Chapter Six

“I do wish I could come here more often,” Cecily said, setting down the thick earthenware mug on the scarred, scraped table in the cramped sitting room. Not by word or gesture did she indicate that neither the mug, nor the weak tea it contained, were what she was accustomed to. “The children are so eager to learn.”

“You done wonders with them, m’lady.” The woman sitting across from Cecily, matron of the orphanage in which they sat, took a healthy gulp of tea, her little finger crooked in what she thought was the proper way to hold the cup. “A shame, it is, that more people like you don’t take an interest.

“I know.” Cecily sighed. “I’ve spoken about it with Papa, but he thinks we need complete reform. I do see his point.” She set down the mug, empty, to her relief. “How much good can one school do, after all? But if just a few children learn,” she said earnestly, leaning forward, “then perhaps they can have a better life. I wish I could do more.”

“You do good work now. Though I do wish, m’lady, you wouldn’t bring them no sweets. Spoils them, it does.”

Cecily looked guilty. “I know, it was very bad of me. But if it makes the children willing to come to the schoolroom, then it’s worth it.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, once the season is over I won’t be coming here anymore. I am to marry next month.”

Matron set down her mug, an almost comical look of dismay on her face. “Oh, m’lady, then who will help? The children miss you now. Jenny Driver already goes to sleep with her primer every night.”

Cecily smiled. “I know. It’s a shame, isn’t it, that Jenny’s father couldn’t keep her? But my fiancé is interested in the poor. I’m hoping I can convince him to open some real schools, so the children can really learn.” The tall case clock in the corner struck the half hour, and Cecily rose. “I must be going, before I am missed. I’ll return in two weeks, if I can.”

“God bless you, m’lady.” Matron grasped Cecily’s hand in her own work-roughened one. “I wish there was more like you.”

“And I wish there were more matrons like you who actually care about the children. When I think of the other orphanages I’ve visited, what the conditions were like.” She shuddered. “No one should have to live like that.”

“If more like you would do something, m’lady, maybe things would change.”

Cecily smiled and, after saying her good-byes, walked out into the hall. Jem was waiting there, leaning against the wall, a look of unease on his face. He straightened when he saw her. “Trouble, my lady.”

Cecily looked up from pulling on her gloves. “Oh?”

“Yes. The hackney wouldn’t wait.”

“Oh. I see.”

“I told you this would happen,” he burst out, with the familiarity of an old retainer. “It’s as much as our lives are worth to be here, my lady. If anything happens to you I don’t want to think what the duke will do—”

“Nonsense, Jem, nothing is going to happen.” Cecily felt in her reticule for the silver-handled pistol she always carried on these expeditions; she was not so heedless as Jem thought. “You have your cudgel?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Then we shall just have to make it through the best we can.”

“Yes, my lady,” Jem said, and opened the door for her, not knowing whether to be appalled by her foolhardiness, or impressed by her courage.

They paused at the top of the steps before heading down, scanning the area. No one appeared to pay any attention to them; Jem, however, knew they had been remarked from the moment they had entered the slum, and that they would be lucky to leave without incident. “Onward, Jem,” Cecily murmured, and they set off.

Both were quiet as they made their way down the muddy, unpaved street, carefully avoiding the noisome trench running down the center where water, and who knew what else, drained. Again they appeared to pass unnoticed, and though Jem had an itchy feeling in his back, as if a million eyes were watching, even he began to feel that they might make it through unscathed. A look at Lady Cecily’s set face and squared shoulders told him that she was as aware of the danger as he, which he found oddly reassuring. Lady Cecily had bottom, he’d say that for her. No milk and water miss, she, but a real game ‘un. Jem’s determination to get her safely out of this increased, and he clutched his cudgel tighter. “We’re being watched, my lady.”

“I know we are,” Cecily said, apparently serene. “Just keep walking. And please don’t call me ‘my lady.’ I’d rather no one know who I am.”

“Yes, my—miss.” Not that it would matter, he thought gloomily, if they were accosted, though he could see her point; she feared being held for ransom. Privately, he thought that was the least likely thing to happen. A young lady of quality straying into these parts was putting herself into danger more severe than that.

