“Wherein feelings run high.”

 

“There,” Tommy said, gesturing to of a row of identically appalling brick structures that lined the narrow, filthy street.

Aubrey looked the place over with disgust. “Yes, I can see how you’d believe I would allow my son to be raised in such circumstances,” he muttered, not bothering to hide from his friend the bitterness he felt..

“Oh really, Aubrey,” Tommy said, his face full of distress. “I’ve apologised already, and I do most profoundly beg your pardon. But you must allow that it was dashed odd, the things you said, and ... and everything that’s happened.”

“Yes,” Aubrey snapped. “And far be it from me to expect my friends to have my back.”

“Oh now,” Tommy remonstrated, his usually mild face darkening with something close to anger. “Coming it too strong. We might have reproached you to your face, but it’s not like we allowed anyone else to say such things!”

Aubrey let out a sigh and shook his head.

“I suppose,” he allowed, though with little grace. “Let’s say no more about it.” Terror at the idea of Violette alone on the streets around the Dials was making him devilish prickly. It had taken him far too long to realise that she might have sought out Jenny once again, and to go and enlist Tommy’s help to find the address. Tommy, only too pleased to be given a chance to redeem himself, had insisted on accompanying him and his cousin, and Falmouth’s men.

Aubrey and Tommy waited for Falmouth to catch up, as he’d stopped to give his motley crew of - well really, they could only be described as pirates - a raft of instructions which they set off to fulfil with respectful nods. The biggest man (if man you could call him, as he looked like he’d been sired by a damned giant) stayed behind and at his employer’s elbow.

“In here,” Aubrey called, his patience all used up as he entered the building. To his annoyance, the giant pushed past him and began taking the stairs three at a time. “What the devil!” he exclaimed, flattening himself against the crumbling wall in an attempt to avoid being crushed.

Falmouth snorted with amusement. “Sorry,” he said, not looking the least bit apologetic. “Mousy hasn’t been out much of late, this is the most excitement he’s had in weeks.”

“Mousy?” Aubrey echoed with disbelief, though Falmouth ignored his indignant expression and simply nodded.

“He’s finding married life a tad restricting,” Falmouth said with a slight smile. “If he doesn’t get to break someone’s head soon, he’ll be quite unbearable, I assure you.”

Aubrey followed the giant up the stairs as fast as he could. “He does know it’s a lady we’re looking for?” he demanded in alarm as Mousy began to hammer on the door.

A female shriek of alarm and a familiar squalling sound made it clear that the room was occupied, and then a man’s voice rang out.

“Who goes there?”

Aubrey ran forward, scowling at the giant who scowled right back. “Jenny, are you there? It’s Aubrey Russell.”

“Aubrey!”

The sound of his name spoken with such surprise and happiness and by the person who had occupied every waking thought since he’d met her was a profound balm to his growing terror. So much so that Aubrey almost cried out with relief.

“Violette?”

The door opened and he paused as the man on the other side of it stared at him with suspicion and then with growing apprehension as his eyes fell on the giant at his back. Aubrey suddenly saw why Falmouth should value the brute so very highly.

Before Aubrey could voice any of the questions crowding his tongue, Violette had pushed past the fellow, her eyes glittering with excitement.

“Aubrey, this is Mr Davis! Mr Charles Davis,” she added, seeing his momentarily blank expression. “He’s seen Eddie!” These innocent words were spoken with such undiluted joy that Aubrey knew his own hopes had been utterly foolish. Whatever the relationship between Violette and the mysterious marquess, she clearly loved him. The impoverished son of a mere baron was never going to present much of a challenge against such a noble and heroic fellow, after all.

Aubrey nodded, and held out his hand to the man, falling back on his instinctual good manners to cover his disappointment. Though why he should feel so, he didn’t know. Violette had made no secret of her intention to find the marquess, and had shown herself more than single minded and determined, disregarding the very real possibility of ruining herself in the process. He wondered what it would feel like, to be the object of such unswerving devotion. He’d heard her stammered apology to Falmouth, too, astonished to think that such a lady had been driven to steal from her host in order to find the man she loved.

Aubrey suddenly found himself in possession of a violent dislike for Lord Edward Winterbourne. The sooner they found the fellow and he and Violette went off to live happily ever after, or whatever they were planning ... well, the better off Aubrey would be.

Mr Davis was looking at Aubrey with an expectant air; as it appeared, so were Violette, Falmouth, and everybody else. But Aubrey felt unequal to the task of posing questions or answering them and stepped to one side, casting a look at his cousin. Falmouth, albeit with a look of surprise, stepped forward and all of them squeezed into the room.

“Look, Peter, ‘ere’s that nice Mr Russell, come ta see you,” Jenny crooned, beaming at him.

“Hello, Jenny,” he said, forcing a smile to his face and trying hard to tamp down on an inexplicable surge of anger. He could hear Falmouth quizzing the fellow about everything he knew of Edward Grey, but the growing rage in his head and his heart seemed to drown everything else out. He had hoped, he realised, to find this Cheerful Charlie fellow for himself, to present him to Violette and thus earn her undying gratitude. Somewhere in the depths of his wild imaginings he’d seen her casting off her feelings for the dashing marquess and falling into his arms instead.

What a bloody fool.

