Scowling, Bastion crossed to the drink cart and poured a large glass of brandy. He tossed it back, then tossed back another before facing Edmund once again. “Don’t play the innocent with me, Price. This alliance benefits us both, securing your political position and adding prosperity to me. Violet understands that, and I should think you would as well.”
Edmund ground his teeth. So that was it. No wonder she’d always claimed him as hers though he had never once given her any indication of his regard. The vixen had been in on Bastion’s scheme the entire time.
“Now that you’ve had your little tantrum, Price, it’s time to march downstairs and play the part of doting bridegroom. Then—and only then—will I announce your run for the House.” The viscount strode to the door. In that moment Edmund knew, without a shadow of doubt, the man had manipulated this entire affair for his own benefit. And Edmund had blindly walked right into his trap.
Edmund dropped his hand, gut sinking as well. He’d had his back against a wall before, but this one had spikes in it. Bastion had been his only hope of getting into the House of Commons on such short notice. What did he know of campaigns? Without Bastion’s sponsorship, his candidacy would be a farce. He’d never win.
“God’s will shall not be thwarted. He always makes a way.”
Ami’s words rose to the surface. Wise words. Heartfelt.
But what if God’s way didn’t include stopping the tariff that would ruin men like Sanjay? Was the sacrifice of an empty marriage for the greater good what God was calling him to do?
He needed time. Alone. To think. To pray. To sort through how to navigate this tangled mess.
And yet, as wealthy as he was, that was a luxury he’d not be afforded.
“Well, Price?” Bastion stood with his hand on the doorknob, a single burning question afire in his gaze. “What’s it to be?”
Ami braced herself against the wall inside the dark cab. It was either that or smash her face up against it. Cursed broken-springed hack! What a wretched excuse for a public conveyance. She should have waited to hail a properly functioning carriage, and she would have if the need to flee Lord Bastion’s town house hadn’t been so brutally fierce.
“Oof!” She grunted as the cab hit a bump, juddering her very bones. And yet she was glad for it. The harrowing ride made it all the easier to hold on to her fury, each jolt a physical reminder of the throat-hold the viscount had on Edmund. And Edmund hadn’t refuted the man—which still rubbed her heart raw. Did he really love her as he’d claimed? Did he even know what true love was?
Oh my. Now there was a troubling thought. What if she was right on that account? What if Edmund honestly didn’t know what love was? She propped her elbow against the wall to keep from tumbling sideways. Perhaps Edmund’s definition oflovewas not the same as hers. After all, they were from entirely different stations in life. Likely worlds apart in thought and expectation. And what sort of love had he ever known other than that of a disapproving father and a woman who’d claimed she cared for him yet embarrassed him in front of his peers?
She blew out a long breath. Perhaps instead of running off like a petulant tot she ought to have pulled him aside and at least tried to understand his version of the situation. Be the bigger person and hear him out instead of flouncing away as Violet would have done. She owed him that much, she supposed.
The cab bounced to a stop. The door handle stuck, and she ended up kneeing the thing while cranking the lever at the same time. She tumbled out, the angle of the listing carriage much too sloped to do anything other. Arms flailing, she barely caught her footing before planting her face on the broken cobbles.
“Oi!” the driver called from up on his perch. “Mind yer step, sparrow, though ye might wanna turn yerself aback to that fancy ’ouse ye came from. Whitechapel ain’t for the likes o’ a dainty bird like yerself.”
He was right. She should have taken the time to change out of her evening gown. Those peacock feathers on her backside would attract undue attention in this neighbourhood. But she was already running late,ifthe seller of those jars was even still here. Not that she had the money to make a purchase—yet—but she could reschedule a meeting for tomorrow and have her father secure funds from his friend at the British Museum.
She fished out a coin from her reticule and held it up to the driver. “Thank you for your advice, but I can manage. Please wait until I return.”
He snatched the money with a frown. “Foolish nip, ain’t ya? I’m not staying here like a fat duck to be plucked. Yer on yer own, sparrow, may God ’ave mercy on ye.” He snapped the reins. “Walk on!”
The old horse clip-clopped away, dragging the sorry excuse of a carriage behind. Feeling suddenly vulnerable, Ami tucked her reticule up her sleeve, or tried to. Bosh! She fidgeted with the fabric, annoyed. It was a tight fit, leaving a bulge, but better that than allow it to swing and attract a cutpurse. Even so, just let someone try. In the foul mood she was in, she’d welcome such a fight.
Turning, she entered the narrow throat of Angel Alley,scrunching her nose at the stench of urine. It wasn’t soon enough before the short corridor spit her into a small courtyard.
The relief didn’t last long. She stopped but six paces inside the shadowy area. Off to one side a brazier licked flames into the night, painting hellish light onto the leering faces of three monstrous men. One of them held a knife in the air, the blade gleaming silver. Over in the corner, a drunkard bent double, retching loudly, and in another corner, the whites of two eyeballs violated her in ways that clenched her stomach.
Gooseflesh lifted on her arms. The worst parts of Oxford were nothing like this. Brokering a deal in London was apparently quite a different animal—one she didn’t think she could tame even with her years of bartering with thugs. A set of canopic jars, as rare as they were, was not worth the price of her virtue.
Or her life.
She spun about, only to see the opening blocked by a caveman. Next to him stood his shorter counterpart, leaning on a cane. A cleft in his jaw. One eye blackened. Wearing a tatty plaid suit coat the same as the last time she’d seen him. Of course! She should have known. She folded her arms, disgusted with herself for falling for such a trick. “I see you’re up to your usual hijinks, Mr. Brudge. No wonder Mr. Dandrae didn’t add a seller’s name for those jars, though I doubt very much you have them.”
“And yet here you are, missy,” he said with a feral grin. “I knew you couldn’t resist a fat worm.”
“If this is another attempt to coerce me into getting you that griffin, you’ve wasted your time. I don’t have access to it anymore. I am finished with Mr. Price.” She grimaced at those words, more final than the bang of a coffin nail.
“Ah, but I’m not finished with you, love.” Mr. Brudge snapped his fingers in the air.
The big oaf at his side advanced, pulling a length of rope from his pocket.
Swallowing back fear, Ami retreated—then stopped when she remembered the horrors behind her. What a beastly situation!She never should have let that cab driver roll off. Even a broken carriage was better than no getaway.
