by Renee Ryan
The least he could do was ensure they had a safe home to return to at night after a long, hard day of work.
Why had he allowed his landlord such autonomy when his gut had warned him the fellow couldn’t be trusted?
The question weighed heavy on his heart because, deep down, Jackson knew the answer. He’d been focused on his own troubles and personal agenda instead of the people indirectly in his care.
Perhaps if his father had stayed and faced the consequences of his actions all those years ago, Jackson would have been more aware of the conditions of his tenement houses.
Instead, he’d spent most of his time and energy restoring his family’s good name. He’d been so focused on earning his rightful place back in society that he’d ignored his Christian duty to the people who depended on him.
To whom much is given, much is expected.
He’d failed these people. Now he had to fix his mistake before he could move on with his own future.
“You know, Jackson, I’ve been thinking.” Reilly shifted to his left just in time to avoid stepping into the path of a pack of boys rushing past them. “What if Smythe has taken off completely? What if he’s run away with your money?”
Jackson tightened his fist again. “Then we’ll hunt him down like the dog he is.”
What George Smythe had done was reprehensible. No matter what happened here today, the man would be held accountable.
Tuning out Reilly’s litany of complaints about the smells and the crowds and the endless jostling, Jackson continued down the street. Listening to the assistant’s grumbles, no one would guess that John Reilly had been raised on a street just two blocks over. Reilly’s personal knowledge of this area was one of the reasons Jackson had insisted he join him on this particular mission.
Drawn by some invisible force, Jackson found his interest pulled to the left. Two women carefully picked their way through the dense crowd. The taller one was clearly in charge, leading the way with a slow yet determined gait. The smaller one seemed to be struggling with each step and leaned heavily against her companion for support.
Clearly, they were new arrivals to the neighborhood. The luggage gave them away.
Half a block over, Jackson couldn’t make out their faces. But they were dressed respectably, and neither wore any adornment on their heads. They were probably from the British Isles, perhaps Ireland if the frail girl’s red-gold hair was anything to go by. She reminded Jackson of a wounded bird as she clung to her friend’s arm.
The friend, on the other hand, had much darker hair, thicker and wavier, the color of rich chocolate. That hair, that beautiful, untamed hair, captured Jackson’s attention and held it. For a moment—for one shocking, inexplicable moment—everything in him eased, softened, and simply let go.
He fought for objectivity, even as he took a step in her direction.
There was something about her, something unique and different that didn’t fit with her surroundings. She moved with a regal confidence more suited to a drawing room farther uptown.
Mesmerized, Jackson took another step in her direction, barely registering that his assistant had turned his litany of complaints toward the heat and the smell of rotting garbage.
Jackson focused only on the woman, only on how the glow of the late-afternoon sun cocooned her in soft, golden light. His pulse thundered in his ears.
The woman, she seemed somehow . . . familiar.
Had they met before?
He couldn’t imagine when. She was clearly new to America.
And yet . . .
He sensed that he was supposed to know her.
Closer now, he was able to see her face more clearly. The other girl completely forgotten, Jackson catalogued the brunette’s features one by one. She had smooth, flawless skin, high cheekbones, and dark, winged eyebrows over sea-green eyes, pale eyes lightened even further by the afternoon sun.
Would her voice match that exquisite face? Would she speak in a deep, sultry alto? Or a higher-pitched soprano?
One thought kept echoing through his mind. I know her.
But how? Where had he seen her before? The image wavered just out of reach. And every step he took toward her made him the kind of man he thought he’d never be. He froze but couldn’t look away.
She caught him watching her. Lifting her eyebrows a mere fraction, she stared back at him without flinching or demurring.
Despite the boldness of her gaze, she presented a fascinating blend of innocence and purity of character, the perfect image of a woman with limited means doing her best to survive a harsh world.
Therein lay the problem.
The picture was all wrong.
This was no ordinary down-on-her-luck lass seeking a better life in America. Jackson recognized the look in her eyes, the same one he saw in the mirror every morning. This woman with the stunning face and remarkable eyes had plans.
Big plans.
Jackson understood all too well what it meant to pursue life with a specific goal in mind, to work tirelessly to seek a change in circumstances despite the odds against succeeding.
Perhaps he would . . . There was just enough time to go over and . . . do . . .
Nothing. Jackson would do absolutely nothing because, just as he’d sensed in the woman across the street, he had his own plans. Big plans that required unwavering focus on his part.
He would not compromise his honor, not even for a seemingly harmless conversation with a beautiful stranger.
Honor and duty, these were the principles he lived by on a daily basis, the very things that set him apart from his wayward father. And thanks to Edward Montgomery’s shameful act, Jackson could never forget, not even for a moment, that honor and duty were all that mattered.
Back on track, the brief moment of recklessness gone, Jackson swung his gaze away from the woman and continued on his way.
He had an appointment with a shady landlord to attend to. And now more than ever he relished the prospect of setting matters to rights.
