Chapter 22
Rule 22
Remain silent on the streets.
With the reassuring, if slight, weight of her derringer tucked inside the clever pocket sewn on the front of her cloak, Helena made her way through the old familiar streets of St Giles. In this particular instance, she came to an unfortunate realization—Lady Diana Wilkinson would have made a rotten pickpocket.
“I am excited to meet him,” Diana happily prattled at Helena’s side, as they picked their way along St Giles Street.
“Shh,” Helena hushed, casting a glance about. Alas, either the rumble of the carriages and the shouts of street vendors drowned out her urging, or her sister was too excited to work at subterfuge. Then when one was the proper daughter of a duchess there was no need for subterfuge. You didn’t go sneaking off. You didn’t know how to discreetly find a hired hack. And you most certainly did not ever visit these very streets where they found themselves now.
Yet through Helena’s less-than-stellar influence, she’d brought her sister into the streets unfit for men, women, and children alike.
“Do you think he’ll like me?” Diana asked at her side.
It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that Ryker Black didn’t like anybody, but that would only fuel further questions from her loquacious sister. So instead she said nothing.
They reached the end of the street, and Helena put a staying hand on Diana’s arm, bringing the girl to a stop. The younger woman pushed back her hood, and Helena cursed, promptly tugging the hood back into place. “You must leave your hood up,” she scolded, stealing a look about. “You face ruin in being here.” Not for the first time since she, in a moment of sisterly devotion and poor judgment, had agreed to let Diana accompany her, regret stabbed at her. In her innocence, Diana had no place being here.
“But you are here,” Diana countered.
Helena closed her eyes and prayed for patience. How had she failed to realize how stubborn the young lady was? “I am a bastard.”
“You are also a duke’s daughter.”
“It is different,” she shot back. Was she truly debating the distinctions between a duke’s offspring here, now, with some of the roughest, crudest men in London idling about?
“I don’t see how . . .” the girl grumbled under her breath.
“And I am to be married,” Helena added. That at the very least settled the discussion.
“Oh, you are?” Diana clapped her hands excitedly. “Splendid. Lord Westfield will make you a divine husband.” She paused. “It is Lord Westfield, correct?” And even walking the streets of St Giles, attempting to evade discovery and ruin, a smile pulled at Helena’s lips. The girl could have talked the late Boney into defeat with such skill.
“Yes. It is Lord Westfield.”
“Lovely. Even if he is old,” she rambled.
Helena took her by the hand and started across the street.
“. . . after all, you are closer in age to the marquess. Not that you are old,” Diana said on a rush. “You’re only a little bit old. For a woman, that is.”
Again, Helena’s lips pulled in a grin. Mayhap it wouldn’t be so very difficult to convince Ryker to accept Diana in this new world, after all. It would surely take one endless stream of conversation from this magpie to bring him round.
A tall figure stepped into her path, and she crashed into a hard, immovable wall, knocking her hood loose. Helena’s hair tumbled about her shoulders as she was sent sprawling. She landed so hard on her buttocks pain radiated up her spine.
“Oh, dear,” Diana cried, rushing over. “Are you all right?” She planted her hands on her hips, a little defender. “You, sir, should have a care,” she chided.
Giving her dazed head a shake, Helena shoved herself onto her elbows and froze. Through the din of street noise and her sister’s prattling, the world stopped. He, with his pockmarked face and gaunt features, came to her at the oddest times, haunting her sleeping and waking moments.
“’ello, Helena.” Diggory grinned back.
The earth dipped and swayed. She closed her eyes hard and counted. One-two-three-wake-up. One-two-three-wake-up. She choked on bile. He is not real. He is not real. He’s merely the nightmare that’s dogged you for nearly twenty years.
She peeked under her lashes, and a wave of nausea assaulted her. Aged by time and life on the streets, the evil, cracked, yellow-toothed smile remained the same.
“Look at ye, all fancy now.” That hated cockney sucked away rational thought, and she was once more that small, cowering girl with a flame touched to her skin. “Oi almost didn’t recognize ye the other night in the street.”
It had been him. She whimpered, and shook her head, inching away.
“Helena?”
