She and her husband had taken them in to prevent the young girls from turning to the whorehouses nearby. Now, with the husband dead, they were left destitute. Had he known sooner, he would have sent provisions for the widow and her girls.
He stepped over the open sewage flowing down the street and walked up to the door numbered ten. He knocked, then waited. It was late, and no doubt they were all sound asleep.
Soon, he heard movement inside the house, followed by light footsteps and a faint voice from the other side of the thin wooden door. "Yes?" he heard a woman say.
“Mrs. Bell,” Richard said slowly, “I have a delivery.”
No movement or sound from inside. He waited.
"A delivery?" she said from the other side of the door.
The shouts of drunken fools and a rabid dog barking across the street filled the silence. The door slowly creaked open just enough for him to see her thin face.
"From Mr. Maxwell," Richard informed her, hoping she'd let him in before the rookery boys took notice of them. It was the name Max had used when he became her patron.
"Mr. Maxwell," she said and quickly opened the door halfway, but didn't allow him inside yet.
Clearly, she could benefit from a good meal or two. She was still young enough to remarry, but the darkness in her eyes looked as though she carried the weight of the world.
"I'm his brother, Richard," he said. The use of his Christian name seemed to suit better than announcing to her all his titles. Besides, his brother had addressed himself as Maxwell in his correspondence to Mrs. Bell and when he made his visits. "May I come in?"
She studied him for a bit, uncertain. Then she gazed past to the perimeter of the streets before she widened the door. "Please," she said, and allowed him to enter before she closed the shabby wooden door.
The dark room reeked of rotten vegetables and stale air. The woman quickly lit a single candle on the wooden table against the wall, and the dim light spilled into the small, crowded room. There, in the corner, he saw two little girls sleeping in a makeshift bed made of straw and a dirty blanket. This was no place for a widow and her six girls. He made a mental note to procure a more suitable place for them soon.
"Please," she said, gesturing to a wooden chair. "You are Mr. Maxwell's brother?"
Richard nodded as he sat on the flimsy chair. “Yes, I am.”
"Then you must also know we are forever indebted to him." She pulled her tattered shawl up to her shoulders to warm herself from the chill. "We have not heard from him in so long. How is he?"
He cleared his throat as uneasiness crept into his heart. “My brother passed away not too long ago.” Apparently, his brother had taken great care in making sure they received the provisions they needed after her husband died in the war. It was unclear how his brother had come to know this woman and her girls, but that was not his concern at the moment.
Instantly, her hand covered her mouth to stifle the shock. "I didn't know," she said, looking at him with sympathy burning in her eyes. "I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"Your brother was a good man. I have never met a more generous man than he." She gazed at her daughter sleeping nearby. "It's a shame there aren't more like him."
The memories he'd buried pierced him. His father had said the same words to him of Maxwell: a good, honorable man, a dutiful son. Richard had always looked up to his brother for that very reason. “My brother found great joy in his patronage. But my loss, I fear, is naught compared to what you and your girls have had to endure since your husband's death. Tell me about the girls. How are they?” He had known the answer when he entered the house, but he felt it was polite to ask, nonetheless.
She nodded, wiping away her tears. "It has been very difficult," she said, looking at the little girl sleeping. “Beatrice is fifteen and very helpful. She’s a serving girl at a tavern nearby and brings day-old bread on Fridays for the other girls. Olivia is thirteen,” she continued, then paused as if a buried memory had resurfaced. She wiped her tears again and continued. “Georgette and Amanda are the closest in age, ten and nine, and they often help around the house, which is a blessing. Charlotte is over there, next to Francis.” She stopped and looked at the small lumps on the makeshift bed. “They are good girls. I fear . . .”
Richard pulled out a small leather bag from his coat pocket. "Here," he said, handing it to her. "This should help."
The woman blinked several times, looking at the pouch with a mixture of disbelief and relief. She dabbed at her tears and let out a sigh as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders.
"Not nearly enough, but it should assist you and your girls with food and whatever you need for a while."
Her gratitude was evident on her face. "You are most generous. I do not know how to thank you for this."
He recalled one of the letters from Mrs. Bell he'd found in his brother's drawer at Somersby Hall: "If it hadn't been for you, I would have lost my girls to the godlessness of this place. I thank heaven for your generosity for saving their souls . . ."
"It was my brother's wish, as it is mine, to do what we can." He stood. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must be heading back."
Just then something took hold of his leg and tugged at his trousers. He looked down and saw a little girl looking up at him with perfectly round, innocent eyes.
She yawned. "Are you Mr. Maxwell?" she said, wiping her eyes from sleep.
“No,” he chuckled. “I’m afraid not.”
"Mama speaks of him all the time, but she cries too. Are you here to help us?"
His heart clenched at her words. He reached down to pick her up and held her in his arms. "He was my brother," he said, and smiled at her. "What is your name?"