Instead, because of her, he was well on the way to ruining his good name, he lived in daily dread of being summoned before his father who would demand an explanation for that fact and probably cut him off without a penny, and he had spent more hours than he cared to contemplate with his heart in a vice and searching the Seven Dials. No. The sooner she was out of his life, the better.

He swallowed down a hollow feeling in his chest that seemed to gape open at the thought, and tried to return to the conversations around him. Violette was quiet now, though he could feel her eyes on him, perhaps wondering at his silence. No doubt she’d expected him to fall at her feet with relief upon finding her safe. He pushed that bitter thought away. That was unfair. She couldn’t help loving someone else, after all. In fact, he admired her devotion; if only he wasn’t so damned jealous of it, he’d be proud of her.

“Blue Cross Street,” Falmouth said, nodding. “Shouldn’t be too hard to extricate him. What time?”

“‘Bout eight, by my reckoning,” Charlie said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fight ought’a start round nine, but ‘e’ll be there early, ‘course.”

“Be a good thing to get hold of one or two of the fellows in Gabriel Greyston’s employ, too,” his cousin mused, posing this suggestion to Mousy, who looked like all his Christmases had come at once. “See what information we can get from them before we bring a case against the fellow.”

Charlie held out his hand to Falmouth and gave it a hearty shake. “I can’t thank you enough, my lord,” he said, sounding really rather emotional. “I was at my wit’s end, I don’t mind tellin’ ye.”

“Don’t thank me,” Falmouth said, his tone mild. “It was my cousin there who brought me.”

Aubrey shifted under the obvious gratitude in the man’s eyes. He felt claustrophobic and wanted more than anything to get out of the filthy room.

“And you must be Jenny?” Falmouth continued, turning his attention to the woman and the mercifully silent child who was chewing on his small fist with a determined expression. “Mr Russell asked me if I might not be able to find somewhere rather more appropriate for you to raise this young man,” he said, smiling at her. “And I think I might have just the thing.”

Jenny turned her big eyes from Alex to him, her expression so full of gratitude that Aubrey felt quite ill. What had he done, after all? He’d gone to Falmouth. Falmouth had done all of this. Not him. He’d simply expressed a desire to help. Falmouth had made it happen.

“Excuse me,” he said, his tone abrupt as he headed for the door.

He strode past Tommy who had been waiting outside on the landing, ignoring his demand to know what was happening and ran down the stairs.

He had just set foot outside when a different voice called his name, and despite his intentions, he ground to a halt.

“Mr Russell?”

He turned to see Violette framed in the doorway. She was clutching her cloak around her, but the hood was down and he could just make out her lovely face in the sparse moonlight that filtered down.

“Please forgive me, Mr Russell,” she said, her voice soft and full of a demand for understanding. “I know you must be angry with me for my behaviour. It was a horrid and shocking thing for me to steal from Lord Falmouth, especially when you’ve all been so very kind. But ... I had to find him, you do see?”

“Think nothing of it,” he said, wishing his voice sounded a little more genuine, instead of the flat, deadened tone that seemed even more stark in the murk of their appalling surroundings. “I quite understand, I assure you.”

She was silent then, standing and twisting the folds of her cloak in her hands in clear agitation.

“I didn’t want you to get involved in this,” she whispered, sounding so sorrowful that he cursed himself for a brute and sighed, taking a step back towards her. “Lord Gabriel Greyston, he’s ... he’s a bad, bad man. I didn’t want to see you get involved. I ... I was just doing what I thought right, but I realise stealing from ...”

“What?” Aubrey demanded, the burst of rage that had assailed him earlier only too ready to resurface. “You mean to say, you ran into the night alone, to the worst slum in whole of the country, in order to protect me?” He glared at her in utter fury. “My God, you must think me a feeble creature to need to hide behind your skirts!”

“No! I ... I never meant ...” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with dismay, but his pride had been pricked.

It was too much. Perhaps she was right, though. He’d done nothing but run to Falmouth the moment things got difficult, and his friends clearly had no high opinion of his moral fibre. How should she view him after all, when set against the noble and heroic figure of the marquess?

Jealousy raged and he knew that if he stayed a moment longer, he’d say something he’d regret.

“Violette, I’m very glad you’re safe and well on your way to finding Lord Winterbourne. Falmouth will escort you home of course. If you’ll excuse me, I have things to attend to. Goodnight.” He hoped he did his best to leave her with a courteous bow, but he saw well enough the distress in her eyes. He was sorry for it. Sorry that he’d hurt her feelings, but his own felt all in a jumble. All his old insecurities about his own abilities and courage seemed to have reared their heads at one and the same moment and he just couldn’t breathe. He needed to get away. From all of them.

But especially from her.

Ten minutes later, he found himself in a bar with a bottle of blue ruin in his hand and a determination to finish it as quickly as possible.

He wasn’t sure how long it had taken in the end, but he had stumbled out of the bar sometime later with a desperate need for fresh air. Well, perhaps the air in this particular section of London wasn’t fresh, but it was cold, at least. He began to walk with no real idea of where he was heading and didn’t even realise where he was until he’d been wandering aimlessly for an hour or more. Looking up, he found himself once more on King’s Street and remembered Mrs Dashton’s invitation, that he should call upon her if he was lonely.

Well, he was lonely, dammit, and more miserable than he’d ever been in his life. Besides, the worst she could do was have the brute of a butler throw him out, and in his current mood, that would simply round off a perfectly awful night.