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Trusting the Wolfe
A Victorian Romance Novella
Lana Williams
Victorian Romance Novella
Stabbed and left for dead in one of London’s most dangerous neighborhoods, Marcus de Wolfe is astounded when a woman resembling the angel from the famous family legend saves him. Once recovered, he shoves aside his angel’s captivating image to focus on his goal of stopping whoever is smuggling cargo on his ships.
Left penniless by her wastrel father, seamstress Tessa Maycroft doesn’t trust men, especially not the handsome earl with the golden eyes she saved. To keep others from facing the fate she barely escaped, she offers seamstress apprenticeships for impoverished girls, giving them a chance for a better life.
But when Marcus appears in her shop and insists there’s a terrible connection between her girls and his ships, she agrees to help him once more. He tempts her to believe there might be more to life than she’s dared to hope.
Marcus soon realizes Tessa is anything but a simple seamstress. His angel shows him he’s not as dead inside as he believed. Can the passion they find in each other’s arms unite these lonely souls or will the plot they uncover threaten not only their new-found love but their lives?
To Kathryn Le Veque.
This story wouldn’t be possible if not for you
and your amazing stories.
Thank you for serving as such an inspiration
and inviting me to play in your world.
Contents
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
London, England, February 1870
Marcus de Wolfe drew an unsteady breath, stunned at the pain flooding his body. Cold seeped into his bones both from shock and the stone alleyway on which he lay. Was this it then? Was this the ending of the great de Wolfe legacy? Would he die in this filthy alley in Whitechapel as dusk fell with no one the wiser?
“Damn,” was all he managed.
His attackers had long since fled, no doubt believing him already dead. Which he soon would be if he didn’t find help. Walking out of here under his own power was not an option.
With a trembling hand, he reached inside his jacket to touch the searing pain of his ribs. A warm wetness coated his fingers. The fading light revealed blood on his fingertips.
He shifted, realizing the cut along his thigh was far worse. The throbbing of the knife wound caused him to envision his blood pumping out of the long slice onto the dirty alleyway.
Fear chased down his spine as he tried to reach deep inside himself and gather the strength to rise and find help. He’d called out several times when he’d heard someone walking by, but no one stopped. Not in this area of the city where anyone lying in the gutter meant trouble.
He should’ve brought Samuel with him. His footman would be angry when Marcus didn’t return home. The burly man’s presence would be most welcome right now. Marcus had left a note explaining where he’d be, but Samuel might not find it until morning. That would be too late. Already Marcus felt light-headed from the loss of blood.
There was no doubt he’d overestimated his ability to protect himself. Then again, he hadn’t anticipated that the man he’d followed from the London docks into Whitechapel would have quite so many friends. Five against one had proven overwhelming odds, especially when they all carried knives.
Now he might never know what type of cargo was being smuggled on his ships or who was in on the scheme. When he’d first realized someone was stealing from him, he’d had no choice but to travel from his home in Northumberland to London. It had been some time since he’d ventured here. The vastness of the city had surprised him, as had the slums like the one he was lying in now.
His trip earlier today to pay an unannounced visit to his man of business had resulted in nothing. Nor had his visit to the dock to speak with the captain of one of his ships. The man had grown quite uncomfortable at Marcus’s questions, prompting Marcus to follow a crewmember from the vessel to this area. He’d hoped to question the man and see if he could be bribed into telling Marcus what was happening.
A shiver spread through him. His clothes were soaked with whatever wet filth was in this alleyway, a combination of human and animal waste by the smell of it. Foul enough to turn a man’s stomach.
His eyes drifted closed but he fought it, trying to rouse himself to call again for help. Someone paused at the mouth of the alley, but when he raised his hand so they might see him, the person hurried away.
Hopelessness filled him but he beat it back. He propped himself up on one elbow, wondering if he could find his way to his feet. The tall brick buildings on either side started to spin. He closed his eyes at the sight, willing away the feeling. With a deep breath he sat up, using his hands to support his weight.
But that proved a mistake. The pain was too great. He slid into oblivion, darkness claiming him.
~*~
Tessa Maycroft watched her surroundings warily as she made her way from the Hodges’ home in Whitechapel toward her own off Bond Street. This area was far from safe during the day, let alone once dusk fell. Jenny Hodges was an apprentice at the seamstress shop that Tessa ran with her Aunt Betty. The girl had fallen ill two days earlier. Now that she was beginning to feel better, Tessa had brought her some piece work to do at home as Jenny was desperate to earn money until she could return to the shop.
When two of Jenny’s younger sisters had showed signs of the same illness, Tessa had stayed to help their overwhelmed mother. Which left her walking through Whitechapel at dusk.
It wasn’t as if she never did so. After all, she lived and worked near this area. The other young girls who served as apprentices also lived here, and Tessa visited them when necessary.