The street took a twist, and ahead of them they could see the traffic of Whitechapel High Street. For the first time, Jem began to hope that they might actually escape. “Almost there, miss,” he said, and, at that moment, two men stopped in front of them, blocking their way.

 

“Where is she?” Alex demanded, starting up from the chair where he had been passing the time, reading.

“Whitechapel,” Parsons gasped. He had run up several flights of stairs, knowing St. Clair had to know of this.

“Where Barnes got it. Hell, Parsons, she’s in this up to her neck!” Alex strode into his study and came out carrying his pistols. “Where was she going?”

“A big building, I didn’t stop to look. She had her groom with her.”

“Hell, when I get my hands on her,” Alex muttered, shoving the pistols into the pockets of his greatcoat and heading for the door. Parsons prudently held his tongue. Beneath St. Clair’s very real anger at whoever had killed Alf Barnes lay something else, and Parsons had no desire to stir it to life. “Hell, man, are you coming?”

“Yes, sir.” Parsons clattered down the stairs behind him. “The hackney’s waiting.”

“Good.”

The driver looked mutinous at the idea of being asked to drive to Whitechapel again, but the pile of coins Alex shoved at him apparently convinced him. They rode in tense, tight silence, neither speaking, until the hackney turned off Whitechapel High Street onto a twisting narrow lane, and came to an abrupt stop.

“Is this it?” Alex demanded, looking out.

“No.” Parsons craned his head out the window. “There’s some sort of fight ahead—crikey, it’s Lady Cecily!”

“Hell!” Alex jumped to his feet and sprang out. “If you know what’s good for you you’ll stay right here,” he yelled to the driver, tossing more coins to him, and took off running. He didn’t know what Cecily was doing here, and for the moment it didn’t matter. All he cared about was her safety. If he didn’t get her out of this, he didn’t know what he’d do.

 

Cecily looked up at the two very large men who blocked her way, and who were grinning evilly at her, and swallowed, hard. Jem was right. She’d landed them in the suds this time.

One of the ruffians grinned, displaying teeth rotted and stumped. “Well, well, what have we ‘ere? A pretty little chicken.”

Cecily drew herself to her full height, wishing that she were taller. “Let us pass.”

The ruffian chuckled. “‘Ear that? The lady wants us to let her pass.”

“I hear.” The other ruffian’s grin was just as evil. “Got spirit, this one. Mother Carey’ll like her.”

Cecily’s blood froze. She had heard of the infamous Mother Carey, who lured young girls to her brothel, never letting them out again. She tried to protest, but all that came from her throat, suddenly dry, was a strangled sound.

“And,” the first ruffian, the larger of the two and evidently the leader, went on, “we’ll get a good price for her, or my name’s not Joe Driver.”

Cecily looked up. “Joe Driver? You’re not Jenny Driver’s father, are you?”

The ruffian’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward. “‘Ere, and what if I am?”

“Miss,” Jem said, uneasily.

“Jenny speaks of you all the time, Mr. Driver,” Cecily said, not budging an inch. “I don’t think she’d be so proud of you if she knew what you were doing.”

Joe’s look of suspicion hadn’t abated. “How do yer know my daughter?” he demanded.

“Why, I teach her. I’ve been teaching her to read.”

Joe looked startled. “Yer not Jenny’s Miss Cecily.”

“Yes, I am. She’s a bright little girl. You must be very proud of her.”

“Aye, that I am.” Joe’s face softened. “It’s been hard, her mam being gone and all, but I do wot I can.”

“I’m sure you do.” Cecily nodded understandingly. “You want the best for your daughter. I’m sure you wouldn’t want her going to Mother Carey’s.”

“Hell, no, miss, that I wouldn’t,” he said, forcefully. “Hell of a life. But wot’s there going to be for my Jenny? Yer tell me that.”

“I’ve already told Matron that when Jenny’s old enough I’ll help her find something. Perhaps she could apprentice in a shop.”

“My Jenny, in a fine shop.” Joe’s eyes glowed for a moment, and then faded. “Now don’t yer think yer can go fooling Joe Driver. Things like that don’t happen to people like us.”

“I say we just take ‘em, Joe,” the other ruffian said, and Jem again moved uneasily.

