“I shall hold you to that promise.” The blue of his eyes smouldered dusky—a look that never failed to heat her belly.
She fled before she gave in to the desire to once again press her body against his. The rest of that craving was squelched as she braved the chaos of the late afternoon streets, especially when she was forced to dodge an overly zealous ginger-beer seller and slipped in a puddle of what appeared to be day-old porridge. At least she hoped it was that.
She flicked back her loose hair and soldiered her way onward, Jackson’s words haunting her at every step. He did have a point about the hazards she faced as a sleuth. La! She’d only been at it five days now and already she’d managed to scuff up not only herself but Charles as well. It was important to seek justice for others…but what sort of justice was it for little Bella to daily deprive her of her mother? Granted, Martha was as loving as she could be in respect to her sweet girl, but was that truly the same as caring for the babe herself? She arm wrestled such questions all the way to the soup kitchen, and by the time she reached it, her already ragged skirt had added a new tear in the hem and a thick layer of grime towards the bottom.
Avoiding the long line of eager eaters, she swung around to the back door. Inside, just as much hubbub buzzed. One girl stacked bread slices on platters. Another hustled out to the dining room with a basket of spoons. The youngest dashed after her with a handful of cloths, and Martha directed it all with a wave of her ladle from where she stood near the range.
“Good afternoon, ladies. Looks like I came just in time. You surely don’t need Bella added to this mix.” With a wave, Kit headed towards the room off to the side where her sweet little dear ought to be just about finished up with her second nap.
“Yer right, ye are just in time. I feared ye’d not get here before I must open the door to the hungry mob.” Martha nodded towards the dining room. “Someone’s waitin’ for ye.”
Odd, that. “Who?”
Martha shrugged. “Din’t have time to drag out a name. The poor soul was upset enough as is. Jane!” She aimed the ladle like a spear at the ten-year-old. “Get yer lazy behind to work helpin’ yer sister with that pot o’ beans. Anna, see that ye mind Hazel and—”
Kit turned on her heel. It would be faster—and kinder to Martha—to simply find out who called on her. Ducking around the two girls returning from the dining room, she strode into the large space, then gasped when Mrs. Coleman turned to face her.
With a black eye, a split lip, and tearstains glistening on her cheeks.
Chapter Twelve
She’d seen wallopings before. Knew the metallic twang of blood in her own mouth after a good whack of a backhand. But this? Kit forced her breathing to steady even though rage licked white-hot along every nerve and vein. The lady in front of her was no scrapper, pinching about for a fight. Mrs. Coleman was a proper lady. A decent woman. One who ought not to be sporting a purpled eye and bloodied lip.
This was a violation of the most heinous sort.
Skirting tables and benches, Kit rushed across the dining hall and collected the woman’s hands in her own. “What happened? No, wait. First, please be seated.” She guided Mrs. Coleman to a bench away from the front windows. No sense allowing the eager faces waiting for a meal to peer in at the woman’s distress.
“Oh, Mrs. Forge. It was so dreadful.” Tears shimmered in the woman’s cat-like eyes.
And once again an odd feeling of recognition tingled through her. How many times during her years on the streets had she stared into a face such as this, brimming with fear and despair?
Mrs. Coleman gripped Kit’s hands as if she dangled over a cliff’s edge. “I beg your pardon to have called upon you here, but your office was closed, and I—I simply did not know what to do.”
“Think nothing of it.” But Kit did…how had this woman tracked her down to a Blackfriars soup kitchen? She angled her head. “How did you find—”
“Oh, my baby!” Mrs. Coleman wailed. “I fear for her so!” Releasing her death grip, Mrs. Coleman sobbed into her hands.
Kit dug out her handkerchief and pressed it into the woman’s fingers. “Please, take this.”
Sniffles ensued, followed by the most ladylike honk of a nose Kit had ever witnessed.
“Thank you, Mrs. Forge.” After a final dab at her eyes—and wincing when the cloth met the bruise—Mrs. Coleman lifted her face. “Everything happened so quickly, I…well, I can scarce believe such a dreadful encounter happened. And yet, here I am, as you see.”
Two of Martha’s girls scurried into the dining room, setting down bowls with such a clatter that she waited until they vanished into the kitchen before plying the distraught woman with questions. “Who did this to you?”
Her dainty brow pulled into a scowl. “Two men. Two great, hairy beasts, I should say.” A shudder rippled across her shoulders. “I never should have gone out unattended. Oh, why was I so injudicious?”
“You cannot blame yourself for harm that others inflicted.” She patted the woman’s knee. “Now then, how about you tell me the whole story?”
For a moment, Mrs. Coleman didn’t say a word, just stared to the far corner of the room, clearly tormented. At length, she shifted her gaze back to Kit. “The truth is I could not bear the emptiness of the house anymore. The vacant nursery. The rattle left on the rug where little Lillibeth last played.” She inhaled a shaky breath. “So, I thought to stop by the milliner’s to put my mind on something else. Not to make a purchase, you must understand, for nothing holds appeal to me anymore, not until I once again hold my child.”
Rising, Mrs. Coleman folded her arms across her chest, swaying slightly. A pitiful sight, for surely she was reliving the feel of her babe.
Then just as suddenly, she dropped her hands, eyes sparking. “But as I strolled down Straight Street, a man strode up on my right side, keeping perfect pace. Out of nowhere, another appeared on my left. Before I knew what was happening, they steered me off the pavement and into an alcove.”
Typical. Such a flanking maneuver was common among dragsmen and dippers. Kit twisted her lips. “So, you were mugged.”
“No. Threatened.”
