Chapter Eight

 

London

 

Blair alighted from the train in London. The wind drove the rain horizontally into his face, wetting his collar and soaking his hat. He held the Tatler magazine overhead and ran for shelter. He liked rain ordinarily. In Ireland, the rain replenished streams and rivers and turned the landscape emerald green. But in this sooty, polluted city, rain was downright dreary. When a hansom stopped for him, he leaped gratefully inside.

Confident that Gina would accept his offer, he planned to visit her this afternoon. And once he had the first part of his plan in place, the rest would surely follow.

The hansom pulled up outside Blair’s townhouse. He disliked town living. The streets all the same the townhouses built in the classical style with an Ionic portico over each doorstep and a stucco pediment above every window with polished steps and black iron railings in front. He liked to have space around him, and nothing could equal the green hills of Ireland.

After a change of clothes and a quick glance at the mail, he left again and hired a hansom to take him to Shoreditch. The going was painfully slow, the wet roads clogged with carriages, horses, carts, the air turning foul. They drove past noisy tenements and poor cottages, inns, alehouses, taverns, dicing houses, brothel houses, and stables. Beggars and people without trade took up residence on the pavements.

Blair alighted and paid off the driver after the cab stopped outside the down-at-heel building where Gina and Russo rented rooms. On impulse, he’d stopped at Covent Garden and purchased a bunch of yellow roses, like the flower he’d seen adorning Gina’s hair. Yellow roses were perfect for her and these blooms sparkling with raindrops were handsome indeed.

Gina opened the door. She gazed at the roses and her topaz eyes widened in surprise. His heart leaped at the sight of her.

“Hullo, Mr. Dunleavy.” Her questioning gaze rose to meet his.

“For you.” He held them out to her.

“They are lovely, thank you.” She took them and pressed her nose to the blooms. “I’m afraid Milo’s not home. Have you come about another painting?”

He shook his head, taking delight in the pleasing picture of the roses held against her peach-tinted cheek. “I came to see you.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she opened the door wider. “Please come into the sitting room.”

The sitting room seemed too grand a name for this meager space and so inadequate a setting for the lovely young woman. “I came to ask you something, Gina,” he said, surprised to find he was nervous.

Gina carefully laid the roses on the table and turned to him. “Yes?”

He took her hand, drawing her over to the sofa. “I want you to live under my protection.”

Gina slipped her hand from his. “I am protected. I have Milo. Why?”

Her question disconcerted him. “Don’t you realize how enchanting you are?”

“Bah!” Gina jumped up and returned to the roses.

At a loss, Blair followed her. “I want you in my life. I hope you might come to feel some affection for me.” He’d made a hash of it. “I’d like to be the one who takes care of you.”

Gina arranged the roses in the vase. Her movements were jerky, the only sign his words had affected her. When a thorn pierced her hand, she pulled her hand away with a small cry.

“Let me see.” He took her hand and turned it over. After he removed the thorn from her palm, he raised it to his lips.

She frowned. “Milo takes good care of me, Mr. Dunleavy.”

He looked around the room. “Does he?”

She flushed, and her eyes flashed. “Yes.”

This had become too important to him. His usual tact seemed to have deserted him. He rushed on. “Will you listen to my plan?”

She hesitated and then nodded.

“I’ll rent an apartment here in London. You shall be the mistress of it—”

“Jermyn Street?”

“Pardon?”

“My friend Mabel says some toffs keep their mistresses in Jermyn Street.”

“I have one in mind. It’s in Hanover Square,” Blair said, thrown off balance by her skeptical tone. She certainly wasn’t pleased by his offer. “It’s an apartment equal to your beauty. You shall have lovely gowns, anything your heart desires.”

Gina licked the small wound on her palm. The simple gesture was enough to make him hard. When a frown creased her delicate forehead, his heart sank. She’d been rigidly polite, and somehow, with a growing helplessness, he sensed her disappointment in him.

“I suppose you think I should be grateful,” she said. “But I’ve never invited your advances. It’s the way your class has of doing things, I expect. You think your money and position in life can grant you anything. But you can’t buy me.”

She walked to the door. “Thank you for the roses, Mr. Dunleavy. Now please leave. I don’t wish to be your mistress, or anyone else’s. Don’t come again.”

He gazed down at her. “Is it so very bad of me to want to take care of you?”

She placed her hands on her hips. “You have come with a completely false impression of what is on offer here. Only my stepfather’s paintings are for sale. Not me!”

He looked around the pitiful, shabby room at her small attempts to make it homely. “You deserve so much more than this.”

“That’s as may be. We are soon to move to Holland Park. We shall be quite comfortable there.”

“I’m sorry, Gina. I seem to have got it badly wrong, haven’t I?”

Did he see tears in her eyes? Perhaps they were tears of anger or frustration. He wanted to hug her to him, to console her with kisses, but he’d been the oaf who’d caused her distress. “Forgive me, please. I’d like to be considered a friend.” He dug out one of his calling cards from his breast pocket and held it out to her, but she turned away toward the door.