Cecily stood her ground. Inside she was feeling a strange exhilaration, knowing she was in danger and yet feeling more alive than she ever had. “I give you my word, sir,” she said, laying her hand on Jem’s arm, to keep him from surging forward in her defense. “Jenny will have a better life.”

“‘Ere, Joe, ‘adn’t we better be takin’ these two—”

“Shut yer trap!” Joe rounded on him furiously. “Can’t yer see this is my Jenny’s Miss Cecily? We can’t harm her.” He turned back to Cecily. “And wot yer doing in these parts on foot, miss, I don’t know, but yer got to get out of ‘ere.”

Cecily smiled, and Joe blinked at the sudden brilliance of it. “I know that. So if you’ll please let us pass—”

“I’ll do better’n that.” Joe swept off his cap, holding it against his chest. “‘Twould be my pleasure to escort you out, miss. Won’t no one hurt yer with Joe Driver around, that I’ll warrant.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Driver. I would be honored.” Without hesitating, Cecily placed her hand on the filthy sleeve he held out to her, and at that moment a voice spoke ahead of them.

“Unhand the lady, sir.”

Cecily’s eyes widened. “St. Clair!” she exclaimed, taking in both the sight of him and his pistol, held almost negligently in his hand. “This isn’t how it appears—”

“Get to the hackney, Cecily,” Alex ordered crisply, aware that the crowd of interested onlookers had grown bigger. If he didn’t get her out of this soon, there was likely to be a riot.

‘‘Ere, who do yer think yer are?” Joe demanded, his voice truculent again, and Cecily tightened her grip on his arm.

“It’s all right, Mr. Driver, I know him.”

“Cecily,” Alex said.

“If you or Jenny ever need anything, tell Matron. I’ll do what I can, I promise,” Cecily said.

“Yer a true lady, miss,” Joe said, grinning, and briefly touched her shoulder. “Best you go with the gennulman, now.”

“Get your hands off her!” Alex roared, filled with a rage he didn’t understand. The menacing gesture of his pistols appeared to be all that was needed to set the crowd, until now watching mostly in silence, into action. Alex looked startled as the group surged forward, shouting threats against him for menacing one of their own.

“Go, miss!” Jem shouted, pushing Cecily by the shoulders. She stumbled, and Jem, as aware of the danger as Joe, grabbed her arm. “Go while you can!”

“The hackney’s leaving!” Parsons shouted.

Alex turned. “Hell! Cecily!” he yelled.

“Come on, my lady!” Jem grabbed Cecily’s arm and pulled her forward, swinging his cudgel from left to right, just as the mob reached them.

“But Mr. Driver,” she protested.

“He’ll take care of himself! Come on!”

Cecily let out a shriek as someone grabbed her other arm, and she looked up to see Alex. “You little fool,” he growled. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” They set off at a run after the departing hackney, the mob in hot pursuit. Cecily stumbled again on the slippery cobblestones, falling this time, and the men dragged her to her feet, pulling her along with them. She could hardly get her footing, and, at any moment expected blows to fall upon her back. But there, at last, was the hackney. Alex shoved Cecily inside and crowded in with the others, and they fell back against the seats with a jerk as the hackney started up at a run. The noise swelled as the mob followed, throwing rocks and mud, and then faded, as the hackney rocked onto Whitechapel High Street. They were safe.

Cecily passed a shaky hand over her face. Only now, with all danger behind them, could she admit how frightened she had been when she had seen that mob pouring towards her. Reaction washed over her in giddy waves as she thought of what could have happened, not just to her, but to people she cared about. To St. Clair. Oh, nonsense, she chided herself. She had, she admitted reluctantly, been very lucky, and very foolish. Next time she ventured to the orphanage, she would make sure of the hackney driver’s loyalty first.

With her decision made, Cecily relaxed, and glanced over at St. Clair, to thank him for his gallant, if misguided, concern for her safety. To her surprise he was glaring at her from under his brows. “You have quite recovered?”

“Yes, thank you,” Cecily said, bewildered, “but—”

“Good. Because I have some things I wish to say to you, miss.”

“Excuse me, sir, but you shouldn’t speak to Lady Cecily like that,” Jem began.