She clamped her hands over her ears to blot out that hated sound. Only confusion raged inside her mind. For that sweetly spoken inquiry, laced with concern, did not belong to the demon in her dreams.
Diana.
She forced her eyes open, and looked blankly to her sister. Oh, God. Diana. “Run,” she rasped.
Diana looked at her, opening and closing her mouth, and apparently there was more strength to the girl than she’d credited, for she flared her eyes and then, with a speed a wood sprite would have been impressed by, sprinted down the street.
Sending a silent prayer skywards to God, who did not exist, for the girl’s escape, Helena pushed herself to a stand, and bolted.
Diggory easily overtook her. He wrapped his punishing hand about her forearm, and she bit her cheek to keep from crying out at the agony of his hold. She’d sooner die than cower before him again. “Black stole ye from me. Oi wasn’t done with ye.” He stuck his nose close to hers and she recoiled under the onion-and-garlic scent that slapped her face. “Oi promised the duchess to off ye when oi was through with ye. Oi never expected ye’d be the brilliant bookkeeper ye are or else I would have fought to keep ye.”
Oh, God. He did know. Ryker’s speculations had proven correct about just what Diggory had gleaned over the years. It had been Helena, however, who’d been lulled into a false sense of security. Then something he said registered . . .
The duchess? Helena’s riotous mind spun under this demon’s reappearance and the jumbled words he tossed at her. As he dragged her down the street, she glanced desperately about for anyone. Alas, this was not the respectable end of Mayfair, populated by fancy lords and ladies. These were the seedy streets of ill repute, where you took care to avoid the plight of others.
Jerking and pulling at her arm, Helena dug her heels in. She was no longer the frail girl of five.
“Enough of that, bitch,” he hissed, wrenching her arm behind her with such force tears sprung to her eyes.
Fury raged through her, and she glared at him. She tossed her head back to let loose a scream when he jammed something hard and cold against her back. At the bite of metal penetrating the fabric of her coat, Helena froze.
“Oi’ll end that bitch’s life, too, if ye keep at it.” A chill wracked her frame. Why had she agreed to bring Diana here? Because you’d been gone from this so long, you’d been lulled into a dangerous sense of safety—a safety that didn’t exist. She wanted to toss her head back and howl with frustration. This is why Ryker had kept her shut away, because he’d correctly seen her weaknesses and known the eventual fate for those who proved incautious. “That’s better,” Diggory spat. “Now move.” He jerked her forward, and she stumbled. “Oi can’t do this ’ere.”
Dread iced her veins. As a child, forced to thieve for him, she’d served a purpose. No longer. He is going to kill me. Fighting through the panic, she searched for the effortless words Robert had always proven so capable of, and found strength in the lessons he’d unwittingly shared. “Wait,” she said coaxingly. “Surely you see I’m of far more value to you alive. The Duke of Wilkinson . . . my father will pay . . .”
He guffawed. “Do ye think a bluidy duke will give a rat’s arse if oi gut ye in the street?”
A month ago she would have agreed. A month ago she’d believed she knew how the world was, and found the entire ton wanting. “My brother, Ryker Black, will pay you, as well.”
He snorted. “Only after ’e gutted me fer this.”
Relentless in her efforts, she angled her head back and gave him a meaningful look. “You forget . . .” She let the word linger between them.
His nostrils flared. “Wot did oi forget?”
“I can help you with the books at your club.” She’d sooner sit down to dinner with the Devil. Nonetheless, the promise danced around the stale air. She could all but see the greedy wheels of his mind turning.
Then Diggory jammed the pistol deeper into the skin, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. She’d not let him see another damned tear or hint of weakness. This man had already stolen so much.
She pressed her eyes closed, drawing forth Robert’s visage, and struggled to breathe. This is how she would die. Here in the street like the guttersnipe she’d been. How bloody close she’d been to having everything she’d never known she wanted. She balled her hands as an unholy rage took root and spiraled like a slow-moving conflagration. Stop, Helena. Think. By God, she’d not die like a cowering child. Not at this man’s hands. Helena panted. “P-Please,” she rasped, as he pulled her farther into an alley. The moment he stopped at the end of the narrow passage, she’d be dead. With energy singing in her veins, Helena whimpered. “I-I can’t breathe.” Then she went limp.
