He pointed to the front door, and the moment she turned away, he snatched his trousers off the chair. He shoved in one leg so quickly he wobbled for balance a moment before he could jam in the other. His nightshirt would have to suffice for now, but cramming so much fabric into the waistband proved a trick. He snapped each brace over a shoulder as he dashed to the front hall. Thank God he’d stood his ground in demanding the street-level chamber of the boardinghouse for an emergency just such as this…but what exactly was this? By the time he yanked open the front door, his pulse soared with all the possibilities of why Martha might have come.
“Mrs. Jones! What’s happened? Are you hurt? Is it the children?” He swept her with a quick gaze. Though it was hard to assess anything in such poor light, she appeared to be whole, which gave him some relief.
She held up a hand. “No, no, Mr. Baggett. ’Tis not me. I know callin’ on ye like this ’tis highly improper, but I’ve hardly slept a wink what with tending Frankie all night, and I’m that furious! I’ve nowhere else to turn, and ye’ve always said to come to ye should I ever be in need.”
The tension in his shoulders eased—but not all, not until he determined exactly why she’d traveled all this way. “Yes, of course. You’ve come to the right place. Do come in, and pardon my state of dress.” Hah! State of undress, more like. He smirked while stepping aside, fastening the top buttons on his nightshirt. “First door on the left there, if you please.”
She swung into the shadowy room, stopping just inside the threshold.
As he passed by her, his step hitched when he inhaled her fresh-bread scent. It was enough to make a man mad! For the briefest of moments, he considered pulling her to him and burying his face in her neck, breathing deep and long.
Bah! What was he thinking? He indicated the sofa with a sweep of his hand. “Have a seat while I light the lamps, but as I do so, please explain what’s gotten you so fired up.”
“That fiend at the glassworks, that’s what!” Fire licked at the edges of her voice, an angry passion he’d never heard from her before. Not surprising, though. God help anyone who came between a mother and her cub. “I knew no good would come ’o that place. Din’t I tell ye so? Kit’s man, Mr. Jackson, brought my Frankie home last night. Poor lad was frightened to face me with a burnt arm, and no wonder! I was half out o’ my mind seein’ my boy’s blistered skin.”
Thinking on her words, he reached for the matchbox on the mantel. Empty. Of all the inconsiderate moves. No doubt Stubby Parker, one of his housemates, had used the last one and not thought to refill the thing.
“So,” he said, crossing to the desk in the corner, “you’re saying Frankie was harmed at his job yesterday. Is that what happened?”
“Aye. That firehole t’aint fit fer naught but demons. The place oughtta be shut down. Chained. Locked. Ooh! That snake in the grass Mr. Bellow!” Her voice shook, and he couldn’t help but grin at the vinegar in her words. “I’ll not be lettin’ my boy step foot in there again, ye can be sure of that.”
Hopefully Frankie would now be of the same mind. Swiping to the back of the top drawer with his fingers, Charles snagged another matchbox. A distinct rattle indicated a few matchsticks resided within. “And what exactly is it you wish me to do about the situation, Mrs. Jones?”
“I’d like ye to pop Mr. Bellow a good one right in the nose fer allowin’ my boy to get hurt!”
Suppressing a chuckle, he arched a brow and pulled out a match.
“Oh, I know I must sound mad, but what with seein’ Frankie in such pain and all…” She flopped back against the cushion, completely deflated. “I suppose there is naught to be done. I just…well. I couldn’t sit still another minute after finally getting Frankie to sleep. It weren’t right, what happened to my little man. And I—I guess I needed someone to talk to. Bish-bosh. Listen to me. Such a blatherin’ ninny. It were foolish o’ me to come here, and I beg yer pardon for it, Mr. Baggett.”
Warmth flared in his chest. She’d come here to seek solace. From him. Of all men. What an honour. Turning his back on her—and the burning in his chest—he pulled the gas supply chain and struck the match. Fire flared, and as he stuck the flame into the hole in the bottom of the globe, a small pop smacked the air. The mantel glowed, and he adjusted the brightness with the other chain. “I do not accept your apology,” he murmured. “For there is nothing to apologize for. Rather, I am pleased you thought to come to me.” He shook out the match then turned to her. “As I’ve said before, I am always available for—”
The words caught in his throat as the light and his gaze landed on an angry purple lump above her right eyebrow. “Merciful heavens! What is this?” He dropped to her side, and before she could shy away, he tipped up her face with a firm grip. Sure enough, a welt the size of a farthing marred her lovely skin, and that, added to all the other injuries he’d witnessed in recent days, stiffened every muscle he owned.
“Who did this to you?” It was more of a growl than a question. “And do not try to tell me you bumped into something.”
Fear flashed in her eyes, but only for half an instant before resolve flared her nostrils. “It is nothing.” She pulled away and shot to her feet. “Truly, I should be going.”
As gently yet firmly as possible, he tugged her back down to his side. “I will have the truth and I will have it now, Mrs. Jones.”
Tears welled in her eyes. Instant regret for his harsh tone rose like bile. What a bully he was. What a cad! He clenched his jaw, remorse warring with resolve. He would not see this woman meet the same violent end as had Edwina Draper. He wouldn’t fail her. He wouldn’t fail ever again.
“Who is hurting you?”
She directed a pointed look at his grip on her wrist. “Currently, you.”
Blast. Loosening his hold, he collected her hand between both of his and rubbed light circles against her palm, softening his tone as well. “Forgive me. I would never willingly harm you, nor will I allow anyone else to do the same. And so I must ask—nay, demand—that you tell me who it is that’s been harassing you.”
A fat tear broke loose, skimming over her cheek. “I cannot.”
“Martha, please.” He swallowed against the tightness in his throat. If she broke into full-blown weeping, they’d both be undone. “I cannot help you if you do not trust me.” He paused a beat, then sucked in a breath as a brick of an idea hit him in the head. “Do you not trust me?”
“O’ course I do!” She squeezed his hand, sorrow etching fine lines on her brow. “I would trust ye with my life.”
Blessed relief washed over him…mostly. He wouldn’t completely rest until he knew the name of her tormentor and put a stop to the brutalization. “Then prove your trust. Tell me who’s been pushing you around.”
Her lips clamped into a tight line, then ever so slowly, opened to allow a ragged whisper. “My brother.”
Of all the low blows. A family member did this? It took every bit of his strength to keep from jumping up and ripping the city apart stone by stone until he uncovered the rogue.