“If you ever need help, and there are no conditions attached, please contact me. This is my London address. You’ll find my home in Ireland there also. You can reach me by telegraphing the Dublin post office.” He laid the card on the table.

She opened the door. “Good bye, Mr. Dunleavy.”

“Good bye, Gina.” He glanced at her lovely face as he passed her. So close, he had only to stretch out a hand to stroke her velvety cheek. The urge was so overpowering he was surprised that she didn’t sense it, but her gaze dropped, and the door shut swiftly behind him, leaving him standing like a fool on the doorstep.

Blair hailed a cab and instructed the cabbie to take him to Horace’s apartment. He sat back as the driver negotiated the London traffic, and gazed unseeing at the passing parade of people on the busy streets. Young women such as Gina must hope for a generous benefactor to rescue them. Although he didn’t understand why she’d refused him, he had to admit he loved her spirit, how magnificent her eyes were when she was angry.

Perhaps she’d had a better offer, or she might have a lover. The ache in the region of his heart seemed incommensurate with her rejection. He shrugged. He would simply move on. Tonight, he and Horace were to visit the Royal Soho theater which staged an excellent play, Trial by Jury. There would be attractive feminine company, a good dinner and whatever came after that. Tomorrow this would all be forgotten. Just his pride was wounded after all. But somehow, the prospect of a pleasant evening didn’t raise his spirits.

* * * 

 

Had Mr. Dunleavy but known it, Gina was as disappointed as he appeared to be. She moaned softly as she leaned back against the door. If he’d taken her in his arms and kissed her, if he’d said that he loved her, she might have capitulated and agreed to all he offered her. She ran to her bedroom. Throwing herself on the bed, she sobbed bitterly. “This is surely not what you wanted for me, is it, Mamma?” she cried into the empty room. “A respectable life filled with loneliness?” She yearned to give her body and her heart to Blair Dunleavy with a pain so strong it was like a knife had been thrust into her chest.

When Milo came home, she would beg him to take her back to Italy. She knew she was running away, and what might await her there could be just as uncertain as her life here, but at least there, she might fit in. Here, the men were either crazy bohemians, oafish men of trade with no appreciation of culture, or the likes of the Earl of Douglass. But Dunleavy was a gentleman despite what he’d asked of her. She fought to banish from her mind his concerned blue eyes, his handsome mouth that quirked up in a smile, and his black hair which sprung onto his forehead when he took off his hat.

Gina waited up for Milo, longing to talk to him. It grew very late and still there was no sound of his drunken fumbling at the door. Finally, she turned the gaslight down and prepared for bed. The town hall clock struck twelve. With his pockets full of money, Milo had been on one of his benders for days. He’d held a party to celebrate their good fortune. It cost far too much money, but Milo loved to be the center of attention. His friend, the actor, Arthur Blunt, who performed at the Comedy Theater in Westminster, warned Gina about Milo’s drinking. Those who crowded into their small rooms, painters and their models, and theater folk, drank and ate everything on offer. Times were bad, and most were glad of a free meal.

She’d put a little of Milo’s money away to pay for food and rent, but the rest disappeared at a rapid rate at the beer house. Milo had begun shouting all the local lads and now that word had gone around that there were free drinks, the hostelry was packed. Milo would never move to Holland Park. If this continued, in a few weeks they’d be out on the street.

As she stepped out of her dress, someone banged on the door. She ran and called through it. “Milo?”

“Jeremy Sykes. A friend of Milo’s. Open up quick.”

She hastily buttoned her dress. When she opened the door, a giant of a man stood there, breathing heavily. She tried to shut it again, but he put his foot in the door. “Milo’s in trouble.”

Gina hesitated. “What kind of trouble?”

“I’m sorry, lass. Your papa’s been hurt.”

“I’ll get my cloak.”

She had to run to keep up with the man as he marched down the shadowy lanes toward Red Lion Square. The fog, thick and yellow, swirled around, choking, and almost blinding her. She was constantly in danger of losing the bulky shape striding ahead. “Tell me what happened,” she called after him, her voice echoing hollowly around the alleyway.

“Best you see for yourself,” he yelled back without lessening his pace.

“Is Milo, all right?”

“Didn’t look too good when I saw him last.”

They emerged into the square. A group of men stood in a circle outside the beer house.

Gina pushed her way through. Milo lay sprawled on his back on the ground, his eyes half-closed, and his face a frightening gray. A river of blood ran down into the gutter from his chest.

“Papa?” She knelt beside him, almost gagging at the stink rising from the gutter and mingling with the acrid tang of fresh blood. Milo didn’t stir. “Papa?” 

“He’s as dead as last week’s kippers,” a man said.

Gina put a fist to her mouth as a sob rose in her throat. “What happened?”

“Someone robbed him, looks like.”

She noticed his pockets had been turned inside out. “Oh, Papa!” She wept as she stroked his cooling forehead.

A scruffy lad ran over to her. “Someone’s gone for the Watch.”

At the mention of the police, a murmur rose up and the crowd quickly dispersed, leaving Gina and Jeremy Sykes alone with Milo’s body, as the dense, choking smog closed in around them.