Charlotte cast a look around. “You don’t suppose it only looks so sad for wintertime, do you?”
Josephine didn’t answer; her attention was elsewhere. “My lady…” She pointed to the end of the road, at the last house to their left. It was somehow uglier than all the rest, a window in the front barred with wood, its whitewash chipped away in places and black from soot in others, its ivy all but withered away. Yet, in its small, tawdry front garden, Charlotte spied a most magnificent bush of holly. More than that, it was the only townhouse on the street where light could be seen from within.
“Therein lies the viper,” Charlotte whispered, and she urged Josephine into a trot.
The house was much a hovel, even up close. She pressed open the squeaking iron gate, noting the number ‘nine’ on a plaque hanging loosely from a fence post. Her boots clipped against the awkward tile path up to the porch, her heart thrumming in her chest. She feared it might take flight like a hummingbird, leaving her lifeless as she pressed a hand to the door knocker. Her lips curled into a surprising smile, and she hammered the knocker against the ebony-colored wood.
And then, the women waited. A good while, in fact, for not a soul stirred beyond the threshold. With an annoyed growl, Charlotte knocked again, and then once more for good measure.
“Maybe they aren’t in.” Josephine took a step back.
“Of course, they are in.” Charlotte peered into the small, porthole window beside the door. She pressed her nose to the glass and caught sight of a silhouette beyond its stained panes. “Oh, they are in indeed.”
Suddenly, the door creaked open.
Charlotte shot out of her skin, hopping back clumsily into Josephine. She gripped her cloak tightly around her neck, not wanting to reveal her countenance. A small eye peered through the gap in the door, open only as much as a chain lock on the other side would allow. It darted around, ogling the women top to bottom, before whoever it belonged to closed the door in their faces. Then came the clinking of metal as the eye’s hands navigated the locking mechanism, and before she had the good sense to tell Josephine to run, the door swung open.
A man stood before them, dressed in a patchwork shirt and matching bottoms. He was barefoot, with sandy blonde hair and a face like a fox, skin freckled over with sunspots. The cad had the audacity to grin before he opened his mouth to say, “Well, well, ladies. What have we here?” in an accent that bled red with London. For all his abrasive confidence, he wasnother poet...
But he seemed most intent on making their acquaintance.
CHAPTERTEN
Benjamin set the tray of food down on the dresser beside the bed. He cast an ear for what was happening around the house, which had come to life since his return from the publishers that morning. One after another, his friends had trailed in, former navy cadets and officers from all over England, each and every one, discarded all the same in the waste bucket that was London.
There were a few new faces that night, as there always were, friends of friends having heard of the open-door policy of their billet, looking for a place to rest their heads that was not so damp with rain.
It was mostly quiet in the bed chambers of the second story, save for the odd bout of snoring or pained groan. Benjamin picked up the bowl he had brought up on the tray, Lamb having made his slop after all in the afternoon. He handed it wrapped in a stained tea towel to the man lying on the kip and quilt closest to the door. The man took it eagerly, his leathered hands wrapping around the crockery as he brought the steaming stew to his mouth. He sighed his gratitude, and it washed over Benjamin, who was trying his hardest not to stare at the infection festering at the man’s calf. He was no surgeon, he knew nothing of the intricacies of the human body, but that wasn’t what his home was about—not healing, but relief.
Wordlessly, he turned around, leaving the man with the paper Lamb had been flipping through that morning and a selection of waterlogged books they had been given by their neighbors. On his way out, he noticed the stack of letters he had found in the dresser and sought to pick them up. He had no intention of trespassing on another man’s intimacy, but if he knew who had sent them, he might have a chance at reuniting them with their owner. After all, if Benjamin had a woman who cared about him enough to write a novel’s worth of letters—
The thought was cut short as a cry sounded from downstairs. It was not the usual cry of despair at a lost wager or a brawl gone wrong. It was curious, challenging, and high-pitched. It was awoman’scry; it almost sounded like a name. There was only one woman foolhardy enough to force herself into their hellmouth.
Swinging around the door frame, taking the stairs two at a time, he raced through the house to the entrance room. Sure enough, there she was—Lady Charlotte Fitzroy, draped in black as if prepared for a funeral, her expression the epitome of disgust. She was just as ravishing as he remembered her, with her fair skin and dark hair, if not more beautiful for the odiousness of his home... but she was not alone.
Beside her was a small woman with fair hair and a pinched, cupid face. She stared at Charlotte as Benjamin did, for the woman was stood in obstinate defiance at the base of the stairs.
“You said he was not home,” she declared, turning to Lamb. The man looked as dumbfounded as Benjamin felt if a little amused by the whole ordeal.
“See now, that’s where you’re wrong, miss. I saidMr. Huxleywas not home. That there is—“
“Lamb!” Benjamin called, averting disaster. He let go of the banister, which he had been holding with such force his knuckles had turned white, and he proceeded to the last step of the stairs. He placed a hand on the beam above him, hovering over Lady Charlotte. “Perhaps you’d mind telling me what you’re doing here?”
The woman beamed, her eyes narrowing in dark delight. “I have come to secure what is by right mine, sir.”
Benjamin scoffed. His entire body was on fire for her presence, burning with fear, with attraction, too. She was a dark star, and all else paled in comparison. The hall, their witnesses, the step beneath him—it all fell away for the richness of her brown eyes. “And what is rightly yours, hm?”
“Truth and retribution, sir. Only ever truth and retribution.”
He looked away before she did and let his head hang. “If the two of you will follow me—“
“No.” Lady Charlotte did not move. Instead, she turned to the other lady, a lock of hair slipping from beneath her hood. “I will go alone.”
“My lady—“
“I will be all right, Jo—“ She cut herself off, clearly not wanting to reveal her partner’s name. She pressed her lips together so tightly the color washed from them, suffering her mistake. “Go back to Booth and tell him I shall arrive anon.”
“It isn’t safe for a woman to walk these streets alone,” Benjamin argued, not quite knowing why. He had no reason to care an ounce for either of the women’s safety, not after they had forced themselves head-first into danger, into his house. “Lamb, escort her out.”