by Erin Lindsey
“What a coincidence, I was just about to say the same.”
“It’s been a strange couple of days.” I felt foolish as soon as I’d said it—how could anything I’d gone through compare to what he must have endured?—but when I glanced up, he was looking at me with such a fascinated expression that I felt myself blushing.
“I very much look forward to hearing about it, Rose,” he murmured, his gaze lingering on my stitches.
He was right about the knots. Whoever had tied them obviously knew what he was doing, and I struggled to make any headway. Then, in a flash of inspiration, I grabbed my hairpin. It was nothing fancy—just a simple brass pin with a looping head—but its four-inch point was exactly what I needed to slip between the coils and get a bit of leverage. My hair tumbled down in a great mess over my face, but I tossed it back and set to work, jimmying the knot until it was loose enough to let my fingers do the rest. A moment later the rope dropped away from his left arm.
I’d just started in on the right when I heard the toll of heavy footfalls crossing the warehouse. I looked up, my eyes locking with Mr. Wiltshire’s in an urgent glance.
There was nowhere to hide. All I could do was grab my umbrella and tuck myself up behind the door while Mr. Wiltshire scuttled his chair forward, concealing his arms beneath the surface of the desk.
“Breakfast, Englishman,” said a voice, and a short, stocky man walked in, dropping an old biscuit tin unceremoniously on the desk. “Ye got that finished or what?” Another Irishman—from Sligo, by the sounds of him, just like Mam.
“Or what, I’m afraid,” Mr. Wiltshire replied.
“Get on with it, already. Boss is waitin’.” He started to turn around.
The room was too small; he’d see me for sure. I did the only thing I could think of: I walloped him over the head with the umbrella.
He grunted, stumbling back into the desk. Mr. Wiltshire lunged and threw his free arm around the man’s neck, crying, “Run!”
I had no intention of running, but the rough’s flailing legs did drive me back—straight into another body. I whirled, leading with the handle of my umbrella, and was rewarded with a crack as it met the jaw of the man looming over me. But he’d grabbed hold of me, and we both tumbled backward out into the warehouse. I hit the floor hard, jarring the umbrella from my hands and sending a burst of agony through my bruised skull. I was slow getting to my feet, and when I did, I found myself face-to-face with two very large men—one of whom was all too familiar.
“Well, well,” said the Irishman with the auburn mustache, “here she is again. I like this one. She’s got proper pluck. Didn’t have the heart to put her down last night.” He left his pistol in its holster; he didn’t seem to think he needed it. “Look at this, love,” he said, gesturing at a row of messy stitches in his cheek. “We match.”
Seeing the wound I’d dealt him gave me courage. “Keep away from me.”
“Or what?”
I still had my brass hairpin, bent though it was from working at the ropes; I brandished it menacingly. “Or I’ll put your eye out.”
He laughed, as well he might have. “It’ll be a lark watching you try.” He advanced on me.
I pivoted, putting my back to the open space of the warehouse. I couldn’t hope to outrun them, but at least I could lead them away from Mr. Wiltshire. The little office had gone terribly quiet, but I couldn’t let myself think about what that might mean.
The roughs split up, the Irishman blocking the office and his partner standing between me and the far door. I was trapped. “Ready?” the Irishman asked, grinning.
Before I could answer, the Irishman’s knees suddenly gave way, and as he fell, the handle of an umbrella delivered a hard blow to his temple, spinning him sideways to the floor. Mr. Wiltshire stepped smoothly over his prone form and came at the other man, clutching my umbrella like a weapon.
The rough’s face twisted into a snarl. A knife flashed in his hand. I cried out a warning, but it was too late; the man lunged.
What happened next was almost too fast to follow.
Mr. Wiltshire held his ground, and when the rough came at him with the knife, he turned the blow aside with the umbrella. Then, in almost the same motion, he brought his improvised staff down on the man’s wrist, knocking the knife free. The rough threw a punch, which Mr. Wiltshire sidestepped neatly before hooking the back of the man’s neck with the umbrella handle and driving a knee into his face. The thug went down like a sack of potatoes.