Chapter Three
No longer trapped in the stranger’s probing stare, Caroline finally remembered to breathe. Needing a moment to regain her equilibrium, she pretended grave interest in her surroundings. Yet, no matter how hard she focused on choosing the safest route for her and Mary, Caroline’s mind kept drifting back to the handsome stranger and their disturbing encounter.
Even from a block away, when she’d first caught a glimpse of him, something about the man had called to her, compelled her even. She’d felt a strange connection, different from any she’d felt before, one that went deeper than mere physical attraction.
Dragging in a sharp pull of air, Caroline cast another quick glance in his direction, just in time to watch him pass by a mere five feet away. The smell of leather, wood, and spice wafted around her, a pleasant distraction from the foul stench of the marketplace.
As if sensing her eyes on him, he turned his head in Caroline’s direction—again—and their gazes locked—again.
She forced herself to remain calm, to consider him with an objective eye, as she would if she were sizing him up across a gaming table. The man was more than handsome. He was devastating. With a little thread of danger around the edges that caused Caroline’s heart to thump against her ribs. His hair was dark, nearly pitch-black, his eyes a piercing blue-gray, his features strong and undeniably masculine.
She immediately broke eye contact and tried not to sigh—she was not the sighing sort after all—but . . . oh, my.
He was clearly wealthy, as evidenced by his expensive clothing, but he was like no man of considerable means that she’d ever met. This was no self-serving wastrel or bored member of the upper classes. He would make a worthy opponent across a gaming table, or anywhere else for that matter.
Mary stumbled, drawing Caroline’s attention back to where it belonged. As she steered the girl around a cart loaded with day-old bread, a disturbing thought arose. What if the rest of the wealthy Americans were of the same ilk as the hand
some stranger?
Hoping to gather more information, she studied the other man striding along the street beside him. Slightly shorter than his counterpart, this one was dressed a bit more humbly and had a slighter build. Although equally attentive to his surroundings, the smaller of the two was clearly the subordinate. But no pushover.
If Caroline’s grandfather was anything like either man, then she’d made a serious error in judgment. She’d assumed Richard St. James was a weak man, but what if she was wrong?
What if her grandfather proved a worthy opponent with a steel spine and a clever mind?
To go in blind, without full knowledge of what she was up against, would be a mistake. She knew that now.
She must take the time to research her adversary more closely. Only after she uncovered concrete information about her grandfather would she know how to plot out the details of his downfall.
“Caro?” Mary’s voice slid through the stale air. “Are we nearly there?”
Caroline smiled down at her friend. “We’re less than a block away.”
“Oh, good. I’m a bit”—Mary broke off and released a trembling breath—“weary of all these crowds.”
Caroline was as well. But where she was merely frustrated with the pushing and shoving, her friend had obviously reached the end of her stamina.
The poor girl looked beyond exhausted. Her pallor had returned, and the purple shadows beneath her eyes were more distinctive than they’d been that morning.
“Lean on me, Mary, just a little longer. I promise, I’ll get you to your aunt’s home soon.”
Tugging her friend tighter to her, Caroline guided Mary down the street, away from the handsome stranger and the man with him. She silently counted off the numbers above each entryway. Number 96. Number 88. Number 75. Number . . .
Caroline stopped midstep. The numbers were descending not ascending. So distracted was she by her encounter with the dark-haired gentleman, she’d led Mary in the wrong direction.
Badly done, Caroline. She couldn’t afford mistakes like this. She must be mindful of every detail, no matter how small. No errors allowed.
Aware of Mary’s labored breathing and growing need for Caroline’s support, she turned them in the proper direction and pushed through the endless knot of people with as much haste as she dared.
A commotion a block away caused her to slow their pace. No stranger to street brawls, she didn’t need the rapidly gathering multitude to warn her what lay ahead. She wasn’t especially alarmed—for her own safety, at any rate. She knew how to dodge the worst of any dispute, even if she’d been the cause. But this wasn’t just about her safety. Mary was far too frail to risk exposing her to a possible surge in the agitated crowd, or worse, a stray fist.
Keeping one eye on the rapidly growing mob and the other on the street up ahead, Caroline angled her friend away from the fray.
Barely three steps later, a round of cheers rose up from the throng. Caroline swiveled her head to get a better look and gasped aloud.
The handsome stranger was right in the middle of the action, moving with ground-eating strides toward the thickest portion of the crowd. Seemingly unconcerned for his own safety, he reached into the tangle of people and plucked out a shabbily dressed ruffian. Spinning his quarry around, he slammed the fellow against the building behind him and then gripped him by the lapels.
Shouts of encouragement echoed off the brick and mortar.
“Glory,” Mary whispered.
Caroline’s sentiments exactly.
Although outwardly calm and clearly in control of the situation, the elegantly dressed gentleman spoke fervently to the man in his grasp, his tone far too low to be heard above the commotion.
The ruffian gave some sort of response, which only served to make the gentleman’s muscular shoulders shift, flex, and then go still. Very, very still. Deathly still.
That was one angry man, barely holding his temper in check. Caroline’s suspicions were confirmed when she caught a glimpse of his face. His mouth was flat and hard, his eyes determined.
