“Tarnation!” Camille scribbled a single sentence on the back of whatever paper lay on top of the desk and sealed it with a press of the Pony’s insignia. She’d grab the first decent-smelling boy she found on the street and offer him a penny to take the letter to the Duke of Camine’s residence in Piccadilly and return to the Pony with her brother’s answer.
Upon reflection, Camille penned another short missive, this one to Madam explaining dire circumstances had arisen and she was going away.
She signed the letter and stood back, watching the tight, black letters gleam as they dried.
Madam,
I must go for the safety of Dockside. You have my eternal gratitude.
Don’t come looking for me.
Angel
Camille grabbed another piece of parchment, one last letter to pen, and the hardest to write. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she put quill to paper:
Dear Duke of Lux,
You once made me promise to think about our relationship and what I want.
Camille wiped at the tear on her cheek before it could fall and stain the paper.
I now understand that I could never be tied down by any man. Your responsibilities to your family are of the utmost importance and now, so are mine. If you have anynagging feelings of obligation or remorse, rest assured. With the savings I’ve acquired with my work for Madam, we have no need for charity, and with my mother to help me, this baby will be well looked after.
By the time you read this letter, my flat will be empty and I will be gone. I’ve told no one where I’m going, so interrogating those at the club won’t do any good. And seeing as how any involvement on your part would cause us both hardships, I ask that you respect my wishes to not seek me out. As it stands, I doubt I will return to London for many years.
I wish you the greatest happiness in life, Your Grace.
Sincerely,
Miss Camille Forthright
How had it come to this? One letter and all her plans were forfeit. A life she’d planned to use to better the lives of those born like her: abused, unappreciated, manipulated. Frustration welled up with a fierce internal roar of denial. She needed to stay, needed to set right so many wrongs in this world.
But her chances had vanished the moment she’d chosen Renard over everything else.
Camille pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling the warmth of life growing there. Her child,theirchild.
Camille’s hand went higher to her chest, where she willed her heart to freeze one last time, to turn to stone so she could march into the Den, confess her suspicions, and damn the man to whatever dark fate Dockside and the Merry Men administered. But the only thing her heart did was break. Lord Quickner was right; she’d do anything for the man she loved, even shield him from the attention of those others she cared and respected. Love existed, and it was darker and lonelier than anything she’d imagined.
She jammed the rest of the files into Madam’s drawer for safekeeping and returned the ledger to its hiding place by the fireplace. Taking the key from around her neck, she locked the desk and tucked the club’s seal back in its hiding place in the pocket on the underside of the desk. She pulled her reticule into the fold of the cloak she strapped around her neck. With one last glance, she took in the office—a lingering look at where her proposal for a space for her Home for Women lay waiting for her actions, actions she must betray for the sake of all Dockside—that had become her sanctuary.
She switched off the lamp and waited for Markus and Lucien to take their leave, knowing once she fled from Dockside and the other rookeries, the killings would stop.
Once Renard knew she’d left, he’d come for her, no matter how far she ran.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It took lessthan an hour to pack the few belongings they owned and bribe her mother into a hired hack with a fresh bottle of gin.
Heartbeat thundering in tandem with the death trap of a vehicle as it bounced haphazardly along the cramped alley streets, Camille had no breath left to catch as the boy messenger had returned with not a message, but a man.
The hack stopped with a jolt in front of the Pony club. Camille descended the stairs and offered her mother aid in making it to the street. Paying the driver, she waited until the hack left before coming forward with her mother on her arm.
The man seemed to watch them approach, the bowler hat he pulled low hiding his face, hair—any discernable features—but unable to conceal a predatory-like shuffle of silent steps as he closed the last remaining steps between them.
“Miss Forthright? Me name’s Ralph. I be sent by the Duke of Camine ta retrieve ya.”
Camille eyed the suspicious man, her instinct to run. She glanced at the boy, not deigning to respond to themessengeruntil she verified he was indeed the recipient of the message.
