The hair on his nape stood on end. And God help him if he didn’t find her.
Twenty-Seven
As it turned out, Emerson did not reach her in time. After a harrowing moment of hiring a nag—God knew it couldnotbe considered an actual horse—he made it to Upper Brook Street and was stunned to see her climbing into a hackney. Jesus, he would kill her—after ensuring every inch of her was unharmed.
Thankfully, the heavy traffic worked in his favor.
Less so the direction in which she headed. At this time of night, still wearing her ballgown because surely she hadn’t taken the time to change. The hackney turned east. Not a good sign. He followed at a distance that under other circumstances—like daylight—would have him discovered within minutes. But this way he could satisfy his curiosity and keep her safe.
The hack passed near Cavendish Square, the low lit lantern swinging. Emerson envisioned her inside, tense, furious, doubtless plotting whatever mad scheme her pride and principles had concocted in the minutes since flinging herself from the ballroom.
He almost smiled.
By the time the rig before him reached Oxford Street, traffic turned from nuisance to siege. Coaches angled for room like drunken brawlers. A costermonger’s donkey balked near Soho Square, snarling a dozen wheels behind it.
He reined in hard, teeth clenched. “You’ve bloody well chosen the worst night in London for rebellion, my sweet.”
The deeper he moved within the stews, the worse his surroundings. Holborn Hill brought its own kind of midnight madness. Gas lamps flickered low, their glow a mere dash of light through a thickening fog. A broken cart wheel leaned abandoned against a wall, its contents—withered apples and split potatoes—crushed underfoot. A stray dog nosed throughthe mess. Ahead, two apprentices, drunk no doubt, grappled in the gutter, their curses slurred and fists swinging wild. A dispute over coin, pride, or perhaps over the girl watching from a darkened doorway with a bloodied nose and vacant eyes.
Fleet Street came into view, and his gelding snorted and balked. It wasn’t the smell—though it reeked of ink, sewage, and salt—but the crowd. Lantern light flickered through greasy windows. The press of humanity grew more dense. Bootblacks crouched by gutters, drunkards arguing theology and God knew what all.
Emerson was a fool riding farther, but he didn’t dare take any chances in losing sight of the hack. Though it did move slow enough for him to follow on foot.
With a muttered curse, he swung down in a puddle of muck, but caught the attention of a stableboy and handed him a half sovereign. “Walk him. Water only.”
The boy looked startled. “This ain’t ’yde Park, ye nob.”
Emerson dropped another crown in his filthy palm. “No, it’s worse.”
He ducked beneath a hanging sign—The Widow’s Pint, judging by the rust-streaked carving—and turned toward a tangle of lanes that had once belonged to the Carmelites and now answered to no one.
Whitefriars. His heart nearly stopped.
The hackney jolted around a bend off Water Lane, and Emerson picked up his pace, under lanterns guttering. His stride lengthened, which had the mud sucking at his boots as the streets narrowed into alleys and alleys into something less—Whitefriars proper, where even the Bow Street Runners hesitated to tread after sunset.
The hackney slowed. Then stopped.
He flattened himself against a crumbling wall beneath a soot-caked window and watched, poised for attack.
The driver did not descend. No footman leapt to open the door. And yet, after a long pause, the carriage door cracked open and Rose stepped out carefully, slowly.
Not like a lady. Like someone trying not to startle a bird.
What in God’s name?
She held something in her hand. A bundle? No, a cloak or shawl.
Then she spoke, her voice low and clear. “Viola?”
Emerson blinked.
There was a shuffling sound, and from the shadowed mouth of a recessed doorway, he caught sight of a slight figure. A girl—age indeterminate—shivering, eyes wide as a hunted animal. What must have once been a lovely day dress was now little more than a rag. One stocking had fallen to her ankle. She clutched her arms around herself like armor.
Rose knelt, murmuring something he couldn’t hear, and held out the cloak.
The girl slowly emerged and, to his amazement, rushed into Rose’s arms. “Things will be all right now,” she told her. “I know of a safe place for you.”
The girl hesitated, then…nodded.