“Be quiet. We’ll get to your part in this later. Well, miss? Did you enjoy acting like a peahen and putting yourself into danger?”

Any gratitude Cecily might have felt disappeared in a blaze of anger so intense, and so unusual to her, that it startled her. “Who do you think you are?” she demanded. “You’ve no right to scold me so.”

“Oh, haven’t I! After I nearly got killed rescuing you—”

“Whose fault was that? I was doing quite well—”

“With that mob?”

“I was safe! Weren’t we, Jem?”

“Yes,” Jem said, somewhat reluctantly. “We were. But if we hadn’t met up with Mr. Driver—”

“And don’t think I don’t know what Mr. Driver’s really like, Jem. But he wouldn’t have let us come to any harm.”

“Who is this Mr. Driver?” Alex said, biting each word off.

“The man you threatened, sir.”

“The man I threatened?”

“Yes!” She faced him with a gaze as cool as his own. “We were doing quite well without you, sir. There was no need for you to interfere in what wasn’t your business.” And what was he doing in such a neighborhood, anyway? Perhaps visiting his mistress. A most lowering thought, though Cecily wasn’t quite sure why it should be.

“I see,” Alex said, his voice very quiet. Seated beside him, Parsons could feel the rage emanating from him. He’d seen his master in this mood before, and it surprised him that St. Clair wasn’t letting his rage go. What surprised him even more, however, was the way the young lady was reacting. Parsons looked from one to the other interestedly. Not only was she not afraid of St. Clair, but she was actually standing up to him. Parsons leaned back, thoughtful. If what he suspected was happening, it could complicate matters considerably, though he’d never before known his master to be interested in a young innocent.

Alex broke the tense silence by reaching up to pound on the roof. After a moment, the driver looked in the window, starting to expostulate about his recent experiences, and Alex held up a hand. “Spare us. You will be well-recompensed. In the meantime you may bring us to—” His gaze turned to Cecily, and his brow knotted.

“What?” Cecily said, puzzled.

“Lord, my lady, you can’t go home looking like that,” Jem said, and Cecily glanced down. Her pelisse was covered with mud, and, worse, there was a rent in her frock, making her look more disheveled than usual. Why, oh why must she always look so mussed when she was with St. Clair? Dismayed, she looked up at him, and he returned her gaze without expression.

“Piccadilly,” he said to the driver.

“Sir, is that wise?” Parsons said, and he and Alex exchanged a long look. Some kind of wordless communication seemed to pass between them before Alex turned back to Cecily.

“Your servant is right. You cannot go home looking like that, though God knows you should, and face the consequences of your actions.”

Cecily put up her chin. “I was doing nothing wrong, sir. And where are you taking me?”

“To my lodgings. Oh, don’t worry,” he said, at her startled look. “You’ll be perfectly safe. We will contrive it so that your reputation is not ruined.”

“I see.” Mischief sparked in her eyes. “And what of your reputation, sir? If such kindness becomes known no one will believe you a rake anymore.”

“Be quiet, Cecily,” he said, tiredly. Cecily subsided, after glancing towards Parsons. St. Clair’s servant, she supposed. Now why was he looking at her with such interest?

The hackney pulled up into the stable yard of the building where Alex lived. After making sure no one was about, they smuggled Cecily upstairs, her bonnet pulled well down over her face to disguise her. Cecily couldn’t prevent the little thrill of excitement that went through her, at this extension of her adventure, and at actually being in the apartments of such an infamous rake. Not just any rake, though. Somehow she knew she was safe here. Any danger St. Clair posed her would come from another direction.

Parsons showed her into a sparsely-furnished bedroom and, after laying out a dressing gown for her, took away her pelisse to clean. She would mend her frock herself, she assumed, glancing about the room. At first she thought it was Parsons’ own chamber, so bare was it, but a glance at the books on the bedside table proved her wrong. The flyleaf of each was signed with “Alexander Darcy,” in a strong, bold hand. So this was his room, his most private place, the only place, perhaps, where he could be himself. Curious, Cecily turned ‘round slowly, determined to learn all she could about him.