I was so focused on the whole deadly dance that I didn’t see the third man until it was too late. He came barreling out of the office like a charging bull, bloodied, furious, and wielding a broken chair leg. I shouted a warning, and Mr. Wiltshire turned, but he couldn’t get his umbrella up fast enough; the club met his knuckles in a brutal impact. He grunted in pain and stumbled back, but somehow he still managed to block the next swing and follow it with one of his own, a hard blow to his attacker’s kneecap. The man buckled, and that was the end of it; Mr. Wiltshire swung again, dropping the thug to the floor.
It was at this point that I thought to go for the gun.
“Ah,” said Mr. Wiltshire. “That would have come in handy.”
“Sorry,” I said numbly.
“Sorry? My word, Rose, you did brilliantly. But I think I’d better have that, if you don’t mind.” He reached for the gun, and I realized my hands were shaking.
I gave the loathsome thing over, wiping my palms on my overcoat for good measure.
Mr. Wiltshire disappeared inside the office, emerging a moment later with a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm. “We’d better hurry. They won’t be out long.” Seeing my state, he put a hand on my shoulder. “Are we steady, Rose?”
For a second I just stood there, staring at Thomas Wiltshire as if he were a complete stranger. Which, in a way, he was.
Drawing a breath, I said, “Steady.”
“Good girl.” He handed me the umbrella and cocked the revolver. “This way,” he said, and hustled me across the open floor of the warehouse.
CHAPTER 11
HOMECOMING—A CLOSE SHAVE—THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF MY LIFE
We met no one else fleeing the compound, and as we reached the street, Mr. Wiltshire stashed the gun away, jamming it behind the braces at the small of his back. Rain drifted down from the sky in a great gray veil as he popped the umbrella open over my head and handed me the papers he’d taken from the office. Then he struck out into the street—hatless, coatless, wet clothes plastered to his body—in search of a cab. Finding one in the rain was by no means the least miraculous thing he accomplished that morning, and before long we were sitting side by side behind a steaming horse heading up the avenue.
By this point, I’d descended into a fog of shock, and might have stayed like that all the way home had I not felt Mr. Wiltshire shivering beside me.
“Oh!” With a squeak of dismay, I startled to wriggle out of my overcoat. “What a clod I am! You must be freezing! Here—”
“No, no, I couldn’t possibly. I’ll be all right, thank you.” This fine display of gentlemanly behavior was somewhat undermined by the bluish hue of his lips.
“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re soaked through. You’ll catch your death.” I draped my coat over his shoulders like a blanket. Then I took a moment to right myself, smoothing my dress and coiling my hair back up to the crown of my head. I sighed ruefully when I saw the state of my poor hairpin, bent beyond recognition, but it would still hold. It was bitterly cold, even in the closed confines of the hack, but I couldn’t regret giving my overcoat to Mr. Wiltshire. Already, a little color was coming back to his lips. “When was the last time you had a proper meal?”
He gave a threadbare smile. “Do I look so awful? I suppose I must.”
“You look…” I trailed off, snared by the pale blue of his eyes. My insides flooded with warmth; all of a sudden, I didn’t miss my overcoat anymore. “You look fine,” I finished lamely.
“Tha
nks to you. However did you find me, Rose?”
“I’m … not sure, actually. I thought I was retracing Mr. Burrows’s steps, but…” I trailed off, confused.
“Burrows? He had a part in this, too, then?”
“He’s the one who pointed me to the gasworks. Sort of.”
Mr. Wiltshire’s brow creased in puzzlement. “I don’t understand.”
That made two of us. “He mentioned it last night when he came by the house, but only in passing. When he saw what happened to me, he warned me to stay away from the gasworks.”
“What happened to you—are you referring to your injury?” He gestured at my stitches. “Did the big Irishman have something to do with that? It sounded as though you two had crossed paths before.”
“Last night. He knocked me out cold.” Mr. Wiltshire murmured something regretful, but I was too preoccupied to pay much attention. “Mr. Burrows must have known he would be here, and you, too—but how? Unless … You don’t suppose he was involved in your kidnapping, do you?”
Mr. Wiltshire just smiled at that. “I assure you, Burrows is the staunchest of allies.”
“But if he knew where you were being held, why wouldn’t he come for you himself?”
