“We cannot prove,” she said to the throng of toffs, “that anything was stolen. Those shillings and pence are the girl’s property, and I challenge any man to prove otherwise!” She turned to the little thief. “That bracelet might’ve been picked up from the paving stones. Isn’t that right?”
The girl nodded. “Aye, milady. I found it!”
“And you intended to return it, right?”
Again, she nodded. “I was goin’ to ask who it belonged to…”
“Then this has all been a misunderstanding,” said Eliza. She plucked the pearls from the man’s palm and returned them to Miss Prevost. “The strand has snapped. Nothing more.”
Her bright new friend quickly became her accomplice. “How thrilling! I am so fortunate that an honest person sought to return my pearls to me!” Miss Prevost held the girl’s gaze with kindness and intensity. “It wasmeyou were coming to find, was it not?”
“I reckoned they had to be yours, milady, but all the commotion frightened me.”
“Then you were very brave and ought to be rewarded for your troubles.” Miss Prevost pivoted toward Sir Mark van Bergen. “Would you be so kind…”
“Of course.” He reached into his coat pocket to produce his purse. He offered a jangle of coins to the ladies.
Miss Prevost dropped the money into the girl’s palm. “My thanks.”
Eliza released her, and then motioned for the men to do the same. “Run along,” she warned, “and be more careful in the future.”
The pickpocket lifted her tattered skirts in a hasty curtsey before dashing down Shaftesbury Avenue toward Piccadilly Circus. Hopefully, the child had learned her lesson, but there would be other hungry days and rain-drenched nights, and many temptations for a poor girl’s clever fingers.
For anybody born into poverty, there was no way out of the mire. A woman was at the mercy of her father, her landlord, her husband, and her employer—and any one of them might let her down at any time. She must rely on her wits and her will to survive.
The crowd of theatergoers dispersed, for the spectacle was over. Miss Prevost slipped her precious pearl bracelet into her reticule for safekeeping. Mark took Eliza’s hand, lacing his fingers with hers and holding her close. He must’ve known how difficult it had been to face the mirror image of her own past.
While they waited for the weather to clear, the double doors to the Lyric Theatre swept open. Two immaculately-dressed matrons emerged onto the pavements. Although they stood sheltered beneath the awnings, umbrellas were deployed to protect theircoiffuresfrom the damp.
One lady wore shining silks and diaphanous chiffons. The other was dressed in sable furs from her proudly jutting chin to her diamond-buckled shoes. Both women shimmered with wealth and simmered with self-importance.
The taller matron cut her eyes at Eliza’s sapphire velvet-clad form, and then gasped in horror.“Ermentrude?”
Miss Prevost stepped between them. “No, Your Grace, this is Miss Summersby, whom I’ve been telling you about, and her escort, Sir Mark van Bergen, whose sister, Mrs. Sidney Cooper, is your near neighbor.”
The Duchess of Bodlington sniffed imperiously in Eliza’s direction. “I see. In this garish light, you look very like my daughter, Lady Ermentrude Prendergast, who ought to be at home with her governess.”
Was it a compliment to be compared to the daughter of a duchess, evenifthe lighting was bad? Eliza wasn’t intimidated by the ‘old dragon’, as Miss Prevost had called Her Grace. The woman swept past in a flurry of silks, furs, and aristocratic hauteur. Bidding Eliza and Mark goodnight, Miss Prevost and her mother followed the duchess into their carriage.
Their entourage clattered down the busy, lamplit street, heedless of the traffic or the drizzle. Mark’s gleaming black landau maneuvered into the empty space, and his footman climbed from the groom’s seat to deploy the steps.
“Here we are, Eliza,” said Mark, guiding her forward. “Let’s make our dash whilst we can.”
Still holding his hand, she was glad to leave the drama of Shaftesbury Avenue behind them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
They climbed into the carriage, feeling the door slam shut behind them. Mark slid onto the cushioned squabs at Eliza’s side. He reached to lower the shades, cocooning them both in the dim warmth of the elegant interior. A patter of raindrops on the landau’s hood drowned out the sound of his horses’ hooves against the cobbled street.
He and Eliza had retreated to a private place, and Mark felt content to wrap his arm around her heavy-cloaked shoulders. He pulled her into the pit of his arm, nestling her against him. For a moment, they rode in silence—a welcome wordlessness after so much noise and commotion—but Eliza was rarely quiet for long.
She always had something to say, and he was eager to listen.
Her thoughts dwelled on the pickpocket she’d saved. Weeks ago, that girl had beenher, starving and striving, and suffering the ravages of life on the streets of London’s West End, for the Lyric Theatre was but a ten-minute walk from her haunt in Seven Dials. She might have passed that girl on the pavements. They might’ve even competed for the same man’s purse, as it was survival of the fittest, and only the most resourceful thief succeeded. Those who failed were thrown in the gutter, and those who were caught were locked in gaol.
Eliza and her fellow delinquents feared the Metropolitan Police for good reason, yet tonight she had sided with those honest, oblivious citizens gathered on the pavements. She had prevented Miss Prevost’s bracelet from being stolen and exposed the young thief in the process.
Her loyalties were conflicted. Rightly so, Eliza struggled to reconcile her past struggles with her present life of ease.