She wasn’t completely unprotected. Her sewing bag hung on her arm filled with needles, various threads, and very sharp scissors. If the need arose, she would retrieve those shears as they would work well as a weapon.
Aunt Betty would be wondering what had become of her by now, but there was no easy way to send word to her as to what caused her delay. They lived in the small apartment above their shop, Madame Daphne, Seamstress. There was no Madame Daphne.
Her aunt had created the name to appeal to wealthier customers when she’d started the business soon after her husband’s death, well over fifteen years ago. The small allowance he’d left her had not been enough to live on without additional income. She’d invited Tessa to join her when Tessa’s wastrel of a father died, leaving her penniless.
Luckily, both women were quite skilled with needle and thread. More important than the alterations they completed or the dresses and decorated undergarments they made were the apprenticeships they offered. Each year, they selected four or five young girls from orphanages or workhouses, most with no mothers, who wanted to learn a skill that would keep them off the streets.
They taught the girls the basics of sewing as well as exploring more unusual needlework, from lace making to embro
idery, to see where each girl’s strength lay. The life of a normal seamstress was harsh, despite the recent reforms that had passed. In order to make the barest living, one had to toil twelve to fourteen hours each day, running the risk of becoming incapacitated by sore hands, aching backs, and even blindness from working in poor light.
But their apprenticeship offered improved conditions, as well as unique and desired skills, that gave the girls a better living than most.
Tessa cringed as her shoe slipped on something squishy and foul smelling. She pulled her wayward thoughts from the girls’ progress and the next day’s work to where she was walking. Heaven only knew what littered the filthy street.
A soft moan sounded from up ahead. Someone worse for drink, no doubt. The conditions of these streets and the people who lived on them were enough to drive anyone to imbibe spirits, but Tessa saw no sense in such an indulgence. She’d rather have food on the table than the brief oblivion gin provided.
She slowed her steps as she passed the entrance to an alleyway, one hand on her sewing bag in case she needed to retrieve her scissors. Again a moan sounded, raising the hairs on the back of her neck.
That was no ordinary moan, but a deep groan of pain. She steeled herself from the temptation to help. Her first priority had to be Aunt Betty and herself. Not some stranger who got himself in trouble. All the same, she couldn’t resist peering into the alleyway.
“Help.” The whispered plea sent Tessa’s heart racing. Her steps slowed even more.
A man lay a short distance from the entrance. He raised his hand as though to implore her to come to him. But Tessa was no fool. She’d spent enough time in this area to know the many tricks men played. She might venture over to help him, only to be grabbed and attacked. Her sewing bag didn’t hold anything valuable to a normal thief, but it was valuable to her. Or he might want her rather than her bag.
She didn’t intend to allow either event to occur. Though part of her wanted to help, her survival instincts were far stronger. Better to stay away from the possibility of trouble. Getting involved in such situations was a sure way to end up with more problems than she already had.
With a shake of her head, she continued past. She’d nearly made it when the desperate plea sounded once again.
“Please.”
Her shoulders sagged in defeat as her steps halted. The man’s tone sounded quite desperate. Annoyed at herself, she turned and entered the alley, allowing her eyes time to adjust to the shadows.
A long form lay sprawled on the ground. Tessa drew nearer, still wary that this could be a trick.
“Are you in need of assistance, sir?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Should I fetch someone?” She bent closer to the man to try to see what was wrong.
“No. You.”
She frowned, uncertain as to what he meant. His suit was a fine black wool, something she easily recognized. He wasn’t the normal man found on these streets but a gentleman. The size of him alone was impressive, well over six feet she’d guess. His shirt was white linen, his cravat intricately knotted. Dark hair somewhat long for current fashion fell across his forehead. His chiseled features would be well suited for a statue.
No ordinary man indeed.
His long lashes lifted, revealing golden eyes as his gaze held hers. Her breath caught at the arresting sight.
“Are you hurt?” she whispered.
He stared at her as though she were a ghost, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. She’d never met this man and couldn’t imagine why he looked at her so intensely.
“You’re the angel.” His quiet words uttered in a deep, husky voice were a statement rather than a question.
Either he’d been drinking far too much or he was delirious. She leaned closer to sniff his breath but didn’t catch the scent of spirits.
“Lady Jordan?” he asked, his fingers reaching toward her face.
“Nay, I’m Tessa.” Relieved that he’d merely mistaken her for someone else, she knelt beside him, ignoring the filth. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
“I’ve been stabbed.” He lifted his head and gestured toward his ribs. “Twice.” He pointed to his thigh.
Now she recognized the faint metallic odor filling the air. He’d obviously lost a lot of blood, which meant the knife wounds were severe.
“I’ll find help.” As she made to rise, his warm fingers curled around her wrist.
“Nay. You. You must be the one to aid me.”