The furnishings were of good quality, but plain. The four-poster mahogany bed was without bedcurtains, and the dark green drapes hanging at the window were simple, with neither pelmet nor cornice. The top of the dresser was neat to the point of starkness, holding only a highly-polished box, as well as some silver-backed brushes. No pictures hung on the wall, no carpet was laid on the wide board floor. Except for the books and the brushes, the room was completely devoid of any personal touches. Cecily’s heart ached. Who would ever have expected that a man so given to the pursuit of pleasure would live in such Spartan surroundings?

Swallowing an absurd lump that threatened to choke her, Cecily unhooked her gown and tossed it on the bed. The dressing gown Parsons had left for her made her giggle. In contrast to the plain furniture, it was a splendid affair of crimson brocade, so large it nearly wrapped around her twice. His dressing gown, she thought, rolling up the sleeves and tying the sash in a tight knot. His, and it held his scent. She turned her head into the lapel, breathing it in, clean and refreshing after Edgewater’s cloying sandalwood. If anyone were to see her now, wearing St. Clair’s clothes, her reputation would be ruined for sure. Somehow the thought bothered her not at all.

Opening the door, she stepped into the sitting room. To her relief, it was empty. Like the bedroom it, too, was plainly furnished. London’s most notorious rake appeared to live in a small, cramped apartment, with only one servant to look after him. She wondered why.

Parsons came in carrying a tray, from which rose a fragrant steam. Tea! Cecily was suddenly ravenous, and she smiled up at Parsons as he set the tray down on a table next to a comfortable-looking armchair. “Thank you, Parsons. You must find all of this strange goings-on.”

“Not at all, my lady,” Parsons said, his face wooden, his eyes averted.

Cecily couldn’t resist the impulse to tease, though she wasn’t certain where it came from. Nor did she understand why she was so enjoying an experience that should surely make a proper young miss swoon. Had there always been a more forward, adventurous girl hiding under her practical exterior? “Then it is usual to have strange females in the viscount’s sitting room?”

“No, miss, it ain’t!” Parsons straightened with more than necessary energy. “For all they say of him, the viscount’s a good man.”

“I know he is, Parsons.” Her voice was soft. “Forgive my impertinence.”

“It’s all right, my lady.” Parsons’ tone was wooden again. “But if I was you, I wouldn’t tease him. He’s in a rare taking. He really was worried for you.” He paused. “I haven’t seen him like that often.”

“Have you been with him long, Parsons?”

“More years than I care to remember. And—”

“Is everything settled, Parsons?” Alex paused in the doorway and then strolled in, apparently at ease, though Cecily had only to looked at his squared shoulders and his set face to know that he was still angry.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then you may leave us.”

Parsons hesitated. “It ain’t right, my lord—”

“Leave us, Parsons. And none of your Bible-thumping disapproval, either.”

“Yes, my lord. I’ll get you a needle and thread, my lady,” Parsons said, and left, his face expressionless.

Alex turned towards his unwelcome guest. Somewhat to his surprise, she was gazing at him unwaveringly, the straightness of her glance distracting him a little from the fetching picture she made in his dressing gown. It was much too big for her, of course, and, wrapped in its folds, she looked absurdly young and absurdly small, the bones of her wrists tiny and delicate, the line of her neck slender and pure. His gaze softened. “Well?”

“That wasn’t necessary, sir,” she said. “He cares about you.”

“Spare me such caring,” he said, his voice clipped, and sprawled into the armchair facing her. “Now, miss. You will tell me why you were in that slum.”

Cecily took a sip of tea before answering. “No, I don’t think I will. I might,” she went on, quickly, “if you were to ask me, but the only man who has any right to speak to me so is my father.”

“Who would not be best pleased with you just now,” he shot back.

“No, he wouldn’t. But he won’t learn of it. Will he?”

“I believe that’s up to you.” His gaze softened again. “What were you doing there, Cecily? Don’t you realize how dangerous it was?”

“Of course I do. And I might add that I wasn’t in any danger until you interfered.”

“Interfered!” Rage rose within him again at this description of what he felt had been quite an heroic effort.

“I admit it looked bad,” she said, candidly, “but once I found out that one of the men is the father of a child I teach, everything was fine.”

“A child you teach.” Alex’s brow knotted. “Where?”

