Chapter Nine

Avery didn’t mean to return to Barbara Stanhope’s mission. It was the furthest thing from his mind. But with all his normal avenues of entertainment closed to him due to finances and former friends avoiding him, Avery had little else to occupy his time. He’d recently pondered making more out of his life. Maybe now was a good opportunity to begin that course of action.

Besides, he might run into Officer Tate at the mission, since it was on his beat. Volunteering there would give Avery an opportunity to show he could be selfless and care for the less fortunate. Terrible that he wanted to impress Connor by demonstrating some depth of character, but there it was. Avery was shallow even in his giving.

He braved the criminal element of Old Nichol Street, wearing the shabby clothes his valet purchased for him, and presented himself to Miss Stanhope.

“Excellent!” Her pleased smile almost made it worth Avery’s inability to take a deep breath due to the stench of the poor. “Our reading teacher, Anne Marchant, has been unable to come to the mission any longer. Her husband forbade it once he learned where she spent her afternoons.” A grimace showed what Miss Stanhope thought of husbands managing their wives. “I shall put you to work immediately.”

Immediately? He hadn’t counted on having to actually interact with people. “I thought I’d start more slowly, paying bills or something,” Avery protested.

“I need you to teach.”

Before he could catch his breath, she’d hustled him over to one of the tables and thrust meager supplies of slates and chalk at him. That was it. No books or any other aids. She called over a few people and told them they might begin their lesson now.

“This is Mr. Wickersham.” She omitted his title. A wise idea given his audience might be overawed by it—or lie in wait to rob him when he left the building.

He gazed around at six grimy, well-used faces turned expectantly toward him. “Good day, everyone. Do you all, um, know your alphabet and how to form the letters?”

Five and a half pairs of eyes stared back at him. The man with the eyepatch spoke for the group. “Can sign me own name and read a fair bit. I had two years of schoolin’ as a lad,” he said proudly.

“That’s very good. Well then…”

Avery drew a breath. He’d faced the fiercest society dowagers and the most arrogant lords with aplomb. If he could navigate the shark-filled waters of high society, he could certainly handle this lot. Besides, he was now a hardened convict with two days of jail under his belt.

He dove in by printing alphabet letters on a slate and having his students copy them on shared slates they must pass around. His students. The words had a rather nice ring to them.

The day simply fled. Avery had no idea where the hours went as Miss Stanhope launched wave after wave of incoming students at him like so many grenades. He would no sooner finish up with one group than he had to start over again with the same basic lesson. The chalk was almost used up and the slates reused so many times, it was almost impossible to wipe them clean enough to leave a fresh mark. Next time, he’d come armed with a bin full of slates and boxes of chalk. Good Lord, was he considering a next time?

“Good day, Danny. It was a pleasure meeting you.” He shook hands with the last student to leave, wondering how many diseases he might be taking home with him. But Old Dirty Dan, as the others called him, had put forth every effort in puzzling out his letters, and Avery gave him high marks for that.

Avery searched the room for Miss Stanhope. If the route to the door was clear, he’d make his escape before she demanded yet more of him. Instead, he saw a familiar blue uniform and coal-black hair he longed to plunge his fingers into.

Connor Tate’s aggressive kiss burned on Avery’s lips even now. He recalled every second of that brief encounter the other night. The way their bodies had pressed together, hard and relentless, Connor’s hands leaving bruises where he’d grasped Avery’s arms so fiercely. A cut still stung inside Avery’s lower lip from his teeth being driven into it by that forceful kiss. He ached for more such kisses now.

Then Avery registered the man with Officer Tate. The constable propped up a man whose face was so swollen, Avery almost hadn’t recognized him at first.

“Bertrand!” He threaded his way around people to reach the pair.

Tate’s eyes widened in surprise on seeing him. “What are you doing here?”

“Volunteering.” Avery no longer cared whether Tate thought well of him for it. “What happened? Where did you find him?”

“Far from Renaud’s place. Someone beat him in an alley near here. The hospital is too far and not interested in treating vagrants. I thought Miss Stanhope might be able to help patch him up.”

Bertrand came to long enough to focus on Avery. “What…?”

“Shh. You don’t need to talk. We’ll sort out what happened later. Right now, let’s get you someplace where you can rest.”

Stanhope joined them and clicked her tongue at the sight of the injured man. “I wish I could help, but I have no infirmary here, Officer, and not even a cot he could rest on.”

“Do you might know of a place I could take him?”

She shook her head. “A church, perhaps?”

“My house,” Avery declared. “I’ve plenty of room and will send for my doctor to care for him.”

Amazing how having actual tasks to perform quickly filled one’s day. Avery hadn’t felt bored or at loose ends once since arriving at the mission. Over the next few hours, he was caught up with transporting Bertrand to his house, installing him in a guest room, and wiping away the blood and mud from the injured man’s body as carefully as he could.

“You found no witnesses?” he asked Tate.

“It’s Shoreditch. Of course not.”

They stood for a moment, watching Bertrand sleep—or perhaps slip into unconsciousness again.

“I must get back to my beat,” Tate said.

“I’ll see you out.” Avery wanted to discuss what had happened between them. Though it had occurred only two nights before, it seemed like years. He didn’t want to let Connor slip away again. But just now didn’t seem the right time to have that discussion.

“You may go, Greeley,” Avery told the butler, who handed their guest his helmet and coat. “I’d like a word with Officer Tate before he leaves.”

Tate put his arms in the sleeves. “I shouldn’t have accompanied you all the way here. I’m still on duty.”

“In the worst slum in the city. Does your superior hate you so much, to assign you that neighborhood?”

“I’m not popular at the station.”

“Will anyone notice you’ve been gone from your post?” Avery added.

“If I don’t check in soon, they will.” Tate stared fixedly at the doorknob. “I apologize for what I did the other night. It was wrong. It won’t happen again.”

“I wish it would.”

What must he do to capture this man? How to hold on to the fleeting moment of connection when they’d talked the other night, and convince him they must continue?

Avery rested a hand on Tate’s sleeve. “Please, don’t apologize. I don’t know what else I can say to convince you I’d like to spend more time with you. But know this: I do want to see you again, in whatever capacity you’ll allow. I wish to be friends, at the very least. If you feel the same”—he gestured at his front door—“you know where I live.”

Tate took a long look around the foyer with its gilt-framed mirrors and marble side table graced by a large bouquet of flowers. “Here, in your rich man’s home. Truly, Lord Avery, I can’t imagine why you would be interested in someone like me.”

He met Avery’s gaze at last. Immediately, something crackled between them, as palpable as a jolt of electricity.

“Stretch your imagination a little,” Avery suggested. Lest Tate think he only meant physical desires, he added, “I believe we both enjoyed our talk the other night. If it will help to convince you I’m interested in more than your body, we could meet in a public forum next time. Perhaps take a stroll in the botanical gardens.”

Tate raised a quizzical brow. “You and me, walking through the botanical gardens. Now there’s a picture.”

“Well, you needn’t wear your uniform, and I shan’t dress in eveningwear,” Avery teased. He pointed out his shabby attire. “You see, I can clothe myself more simply and blend in.”

Tate laughed. “You could never blend in, sir. You’re one of a kind.” He turned the knob and opened the door. “I must go now.”

“Stay in touch, Officer Tate,” Avery called after him as he walked away.