“Hmm.” Mr. Wiltshire’s expression grew vague as he considered that. “He couldn’t have known you would find me here, or he would indeed have come himself. And yet how…? Wait.” His gaze snapped back into focus. “After you were attacked, did you find any evidence at the scene?”
“Evidence?”
“Something belonging to the Irishman. A handkerchief, say, or a glove, or—”
“A button. I tore it from his waistcoat, but—?”
“Yes, good, and did Mr. Burrows come into contact with the button? Did he pick it up at any point, or even brush against it?”
“I suppose he did, now that you mention it…”
“Ah, well,” said Mr. Wiltshire, his brow clearing. “That explains it.”
I could only stare at him in bewilderment. How did a button explain anything?
“You didn’t tell him where it came from, obviously.”
“Well, no, but I don’t see how any of that matters.”
“Mr. Burrows is possessed of an unusual talent. But that is not my story to tell, especially when I am so eager to hear yours.”
“I know the feeling,” I said, a little more emphatically than I’d meant to. I’d been searching for this man for days, and now here he was, safe and sound and close enough to put my arms around. But instead of being overjoyed, I felt unaccountably foolish, as if the whole world were sharing a joke at my expense.
“I can see that you’re frustrated, Rose, and I don’t blame you. Let’s just wait until we’re warm and dry, shall we?”
“But—”
He gestured at the cab driver, and I understood.
“When we get home, then?” I said reluctantly.
“When we get home,” he agreed, and burrowed down into my coat.
The rain made a frightful snarl of the traffic, so it was past time for luncheon when we finally arrived. Instinctively, I headed for the servants’ door, but a gentle brush at my elbow drew me up short. “This way, Rose,” said Mr. Wiltshire, and for the first time, I found myself entering 726 Fifth Avenue through the front door.
Mr. Wiltshire shook out my overcoat and hung it on the rack. Doing so brought him face-to-face with his own reflection in the hallway mirror, and he winced. He looked pale and rumpled, his beard in dire need of a trim, but his eyes were bright and clear. I saw nothing but perfection, even if he bore little resemblance to the tidy figure he usually cut. Running a hand through his damp hair, he said, “Tea?”
“Certainly.” I turned to fetch it.
“No, wait, that’s not what I, er…” For a moment we just stared at each other awkwardly, neither of us quite knowing what the situation called for. Then he gestured down the hall. “We’ll go to the kitchen together, shall we?”
I’d have warned Clara if I could have. As it was she was lucky not to lose a finger, because when she looked up to find Mr. Wiltshire descending the servants’ staircase, she dropped her meat cleaver midswing; it buried itself in the butcher’s block with a heavy thunk. Her glance met mine, and my face split into a wide grin, the triumph of the morning’s events breaking over me at last.
“Good morning, Clara,” Mr. Wiltshire said, as if it were any other Friday.
Clara opened her mouth. Clamped it shut. She watched incredulously as he put the kettle on. Then she blurted, “Where in the name of all that’s holy have you been?”
Of the three of us, I’m not sure who was most taken aback by this outburst. Clara, probably.
“Sir,” she added, tugging the meat cleaver free.
Mr. Wiltshire eyed the big blade warily. “That is … a fair question, but the answer is rather too complicated to venture into just now. Suffice it to say that I owe Rose a tremendous debt.”
“Mr. Wiltshire? Is that you?” The staircase creaked.
“Good morning, Mrs. Sellers.”
The housekeeper appeared on the stairs. Like Clara, she was visibly surprised; unlike Clara, she had no idea just how miraculous his return really was, since I hadn’t filled her in on my recent discoveries. She looked him up and down and said, faintly chiding, “We were concerned, sir.”
“I do apologize, Mrs. Sellers.”
“You might have sent word.”
Her tone was almost more than I could bear. He’s been kidnapped and tied to a chair for a week, you horrible harpy!
Mr. Wiltshire, for his part, just inclined his head and said, “I should have. Please accept my profound regrets.”
I looked at him. He looked at me. I looked at Clara. A silent pact was thus made: The housekeeper would be told nothing.
“A business trip came up suddenly.” It was the same explanation he’d given last spring when he’d been gone for over a week, and it dawned on me that it had probably been as untrue then as it was now. “A rather trying one, I must say. I am in dire need of a hot bath and a cup of tea.”
