It was certainly somewhere she had never cared to frequent before, although she hadn’t been afraid to traverse the areas where refuse, rats, or fights broke out among men and women alike. Her closest friend had been a boxer, so he’d taught her how to defend herself quickly in most any situation, even when some might not believe that she could obtain the upper hand. What most people didn’t realize is that fighting wasn’t about strength, but agility, and in that area, she was still rather astute.
After what seemed to be a lengthy climb, they paused and Constance heard a set of keys jangle before Mr. House released her hand long enough to shove them into a lock. After pushing open a door with grating hinges, he took her hand once more and led her inside. Once the door was shut, he removed her blindfold.
She blinked as her eyes adjusted from dark to light. She glanced around to find meager furnishings—a couple chairs and a rickety table that didn’t look strong enough to hold a slice of bread, let alone a full meal—and a small wood burning stove. Streaks of soot lined the wall behind it and the floor was littered in front with ash and wood splinters. At least there was a privacy screen in the corner which kept the chamber pot out of sight.
Constance had a sudden flashback to when she was young and lived in similar conditions of squalor and poverty with her mother. After she’d fled and clawed her way to the top by using her body to leave this all behind, vowing never to return, she barely withheld a shudder now, as here she stood in the midst of it once again. She pretended not to picture all of the vermin that could be inhabiting the cushions of the chairs.
Needless to say, it was definitely a far cry from the comforts she currently enjoyed in Mayfair. This entire living space wouldn’t even make up the size of one of the countess’ guest rooms.
“Ye’ll ’ave t’ pardon th’ mess. I wasn’t expectin’ comp’ny.”
She rolled her eyes at the mockery in Mr. House’s tone. “And here I thought for sure you would have a kettle ready for tea,” she returned in kind.
She thought she might have seen a flicker of respect in his eyes before he said stoically, “Follow me. ’E’s jus’ through here.”
Constance walked forward and when another door was opened to reveal a bedroom that wasn’t much larger than the size of a closet, it was the figure lying still as death on top that made the breath catch in her chest.
It was truly him. The man she had cautioned herself about was lying here, and by the sound of his labored breathing, it didn’t sound as though he was long for this world.
Instantly, her fists clenched at her sides. She didn’t know anything about him, his past transgressions, or what he had planned for the future, but she wouldn’t allow an animal to pass into the next world in such a horrifying fashion, let alone a human.
“He can’t stay here.”
She turned to Mr. House to see that his arms were firmly crossed over his chest. “There’s no place else t’ take ’im where Granelli couldn’t go.”
“I will find something better than this,” she snapped. “But no more blindfolds. You’re going to have to trust me.”
“An’ why should I do tha’?” he countered. “Th’ gentry ain’t done nothin’ for me before.”
She held her ground. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not part of polite society.” She brushed past him and headed for the door before she paused and turned back around. “Have him ready to be moved by dawn.” Her gaze flickered back to the bedroom door. “If he makes it that long.”
She shut the door on her departure.
Minutes or hours passed—Devin had no perception of time when he found himself stirring once more. He tried to adjust his position, and although he managed to shift his left arm this time, the slight movement made his chest burn in searing agony. He tried to see if he was on fire, but unfortunately, his eyes still didn’t want to obey the command to open.
He exhaled heavily and it must have been enough, as he could hear footsteps coming toward him. Oddly enough, that was the only sound he could hear. Whether he was still in that dingy alley, or in Seven Dials with Luke, it was never this quiet. Perhaps he’d already passed over to the other side. But then, if that was true, why did he still feel pain? Wasn’t heaven supposed to rid you of that?
But then, maybe he was in hell. It wouldn’t surprise him if that were so, but where were the pitiful moans and screams from torture from the condemned?
“Devin? Can you hear me?”
Now he definitely knew that he was in heaven, as that was the voice of an angel.
Although the speaker sounded oddly… familiar.
“I’m no’ sure ’e’s conscious.”
Luke. Either he was still alive, or he’d joined him in the afterlife, and he was
starting to think it was the former.
“Give him time,” the angel said somewhat irritably. He would have smiled if he’d had the strength to do so. “It’s been nearly a week since his accident.”
Accident? That would certainly explain why he couldn’t seem to get his body to function properly. But then, it all came rushing back—the interlude at the opera, the alley, Granelli…
He growled low in his throat.
“Did you hear that?” the angel whispered, almost in reverence. “Devin? If you can hear me, make another sound.”
