Lady Brompton had persuaded her to wear gentlemen’s attire to prevent being harassed on the road. “Trust me, my dear, you’ll be a target for petty thieves and those rogues who kidnap gals and ship them away to exotic places.”
Aware the matron was prone to exaggeration, Helen had silently scoffed. During the day, Aldgate Street offered a pleasant shopping experience. She had once purchased a pretty bonnet from Simpsons, bought various gothic novels from the quaint second-hand bookshop next to the milliners.
Yet Lady Brompton’s warning came back to haunt her.
Fear slipped over her bones as she hurried along the dark street on foot. At night, it was anything but pleasant. It was downright terrifying.
One drunken lout had grabbed her arm for support so he might cast up his accounts in a doorway. With vomit splattered over her boots, she’d used her only handkerchief to wipe away the revolting mess.
A woman wearing nothing but an ill-fitting chemise and corset had tried to lure her into an alley with the promise of a good old time for just a shilling.
Indeed, the mystic’s prediction would almost certainly come true. Helen wasn’t courting one scandal. She was courting many.
Just when she thought matters couldn’t get any worse, two sotted fools barged into her. One groped her silk waistcoat to keep his balance.
Noting it was Lord Aspley—a gentleman she knew quite well—she pushed him away and, in a deep voice, said, “Mind where you’re going, my good man.”
Lord Aspley waved his fist at a sturdy oak door and slurred, “Fortune’s Den! What horse shite! Avoid the place unless you’re happy to leave with empty pockets.”
Fortune’s Den!
Helen stared at the door with mingled excitement and apprehension. Finally, she had reached her destination. But what if Nicholas had fled to France? What if the proprietor took one look at her thighs and saw through her disguise? She might find herself bundled into the cellar and sold to the highest bidder.
The door flew open, and a giant of a man scanned her with a discerning eye. “Move along. No lingering near the door.”
She swallowed deeply, prepared to speak in her best male voice. “I’m here to see the proprietor. I must speak to him on an urgent matter, a matter of great importance.”
The hulk of a fellow frowned. Eyes as black as Satan’s soul dipped to her waistcoat and breeches. “And who might I say is calling?”
“I’m afraid I am not at liberty to say.”
“Then be on your way before I put my boot up your arse.” Lucifer’s lackey moved to close the door, and she rushed forward and grabbed his arm, which proved as solid as a blacksmith’s anvil.
“Sir, a man’s life is at stake.” Desperation had her leaning forward, ready to reveal her secret. “I am Viscount Denton’s sister, and I must speak to the person in charge. Be assured, Iama woman, and Iamunarmed.”
The corners of the beast’s lips curled in amusement. “A woman, you say?” He observed her attire once more, staring in all the wrong places. “How do I know it’s not a ruse to gain my sympathy?”
Unsure what the man expected from her, she said, “Sir, I do not have time to play games. I am looking for Mr St Clair. If he’s here, you will know why. If not, simply say so, and I shall be on my way.”
The thought of returning to Mayfair alone and without news of Nicholas filled her with dread. If she was to feel Sebastian’s wrath, she’d hoped it would be worth the suffering.
“You’d best wait inside while I fetch Mr Chance.” The giant led her into a sumptuously decorated hall. “If you want no trouble, you’ll wait here,” he said, leaving her by a five-foot gilt candle lamp in the shape of a naked woman.
As she waited, her mind drifted to Nicholas. Why would an honourable man set foot in such an establishment? But then she recalled how he had kissed her last night, like a consummate seducer, and she couldn’t help but fear she didn’t know him at all.
The raucous shouts and jeers from the room beyond might have left her nerves strained. The groans and bangs from upstairs might have made her blush. But the exotic smell of aromatic oils, frankincense and vetiver perhaps, left her surprisingly at ease.
Lucifer returned with an angel in tow. “Mr Aaron Chance is out at present. May I introduce his brother Theodore, or the King of Hearts as he is known here?”
The King of Hearts!
It took Helen a moment to gather her wits. The man most certainly deserved the moniker. With golden hair and piercing blue eyes, he was like a god amongst men, a thief of hearts and undoubtedly a destroyer of most.
“Mr Chance,” she began, pretending his exceptional countenance did not intimidate her. “I assume you are the joint proprietor.”
“Indeed. Sigmund tells me you’re looking for St Clair.”
Helen nodded, though heat rose to her cheeks when the angel’s gaze roamed over her figure and his grin turned devilish.