“Certainly, sir. Rose…” Mrs. Sellers took in my disheveled appearance with a disapproving frown, but it would reflect poorly on her to upbraid me in front of Mr. Wiltshire, so she just gestured imperiously at the kettle. “Start with the tea, then draw Mr. Wiltshire a bath.”
But before I could move, Mr. Wiltshire said, “Thank you, Mrs. Sellers, but I’m sure poor Rose is at least as cold as I am. She loaned me her overcoat in the rain, you see. Would you mind?”
She blinked. “You want me to do it?” You’d have thought he’d asked her to scrub the privy, so incredulous was her tone.
“If you’d be so good.”
Clara fought down a smile. “I’ll do one for Rose,” she offered sweetly.
“Thank you, Clara. Rose, we’ll speak when we’ve both had a chance to warm our bones.” Inclining his head in farewell, Mr. Wiltshire mounted the stairs.
Mrs. Sellers fled after him, I think to avoid the humiliation of meeting our gazes. When she’d gone, Clara said, “I’ll take care of the tea. Lord knows I have my questions, but Rose, honey, you look like you been run over by a carriage. Go on upstairs. I’ll see you directly.” She gave my arm a squeeze. “You did it. You actually did it!”
“I did it,” I echoed dazedly, though in truth, I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d done.
Hopefully I was about to find out.
* * *
Tempting as it was to soak in that blissfully hot bath all afternoon, I allowed myself only a short respite. I wanted to make sure I was ready the moment Mr. Wiltshire sent for me. Questions swirled like embers inside my skull; if I didn’t get answers soon, I was going to burst into flames. Clara would have a few questions of her own, but she’d gone out for groceries. After days of restless fidgeting, she’d be looking forward to preparing a proper meal. Mr. Wiltshire would eat well this afternoon.
He found me sitting alone in the kitchen, sipping tea and tryin
g to organize my thoughts. “Ah, there you are.”
I sprang to my feet. “How are you feeling, sir?”
“Almost human, thank you. All I need is a shave and I’ll be quite restored, but alas.” He held up his left hand, and I sucked in a breath. The knuckles were an angry red where they’d been struck by the makeshift club.
“Do you need a doctor?”
“I don’t think so. It’s really just the finer movements that give me grief. A good night’s sleep or two ought to do it. Until then”—he ran his good hand ruefully over his jaw—“I’ll have to content myself with looking half a brute, since I can’t spare the time to visit the barber.”
“I can do it.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself, and I blushed furiously, wishing I could take them back. It was an outrageous suggestion.
Or at least it should have been, but such was Mr. Wiltshire’s devotion to personal grooming that he merely scratched his stubble and said, “Tempting. Have you ever done it before?”
“Yes, sir.” My gaze dropped to my shoes, my face still burning. “My father used to let me shave him sometimes, if I promised to be very careful.”
He hummed thoughtfully. “A tad unconventional, perhaps, but I daresay we’ve crossed that threshold already today. If you’re willing…”
“Yes, sir,” I said, feeling a bit faint.
“Rose…” He hesitated, wearing that same awkward expression as before, when I’d been about to fetch his tea. “We are in uncharted waters here, you and I, and I don’t suppose either of us is quite sure how best to manage it. But let us at least agree to dispense with sir for now. It makes me feel terribly exploitative.”
I didn’t know quite what to say to that, so I just nodded.
We headed upstairs. Accompanying Mr. Wiltshire to his bedroom gave me a wobble in the knees, but fortunately he was too preoccupied to notice. He assembled his shaving kit, but even gripping the brush was too much for him, so I took over the preparations. At first I was concentrating too intently to think about anything else, making sure everything was just so as I stropped the blade and churned up a good lather. But the closer the moment came, the more my composure started to crumble. My heart rate climbed, my breath coming faster with every circle of the brush. This was a degree of intimacy I’d only ever dreamed of, and it was more terrifying than the trio of roughs at the gasworks. If the mere thought of touching his face was driving me to near-panic, how on earth was I going to keep my hand steady on the blade? It would be ironic if I’d rescued him from his kidnappers only to open his throat with a razor.