Now he lifted his gaze, eyes as dark as autumn mud. ‘So which is it for you, Mr O’Brien? Is it “can’t”, or “won’t”?’
Damien wrapped his hands around the warm cup before him, trying to draw the last of its heat into his palms. The truth was, it was a little of both.
‘You sound like you’ve some experience of it,’ he murmured.
‘Aye, I know what it’s like,’ said Mr Jane, his expression softening. ‘I’ve been in your boots before.’
‘You don’t know anything about me,’ Damien said, and there was more heat in his voice than he’d expected. But Mr Jane didn’t look offended – and though something wasshifting in his expression, it wasn’t moving towards the places it usually did:disgust.Antipathy.Revulsion.
This was far worse.
This looked like …pity.
‘Perhaps not,’ said Mr Jane. ‘Just trying to help, is all.’
Damien stood. ‘I don’t need your help,’ he said roughly. ‘I don’t needanyone’shelp.’
Not his. Not Miss Lillian’s. Andcertainlynot Ava’s.
‘Oh, don’t take it personally. It’s just a principle of mine,’ Mr Jane said, giving Damien a reassuring smile that instead sent another wave of something – guilt? – spiking into his stomach. ‘Help where you can. And what’s a man without his principles, eh?’
Damien clutched up his coat, stuffing his hat back upon his head. ‘Thank you for the tea,’ he said gruffly. ‘What do I owe you?’
‘Nothing,’ said Mr Jane. ‘Not now, and not next time, either. You just knock on my door.’
Damien nodded. ‘A kind offer,’ he said stiltedly.
But a pointless one. Because he wouldn’t be coming back. Just like he wouldn’t be going back to Park Lane, or Ava Adams, or any of it.
God knew he had broken enough of his rules.
Chapter Twenty-One
It had been four days since Damien had run from the house, and in those four days Ava’s guilt had turned prickly, until she found herself walking towards Williamson Square once more, a note tucked safely into the pocket of her coat.
The lodging house opposite Houghton Street was called the Rainbow Hotel–though stepping inside, Ava saw it didn’t quite live up to its cheerful name. Despite the bright autumn sunshine that dappled the cobbles outside, the parlour was dark, and damp – the only light coming from a lone, flickering gas lamp. Wallpaper peeled from the walls in great, sinking strips, and the floorboards were chipped and scarred. The only thing that didn’t look old or weathered was the clerk at the desk – who looked up as she stepped inside, huffing a sigh through his lips.
‘No vacancies,’ he said, his voice a low, disinterested drawl. ‘Try The Clown.’
‘I’m not after a room,’ Ava said, sidestepping a hole in the floorboards that looked the perfect size to swallow her boot. Somewhere deeper in the building she heard a door slam, and a kettle begin to whistle. ‘I thought to leave a note for one of your guests.’
The clerk looked at her as though she’d announced she planned to set the place alight. Although in fairness, it might’ve been an improvement.
‘Room number?’
‘Oh, I don’t have a room number. But I do have a name? Mr Carter. Damien Carter.’
Reluctantly, the clerk pulled a moth-eaten ledger towards him, and began flicking through the pages, licking his thumb with every turn.
Then he snapped the ledger shut.
‘Don’t have no one of that name.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘As sure as I can be.’
‘Could you possibly … check again?’
