She had pushed herself into the furthest corner of the carriage, her mind unable to comprehend what was happening, knowing there was nothing she could do to save her husband. Charles fell to the ground, head lolling in her direction, his eyes meeting hers one last time.
Run. He mouthed.Run, Marianne.
Her fingers had grasped the handle of the door at her back as Charles continued to struggle, distracting the assailants so they wouldn’t—
Charles. A tear slipped down her cheek.
She had slid from the carriage as quietly as possible, knowing that she must save the heir to Roxboro. The thieves were so busy killing her beloved—well, they disregarded Marianne. Never glancing inside the carriage, likely assuming she’d fainted.
Cocking one ear, Marianne listened for any sign those awful men would return, but the nearby streets were quiet. Carefully, she stood, pressing a hand between her thighs as a great maw of agony leeched through her. Her fingers came away wet, the coppery tang of blood filling the air.
This child, all that was left of her sweet Charles, was choosing to arrive at the worst possible time.
“Mama will save you,” she whispered to her stomach. “I will.”
A dog barked in the distance. Shadows danced along the walls of the buildings surrounding her. A drunk sang a song off key. Taking a deep breath, Marianne darted down a small alley nearly hidden behind a half-dozen barrels. A soft light glowed, beckoning her towards a dilapidated house standing alone at the end of the alley. Music and laughter sounded from a street or two over, but here, everything wasquiet. The light came from a lamp, sitting in the window. Marianne could make out the sagging porch and the small pot of geraniums blooming beside the chipped wood of the front door.
Marianne focused her gaze on that door. Murderous thugs wouldn’t bother with geraniums, would they? Surely someone inside would come to her aid.
She half ran, half stumbled to the house, the scent of her own blood filling her nostrils, mixing with the unpleasant smells of the alley. She gagged at the scent, before another pain struck, forcing Marianne to her knees. Panting, she crawled up the steps, blood dripping down her legs. Flinging herself at the door, Marianne pounded with her fist as loud as she dared, gaze darting back down the blackness of the alley.
“Please,” she cried, her strength waning. “I beg you. Help me.” She collapsed against the door, ears and eyes alert for any sign of her pursuers. “Please,” she whimpered as another stab struck her midsection.
The door opened a crack, which given the part of London Marianne found herself in, made a great deal of sense. These were not the manicured streets of Mayfair, geraniums or not.
A gasp came from somewhere above her, followed by a loud creak as the door jerked open.
Marianne fell through the opening, a scream on her lips as she took in the long, homely face hovering over her. Pale as a wraith. Pinched, tiny features. Wide, dark eyes.
Perhaps I am already dead.
“Lordy,” the ghostly creature whispered. “Oh lordy. Mrs. Bean! Come quick.”
Heels clicked across the wooden floor as Mariane struggled to pull the rest of her body inside the humble foyer. “Please,” she begged. “Help me. I was attacked.” A sob caught in her throat, wondering how much she should say. For all she knew, the attackers lived here. Butshe had little choice. A tiny scream left her throat as she clutched her stomach. “My child—please.”
An older woman appeared, graying hair tightly plaited and wrapped around the crown of her head, a pair of spectacles perched on her nose. Shrewd, pale eyes took in Marianne’s crumpled form, the lamp in her hand raising higher. “What’s this?”
“She was bangin’ on the door, Mrs. Bean,” the wraith answered.
“And you opened my home to trouble. Haven’t I taught you better?” She lightly cuffed the back of the wraith’s, who was no more than a girl of fourteen, head. “We don’t care what reason is given. The door stays closed to strangers.”
“But,” the girl stuttered.
“Please,” Marianne whispered. “I will pay you whatever you wish. I—” A moan of pain escaped her lips. “A fortune. No amount is too large.” Inhaling at another wave of pain, she said, “send word to my husband’s brother, I beg you. He will pay whatever sum you require for offering aid. Lord Damon Viceroy. Mayfair. Number fourteen, Brook Street. Gray brick house. The door is green with a large, golden knocker of a bull’s head—
“I don’t know a Lord Damon,” Mrs. Bean interrupted with a roll of her eyes. “Is he your protector?”
“No, he’s my brother-in-law,” Marianne choked.
“You’re a harlot who’s lost her protector, I’ll warrant.” Mrs. Bean pushed with one foot, trying to dislodge her from the doorway before inhaling sharply at the sight of Marianne’s bloodied skirts and writhing mound of stomach. “And now you’re bleeding all over my rug.”
“I,” Marianne snarled in a coldly patrician tone, “Am theDuchess of Roxboro. Most definitely not a trollop. Nor do I resemble one.”
The serving girl’s eyes widened.
“Well, I suppose not,” Mrs. Bean raised a brow at Marianne’s tone. “Not in that gown at least. Nor with those earbobs.”
“They are yours if you help me. And whatever gold you ask for,”Marianne panted as black spots appeared in her vision. “Send for Lord Damon, I beg you. He’ll reward you handsomely.” Marianne struggled to her knees, fingers digging into the rug as another pang struck. “I give you my word.”