Running from such a man had been a colossal mistake. Caroline almost felt sorry for the ruffian, except somehow she sensed he’d done something terrible enough to warrant the confrontation. The next few moments were not going to be pretty for him. A potentially unpleasant scene Mary had no business witnessing.
“Come away, Mary. We must get you to your aunt’s home before darkness falls.”
The stubborn girl let go of her arm and moved closer to the drama unfolding before them. Caught off guard by the bold move, Caroline had no choice but to follow her friend.
Not until she reached the very edge of the crowd did Mary finally stop. The gawking, shouting mob had become surprisingly silent, with their heads leaning forward, as if straining to hear whatever would come next out of either man’s mouth.
The gentleman’s subordinate stood slightly off to the left of the dispute. He looked mildly put out with his bored, uninterested eyes. At one point, he crossed his arms over his chest, released a heavy sigh, and then leaned his shoulder against the building.
Caroline wasn’t fooled by the indifferent manner. He was ready to move into the fray if needed.
“What do you suppose that man has done to incur such wrath?” Mary asked in a soft tone meant only for Caroline’s ears.
Caroline shrugged. She didn’t know for sure, but she had a few ideas. “If I had to guess I’d say money was involved.”
When it came to men and their fights, money was almost always at the root of the matter.
Mary clasped a hand to her throat. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”
Actually, Caroline had. Too many times to count. London’s rough East End wasn’t known as a “hotbed of villainy” without reason.
Intrigued, she waited with the others for the gentleman to make his next move. A pall of silence still hung over the crowd, broken only by the sounds of breathing—the ruffian’s rapid and erratic, the gentleman’s slow and measured.
With his victim still in his clutches, the gentleman turned to his subordinate.
“Mr. Reilly.” The flat American accent was devoid of emotion. “Our friend here is still refusing to cooperate.”
“Yes, I see that.”
“Would you be so kind as to locate a patrolman while I detain Mr. Smythe awhile longer?”
Mr. Reilly shoved away from the building. “Right away, Mr. Montgomery.”
Montgomery. The Scottish name fit the man with the heart of a warrior, who was wrapped in a fine suit but had a quiet, lethal edge to his movements.
“I am waiting for an explanation, Mr. Smythe.” Montgomery shifted his hold, drawing the rogue closer to him. “You may tell me now, while it is just the two of us, or you may do so from behind a row of iron bars. Either way, I will have my answer.”
A bout of cursing flew out of Smythe’s mouth, the words so foul Mary’s mouth dropped open. Caroline had a sudden urge to cover her friend’s ears.
“That’s quite enough of that.” Montgomery shoved Smythe harder against the building. “Let us not forget there are women and children present.”
“I’m not frightened of you.”
“You should be.” Scowling furiously, Montgomery leaned in closer, his breathing calm and measured. Even in his anger, he appeared in control. “I will ask you again. What have you done with the money I gave you for the repairs I ordered?”
Smythe snorted in disgust. “I didn’t take nothing from you that you couldn’t afford.”
“You are missing the point entirely. Take a good look around you.” Holding tightly to his collar, Montgomery swung the man around to stare at the crowd. “These are the people you stole from—not me, them. The residents who live in this building with you and depend on you to follow my orders.”
Smythe blinked, his eyes glassy with hate. “All I see is a bunch of dirty, worthless immigrants.”
As one, the crowd burst into angry shouts in differing languages and di
alects. Caroline didn’t need an interpreter to know what they were saying.
In a precise, cold tempo, Montgomery unleashed his own rage. “These immigrants are good, hardworking, honest people who deserve a safe, comfortable home in which to lay their heads at night.”
“Ha. Like you care.”
The man had a death wish. Caroline was convinced of it. She was also quite certain he was a rat of the first order.
The muscles in Montgomery’s shoulders tightened, and his jaw tensed. “You will not question my motives, ever.”
Such arrogant superiority, such grim resolve. However much money Smythe had stolen from this man, she doubted the sum was worth making such a fearsome enemy over.
A cold chill swept through her soul. What if her grandfather was like this Montgomery? What if Richard St. James was equally fierce when crossed?
It was a thought that had never occurred to her. Until now. Panic gnawed at her, trying to tear into her like an alley cat pouncing on its prey. She nearly gave in to the emotion, but an image of her dying mother flickered to life in her mind, and she remembered the first lesson of survival: Never underestimate your enemy.
Still, Caroline mustn’t allow panic to take hold until she had gathered more information. There was no reason to assume her grandfather was anything like this man. Montgomery’s outrage was due to his concern for the people in his care. Conversely, Richard St. James had abandoned his daughter without a speck of remorse through the years. His good name and place in society had been more important to him than his own child.
Renewed anger flowed through Caroline; hot and painful, the emotion was strong enough to bolster her need to ensure justice was served.
No more distractions. Especially not from a handsome stranger with strong moral character and a proper sense of right and wrong. Besides, she already knew how this particular standoff would end. Mr. Smythe would either pay back the money he stole or go to jail.