Tessa’s eyes went wide. A simple bandage didn’t seem as if it would be enough. While she was excellent at mending garments, stitching a person was quite a different thing. And nothing she’d done before.
“You’re lying in a dirty alleyway. We need to take you somewhere safe and call a doctor.”
He shook his head. “I won’t make it.”
Alarm filled her. She took his hand in hers. “You’ll be fine. I’ll return with help quickly.”
Again he shook his head.
“I’m sorry, but I have nothing with which to aid you.” She looked at her sewing bag, mentally reviewing its contents. “I have needle and thread but—”
He chuckled. “Of course you do. Because you are the angel.”
“I am nothing of the sort.” Why she felt compelled to argue with him was beyond her. She unbuttoned his jacket and the vest beneath and peeled both aside. Blood stained his white shirt, the large spot growing as she watched. “You need a doctor, sir.”
“I only need you.” That deep gravelly voice did something to her insides, twisting and melting them. Or perhaps it was his words that did so.
She looked at his leg to assess the damage there. His pant leg was sliced open, and she eased aside the edges of the wool to look beneath, revealing a long, diagonal slash along his thigh. The coarse hairs of his leg gave her pause, as though she was viewing him naked. She’d never before seen a naked man.
With a mental shake, she focused on the cut. Blood oozed out of this wound too. Based on the wetness of his pant leg and the puddle beneath him, he had no blood left to spare.
“Surely you can stitch me up. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
She caught his gaze, studying him closely. Once again, his words didn’t quite make sense. But it was his expression that caught her off guard—as though he had complete faith in her abilities.
“I’m certain someone nearby can help better than I can,” she suggested. The idea of taking her needle and threading it through his flesh caused panic to claw its way into her throat. She wasn’t certain she could do such a thing.
“It must be you, Angel.” He relaxed his grip on her hand and gave her a nod. “Proceed.”
“Perhaps I can find something with which to bind your injuries then get help.”
“Stitch them. That will be the quickest way to stop the bleeding.”
“I have nothing to ease your pain. Sewing you will—”
He shook his head. “I’ll be fine. Have no doubt.”
But she had every doubt. Yet what choice did she have? With great reluctance she looked back at the street behind her, hoping a doctor would magically appear. Someone better qualified to help this man.
But the mouth of the alley stood empty.
With trembling fingers, she opened the contents of her bag. The scissors glinted in the dim light. Perhaps she could cut strips of her underskirt to form bandages. The silk thread would be best as it was the strongest and finest. Luckily, she had her needle case containing a variety of needles.
She looked back at the man, hoping he’d changed his mind. But his golden gaze held steady on hers. Somehow that eased her fear.
Truly, what choice did she have? She couldn’t leave him here. Darkness would soon fall. Who knew how far away help might be? She had to do what little she could to aid him.
His thigh seemed to be bleeding the worst, so she would stitch that first. She focused on the steps she’d take to complete this task, just as she did when she completed an
y sewing project. With slow movements, she removed her gloves then retrieved her scissors to cut away the fabric of his pant leg so she might better see what she was doing. She cut strips of her underskirt and set them on her bag.
Her eyes had adjusted to the dimness and she could clearly make out the long slice across his muscled thigh. She blotted away the blood so she might better see. Lord, but it was deep. Experimentally, she held the edges of the skin together, grateful it wasn’t a jagged cut.
With quick movements, she threaded a needle and knotted the thread. Then she paused to look at him. “I wish I had something to help you with the pain.” She knew she’d said it before, but she wanted to make certain he understood. “This is going to hurt, but you’ll need to remain still.”
“I won’t move.” He said it with such confidence that she almost believed him. He touched the back of her hand with his. “Go ahead.”
She bit her bottom lip, trying to find the mental fortitude to perform this task. If only she were a nurse instead of a simple seamstress. She drew a deep breath as she scooted closer, the heat of his body warming her knees as she wiped away the blood once more.
She placed the needle against the bottom of the cut but hesitated. This was a man’s flesh, not some fabric.
“It’s all right, Angel. You can do this.”
A glance at his face showed his faint smile. She feared he wouldn’t be doing so for long. Delaying this task wouldn’t make it any easier, and daylight was fading fast. She pressed the needle into his skin, hating the way it resisted. Her stomach churned as she pulled it through. A glance at his face revealed that he’d closed his eyes, and his brows were furrowed.
The sooner she finished the better. Going slow would only cause him more pain. She steeled herself and proceeded, holding the gaping sides of the cut together, automatically making her stitches small and even. The thread broke several times, and she had to knot it and start again. The feel of the needle poking into his flesh each time brought tears to her eyes. How could he stand it? She blinked away the moisture and continued, checking his face every so often, amazed he held so still. He didn’t make a sound. The only time he moved was when he turned his head to the side as though to cast his thoughts elsewhere.
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