Cecily looked surprised. “Why, at the orphanage, of course. No, you wouldn’t know that. You see, I go to the orphanage to teach some of the children to read and write.” She set her cup on the tray. “You won’t tell, will you?”

“I should,” Alex said slowly, testing her words for truth. Unless she was an extraordinarily fine actress, she sounded sincere. “It’s not safe. Yes, I know, you knew one of the men. But suppose you didn’t? Have you thought about what could happen to you?”

“If I hadn’t, I certainly would have found out today.” Ill at ease under his searching gaze, she fidgeted with the sash of the dressing gown. “Please don’t tell. The children need so much. Papa lets me help at the school at Marlow, but if he finds out about this, he’ll forbid me to go anymore.”

“As well he should. God’s teeth, Cecily, why does it have to be you?”

“Who else will do it? Sir, something has to be done for those poor people.” She leaned forward, unmindful of the way the dressing gown gaped open at her throat. “They have nothing, and most of the time it’s not even their fault! Someone has to help, and it should be us. We have so much, it doesn’t seem fair sometimes.”

Alex leaned back, tearing his gaze away from the soft, enticing skin the dressing gown revealed. “You really care about this.”

“I do.”

Alex rose and paced over to the mantel, his fingers stroking his upper lip. A fine actress, or an honest girl. Which?

“Haven’t you ever felt that way?” she went on. “Hasn’t there ever been anything you believed in so much that you would do anything for it?”

“Once,” Alex murmured, remembering a time when he, too, had been so foolishly idealistic, eager to serve his country in any way possible.

“What happened?”

“I came up against reality.” The reality of spying, of a world peopled by strangers one automatically feared, friends one didn’t dare trust. He had no reason to believe anything had changed. “As you nearly did today.”

“As I already have,” she said, and Alex’s startled gaze swung towards her. “I’ve always known there was danger involved. I thought it was worth it.” She looked down at her hands. “I think I’m not the proper miss everyone thinks I am.”

Alex sat down again. “Does your fiancé know about this?”

“No.” She frowned. “And I don’t know what he’d think if he did. Yesterday we saw a soldier, maimed in the war and—well, never mind. But I do hope he’ll let me continue helping the poor in some way.”

Alex leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. The room was so small that his face was scant inches from hers. “Maybe he’s not the right man for you.”

“Maybe he’s not,” Cecily agreed, mesmerized by his intent blue gaze. “What would you do, sir?”

“If?”

“If you had a wife who did something you didn’t approve.”

He sat back, grinning. “Judging by today, lose my temper. And then I hope I’d calm down enough to listen to her reasons.”

“You’re a most unusual rake.”

“Am I?” He was leaning very close, so close that she could see the blue vividness of his eyes, smell his fresh, unique scent, feel the strength and warmth emanating from him.

“Yes. You think about people.”

“I know.” His smile was self-deprecating and totally charming. “A terrible habit, I know.”

“I don’t think so.” She searched his face. “I think you care a great deal more than you let on.”

“Do you?” He caught her hand in his and studied it. “You bite your nails.”

Cecily’s fingers clenched. “Yes, I cannot seem to stop.”

“I had a mustache once. Sometimes I still reached up to touch it.” Laying her hand down, he reached out to tuck an errant curl behind her ear, letting the silky strands flow between his fingers. Cecily’s eyes briefly closed against the sensations his touch evoked. “I think about you, you know.”

Her eyes opened. “Do you? Why?”

“Because you are a most unusual girl. A beautiful girl.” Because she had reached him as no one had in a very long time. Innocent she might be, but not naive; young, but strong in her own way, and caring. She almost made him believe in life again.

“I’m not beautiful,” she protested, softly.

“Of course you are. Rakes know these things.”

Her eyes sparkled with the mischievous laughter he was coming to like very much. “Oh, pardon me. I meant no insult.”

“None taken.” His eyes went, of their own volition, to her lips, soft and full and slightly parted. Somewhere in his mind an alarm bell began ringing, and though he had always obeyed this signal of danger before, this time he ignored it. He knew only that this girl was bringing him back to life, and he no longer wanted to fight it. Engaged or not, conspirator or not, she drew him to her in a way he could not fathom. For the moment, she was his.

“Cecily,” he murmured, and brought his lips down on hers.