A wave of unease rolled through her.
There was no shortage of dead bodies in London—some killed by starvation, others by sickness. But this? This wasn’t some unfortunate soul who had wasted away in an alley corner.
He had been murdered.
And not by just anyone, but by men who were paid to keep the peace.
Daisy bit down on her bottom lip, torn…
With Gilbert to feed and a business to protect, she couldn’t afford to involve herself in whatever this was. But…
A rotting corpse would attract attention she couldn’t risk. It would be found, most likely. And the presence of a murder victim might then draw attention to the tiny but valuable courtyard. Some person of authority might wonder why a woman on her own had claimed a space no one had questioned before.
And then what?
Her garden wasn’t a whim or an indulgence, it made up a vital part of her business.
But even as she weighed the risk, the decision was ripped from her hands.
Because just as she resolved to turn away—to pretend she had never seen a thing—the body moved.
ALIVE—JUST BARELY
Silently, Daisy unlatched the carefully camouflaged gate, the hinges creaking as she slipped through. She paused, glancing in all directions, her pulse a steady thrum in her ears. The narrow alleyway was empty. No footsteps, no curious eyes.
Satisfied, she cautiously approached the body.
As she drew closer, details sharpened. The man’s boots—though caked with filth—had once been finely made. His tan breeches, waistcoat, and jacket, though torn and stained, were unmistakably tailored from fine fabrics. This was no common beggar or factory worker.
Daisy dropped to her haunches to get a better look, all the while keeping her ears open in case those bobbies returned.
His chest rose and fell, barely. But it proved he was still alive.
For now.
“Who did this to you?” she whispered, not expecting an answer.
And then the stench hit her.
Beneath the unmistakable copper tang of blood, there was something far worse—the cloying, sickly odor of decay.
Wounds left untreated, festering.
Today’s beating could not have been his first.
Her stomach turned. If infection had already set in, there might be nothing she could do for him.
A low sound escaped his throat—not quite a word, not quite a breath.
Then he moved—a sluggish, pained shift of limbs—and this time, he groaned.
Daisy’s gaze swept over him. Thick thighs, broad chest, solid arms. He had the build of a man who had not avoided physical labor, yet well-fed, well-muscled, someone who’d had the means to keep himself strong.
Who was he?
“What are you doing out here?”
Daisy jolted at hearing Gilbert’s voice, right before his head popped around the gate, his expression mildly curious. “The lye is cooling.”
