Live from the heart?
It sounded like her idea of heaven.
Emboldened by the lady’s words, Helen jumped to her feet. A man with Nicholas’ courage and strength did not run away from his problems. He sought retribution and to clear his name, which meant he needed to remain in London.
But he could not go home. He could not rub shoulders with aristocrats. With a warrant out for his arrest, he needed to hide in the shadows.
In the shadows!
But where?
She scoured her mind and found herself smiling as she recalled something he had said a few months ago when Sebastian had teased him about fighting with rogues in Aldgate.
“Rogues they may be, but I’d trust the men at Fortune’s Den with my life. In a fight, a man needs someone he can depend on.”
A man could hide for years in the warrens near Whitechapel.
“Well?” Lady Brompton prompted. “Do you mean to stand there staring like a ninny, or do you have a plan?”
Helen straightened her spine and raised her chin. “I have a plan, my lady,” she said, her body thrumming with excitement. “And I pray you may be of some assistance.”
ChapterTen
Nicholas kept the collar of his shabby greatcoat raised, his top hat pulled low over his brow, and moved stealthily along Aldgate Street. Despite purchasing both items from a coachman at the Black Lion almost six hours ago, his stomach churned from the stench of grime and sweat whenever he inhaled.
One glance at his watch confirmed it was almost sunrise, yet a thick fog smothered the sky, making a man believe it was midnight. Indeed, candlelight glowed in numerous shop windows, and the place held an ominous air that always dissipated at dawn.
The weather mirrored his own morbid thoughts.
Fog obscured his vision, making it impossible to see the road ahead. Each step was a step into the unknown. All he could do was place one foot in front of the other and hope life didn’t choke him.
He arrived at the door to Fortune’s Den, an establishment catering to men and their vices. The gaming tables occupied the ground floor, the fighting pits the basement. Upstairs, one might hire a room to entertain a courtesan or mistress. And the second floor held the Chance brothers’ private apartments.
Grasping the iron bell pull, Nicholas tugged hard and waited. Before entering Fortune’s Den, it was customary to stroke the lucky horseshoe above the door. Based on the cards fate had dealt him recently, Nicholas refrained.
The thud of heavy footsteps echoed through the hall. Sigmund, the man-of-all-work and a giant fellow with coal-black hair, opened the viewing hatch and peered out with wary eyes.
“State your name and your business.”
“Nicholas St Clair to see Aaron Chance.”
Aaron, known by the moniker King of Clubs, was the eldest brother. A powerful overseer whose leadership skills had earned the family a vast fortune.
Nicholas removed the grimy hat so the man might recognise him. “It’s a matter of life and death, Sigmund. I would not call at this hour if I had anywhere else to go.”
Sigmund studied him as a hunter might study prey, before opening the door and inviting him into the lavish red hall designed to put a man in mind for sin. Indeed, the scent of aromatic oils used to mask the stench of stale tobacco had a way of relaxing his muscles and teasing him into an amorous mood.
“Wait here.” The deep rumble of Sigmund’s voice put the fear of God in most men. With his long legs making quick work of the task, he took to the stairs and returned a few minutes later. “Aaron will be down shortly.”
As all four men living above the establishment had the surname Chance, formalities were often relaxed at Fortune’s Den.
“I’m to show you to the office, sir.”
Nicholas followed Sigmund through the hall to a room at the rear of the property. He had visited the office once, the night he had won a boxing bout against the King of Clubs and had been granted a promissory note.
A boon of his choosing.
A boon he meant to call in now.