Diggory’s grip on her slackened, and he cursed.
Helena jammed her elbow hard into his stomach in three quick blows, and the air left him on a soft whoosh. The blood pounding in her ears, she shoved her heel against his kneecap, and he lost his hold on her. With his shout echoing after her footsteps, Helena fished inside her pocket and as she sprinted away from Diggory, her fingers brushed the reassuring cool steel.
She skidded to a stop.
A humming buzzed in her ears as she stared unblinkingly at the unlikely pairing at the end of the alley.
Surely this was another nightmare not borne of flame, but borne of the love she carried in her heart for him. “Robert,” she whispered. One of Diggory’s thugs stood with a knife at Robert’s throat. Her stomach heaved. What is he doing here?
Robert worked a powerful stare quickly over her person. “Surely you didn’t think I could ever leave you to go off alone?” he asked gruffly, following her unspoken thoughts. How harmonious they’d always been.
She wanted to toss her head back and rail at the fates, for in his eyes was love and an acceptance of his inevitable fate. No. This was not his world. He’d not die this way, in an alley like street trash, like Diggory and his gang. Gun in hand, she spun and pointed it at Diggory. “Stop,” she called out, halting his stride. How was her voice so even? “Have him lower his weapon,” she demanded, leveling her gun, while keeping Robert in her side vision. “Do it,” she cried, when Diggory and his man exchanged a look.
The devil of her past cursed and waved his weapon about. “Wot are ye going to do, Helena? Kill me? Ye were never anything but a weak girl,” he taunted, taking a step forward.
“Do not listen to him,” Robert barked. “You were always stronger than him, Helena.” A tortured shout burst from him.
Her hand quavered and she flicked a panicky gaze to Robert. Diggory’s man dropped him to his knees with a swift punch to his kidneys.
“Stop,” she cried out, her arm quaking uncontrollably.
“Yer shaking now just as ye were when I set ye on fire,” Diggory taunted, as he took another step. “Ye cannot kill me.” Triumph blazed across his harsh, ugly features as he turned his gun on Robert.
“No.” The scream tore from her soul.
Three sharp reports, in staggering succession, rent the quiet.
Gunpowder clouded the air, and the derringer slipped from her fingers. Diggory’s mouth formed a small moue, and then he collapsed facedown on the muddied ground. Dead.
“Helena!”
The faint clatter of another pistol hitting the ground penetrated the thick haze over her senses, and Helena spun around. Ryker stood beside Diggory’s henchman, who now lay at his feet with a bullet in his head. Ignoring her brother, Helena raced down the alley. “Robert,” she panted, and flung herself into his arms.
Robert folded his arms almost reflexively around her, and she burrowed against the hard wall of his chest, taking his strength. “How d-did you know I was here?” she choked out. He staggered under the weight of her embrace, and she stumbled into him, bringing them to their knees.
Something hot and sticky soaked the fabric of her gown, and she froze. No.
“I am fine,” he said, his voice faint.
No. No. No. No. No.
Ignoring her brother who fell to a knee beside her, she worked her hand between them. “Robert,” she rasped, and a low-pained moan strangled her, as blood coated her fingers. “No. No. No. What did you do?” she cried out, glancing up at the taut lines at the corner of his mouth, the wan hue of his skin, and the vague look in his eyes. A sob escaped her as she pressed her hands to his side to slow the ebb. So much blood. So much of it. His life’s blood covered her palms, soaking her scarred fingers. Helena stared at those crimson stains as insanity licked at her senses, threatening to suck her away from right and reason. “Don’t you dare leave me, Robert Dennington,” she sobbed, tears streaking down her face, blurring her vision.
Wordlessly, Ryker guided Robert down on his back and shoved off the bloodstained black coat. He yanked off his own jacket and in one swift movement, shredded the fabric, and held it to that gaping wound.
Shouts and pounding footfalls sounded at the front of the alley, and her brothers burst forward, Robert’s eyes slid closed, and Helena’s world ceased to be.