"Francis. You're handsome." She touched his cheeks with her two tiny hands. "Isn't he handsome, Mummy?" she said, looking at her mother then back at him. "Are you married? Papa got sick and died and she needs a new husband."
He grinned wide and gently pinched her cheek—such innocence. "I think it is up to your mother whom she chooses to marry."
"Come," her mother said, reaching out to her. The little girl gladly bounced off Richard and clutched her mother. "Mr. Richard has to get on his way now."
He handed her his calling card. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to contact me."
She smiled.
He said his farewell and closed the door behind him. In a few months, he knew he would be gone from London and hoped never to return. Still, he felt he couldn’t just leave without parting words to comfort her any way he could.
The carriage he’d seen earlier not far from the Black Bull Tavern, had a new owner now. The carriage raced by with mighty speed; a man inside stuck his head out and screamed at his accomplice to slow down. Damn fool for leaving the pricey carriage unattended in a place like this.
As he approached his own rented carriage, he saw a servant girl rushing toward him from the alley. She was frantically trying to get his attention. “There . . .” the woman said, pointing to the alley. “They need your help. Please.” She begged him to come with her.
Bloody hell. He didn’t need this now. “What is the matter?”
“Please, we need your help. My friend is in mortal danger,” the woman continued as she pulled at his sleeves, urging him toward the alley.
“Stay here,” he said to the frantic woman. Richard quickly went in the direction she was pointing and stopped at the mouth of the alleyway. There he saw two servant girls, one held by the neck by a thug while the other pulled on his sleeves, begging him to stop hurting the other woman.
Amid her struggle, the hood fell off the captured woman’s head and her long blond hair spilled down her back. A sudden primal need to protect her pulsed through Richard. He'd consider any man who laid a hand on a woman no better than a bloody animal that crawled the earth.
“Let go of me, you swine,” Richard heard the brave woman shout at the man manhandling her. She kicked the cull on the knee, and he grunted in pain.
“Do that again and I shall have to break your neck,” the brute said, still holding her in his grip.
“Mind your manners,” Richard said, approaching.
The swine dropped the woman when she kicked him again. She managed to get some distance from the ruffian, but now he held the pregnant woman to him with a knife at the base of her neck. "Stop where you are, unless you want her death on your conscience."
Richard stopped and held both hands up to reveal that he had no weapon. “Why don't you do yourself a favor and release her?”
Richard looked at the he angelic beauty next to him. His eyes raked over her full bosom in her bodice and her curves that put most women to shame. She’d be a target for rape in a place like this.
Shouts and laughter rang through the streets. From what Richard could tell, it looked to be the local street gang approaching.
The culprit slowly started to pull away deeper into the alley with the pregnant servant.
“This isn’t over,” the perpetrator said before briskly walking off with his captive.
Instantly, the blond woman tried to go after them and Richard stopped her. “You can’t help her. Not now.”
She desperately fought to get free of him, but she quickly realized she could not fight him on this.
"Are you all right?" he asked the woman. When she nodded, he continued. "My carriage is just around the corner. Your friend is waiting there for you."
Just then, all four of the rookery boys stepped out of the shadows.
Too late.
"I suggest you go," he said to her.
She looked back at him with confusion, her eyes questioning his demand. "But—"
"I said, go," he hissed, keeping his eyes on the men, "before it's too late."
"I cannot leave you here with them. How will you defend yourself?"
"Don't worry about me," he ordered, carefully watching the gang approaching.
She hesitated.
"Are you bent on getting both of us killed?" he hissed. "Now go."
The men inched closer. All four men were burly enough to do real damage. Bloody hell, this is going to hurt.
The blond woman handed him a small pistol. "You will need this."
He pulled out a large pistol hidden inside his greatcoat pocket. "Go," he said again.
She quickly scampered away.
The man who seemed to be the leader of the group gestured to the man on Richard's far left to follow the woman. "I don't think so," Richard said, quickly blocking his path.
"Whot ye goin' to do? Shoot us all?" the leader said. "Ye have only one pistol."
"Then I better make certain I do the most damage," he said, pointing the barrel of the pistol at the leader. "You're welcome to try to stop me, of course."
The leader narrowed his eyes and watched him carefully. "Yer not from 'round 'ere, are ye?" he questioned. "How's ‘bout we make a deal . . . you and me, eh? Tell us where that pretty little woman yer hidin' is and we let you go."
"How about I shoot you instead?" Richard blurted out.
Just as he finished his sentence, he heard quick, light footsteps behind him, but he kept his pistol where it was.
"My aim never fails," a woman's voice said.
The angelic beauty stepped up to him and stopped. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments. His eyes followed the length of the barrel; it was pointed at the idiot's crotch. As angry as he was at her for putting herself in danger after he had saved them, a sudden burst of renewed energy surged through him, something he hadn't felt in a long time.
“But you're welcome to test my skill, if you so wish it,” she said.
Who the bloody hell are you?