There was only one thing left to do. Well, two options, actually.
Sinking into the Thames was one.
She shook her head. No. She couldn’t do that.
That left the second option.
If she was to survive, she had to leave this area of frigid pomposity where no one gave her a second glance. She had to move into an area of the city where she could find pity, sell her body if she had to. Sell her body until she could find a different way—be it a seamstress, a maid, or a governess. But until she had food in her belly and a place to sleep, finding any one of those respectable jobs would be impossible.
Whatever it took to survive, she was ready to do it. There was no moral high ground in death.
Strider had somehow made his way in that world of debauchery. She could too.
She had to.
Her palm flat on the grass, she pushed herself upward and a barrage of spinning greenery filled her head, making her dizzy. She collapsed back onto the grass.
A deep breath filled her lungs, her eyes closing against the whirling in her brain that was quickly making her ill.
Another breath.
She would just lie by the lavender for a little while longer. Lie there and smell the purple buds, sink the memory of the freshness of them deep into her mind, for she would probably never smell them again.
She drifted into the land of darkness, the land filled with only one thing—Strider’s face in front of her, betrayed, disgusted. His face as he walked away from her. Done. Done forever. Walking away from her again and again.
With a gasp that sent her choking, Pen’s eyes flew open to find a gardener standing above her, poking the tip of a shovel at her belly. “Be gone with ye, ye wastrel.”
The metal tip jabbed into her stomach again, prodding the pangs of hunger to rage in her belly.
Fear skittered down her spine and she fumbled to her hands, knees, and then feet, stumbling out the back iron gate that hadn’t been secured. Through the mews she stumbled, dodging horses and a carriage until she was on the street.
She looked left, right.
It was in that moment the severity of her situation truly hit her. She had no direction. No where to go. No one that cared about her.
Nothing.
It didn’t matter which direction she chose.
Not recognizing her location in the slightest, Pen’s feet turned left and she skirted along the edge of the walkway, avoiding the clean skirts of the ladies out making calls. Her head down, she didn’t dare to look up. Didn’t dare to be seen.
The streets got busier the further she walked, the walkways more congested. Cart vendors started crowding the way.
Unintended, she ended up in Covent Garden, wading through the market that Mrs. Flagton used to send her to for fruit, vegetables and flowers.
Her arms wrapped around her belly and she curled into herself, making her way through the crowd as fast as she could while staying inconspicuous. She couldn’t chance Mrs. Flagton seeing her—or worse yet, Percival.
A tall woman took a step backward, directly into her path. Pen glanced to the cart the woman was at. A wax-chandler—the man wrapping up a fat order of beeswax candles. Expensive beeswax candles. The same man that had twice tried to pull out four of the beeswax candles she had bought as he wrapped them in burlap. The first time she had believed him when he said it was a mistake. The second time she caught him she realized he was nothing but a crook.
Pen moved around the woman, took a step away, but then the sharp spike of decency cut down her neck and she looked over her shoulder at the woman. She was a head taller than Pen, had an elegant profile with smooth dark hair in an impeccable chignon under a jaunty dark blue hat that sat atop the crown of her head. The woman could obviously afford to be duped by the chandler.
It didn’t matter.
Pen spun about and stepped to her, keeping her back to the chandler.
With a quick smile to the lady, Pen went up on her toes and leaned toward her ear. “Be sure to check the number of sticks before he ties it closed. The man likes to short anyone he can.”
The woman’s brown eyes opened wide, startled, and she gave Pen a quick nod.
Pen turned from the woman and the cart, seeking out the edge of the crowd as she disappeared into the crush of people.
Her breath shallow, Pen knew she had to sit soon. Her limbs were shaking, her feet barely making a straight line anymore. The crowd thinned and she scanned the buildings, searching for an alleyway she could sit in. Sit in for just a spell before she moved onward to the rookeries.
“Miss, miss.” A hand grabbed her shoulder.
Fear instantly coiled her body and her steps quickened.
The hand didn’t move from her shoulder. “Miss, please, I just wanted to thank you.”
Pen looked over her shoulder. It was the woman at the chandler cart. Straight on, she was not much older than Pen and twice as beautiful as her profile had revealed. Pen nodded. “It was the least I could do. The man tried to cheat me out of candles twice.”
The woman’s hand dropped from Pen’s shoulder. “Well, I thank you. It was kind of you to stop when you didn’t need to. He did try to dupe me.” The woman shifted the package balanced in her left arm. “Where are you off to?”
“Nowhere.”
The woman’s bottom lip jutted upward as her warm brown eyes pinned Pen. “You look hungry.”
Pen’s mouth pulled tight. She wasn’t about to admit that she hadn’t eaten anything real in four days.
The woman reached out, her fingers landing on Pen’s forearm. “Come, you will eat with me. I was just about to purchase gingerbread and tea.”
“No, I couldn’t impose.”
The woman nodded, her jaw set. “You just saved me a crown. It is the least I could do.”
She threaded her hand under Pen’s arm and tugged her toward the gingerbread cart across the street. After ordering four gingerbreads and two teas, she handed one gingerbread to Pen and then passed her a tin cup filled with tea. Taking the remaining gingerbreads and her own tea, she moved to the north side piazza and spotted two empty crates to sit upon.
The woman sat, setting down her tea and the extra gingerbread next to her on the crate and the package at her feet. She patted the crate next to her and waited for Pen to join her before she took her first bite.
A smile instantly lit up the woman’s face, her fingers going to her lips. “Delightful.”
Pen offered her a hesitant grin, then bit into the gingerbread. Delightful, yes, but Pen could barely taste it for how much trouble she was having not shoving the whole thing into her mouth all at once. One bite at a time. Make Mama June proud.
The woman took another bite, chewing it slowly as she watched the madcap crowd at the market. After a few minutes, her gaze swung to Pen. “I am Daphne Bannon. Your name, dove?”
“Pen. Penelope Willington.” Pen’s mouth clamped closed, the gingerbread drying to powder on her tongue. Dammit. She shouldn’t have said her name. Damn her mind for not even thinking to lie. If she wasn’t so hungry and concentrating so hard on eating slowly, she might have realized her error before uttering her name out loud.
So stupid. Percival and his hangman’s noose were coming for her—so she couldn’t be Penelope Willington anymore—never again.
Pen took a sip of her tea, washing down the gingerbread determined to stick to her tongue.
The kindest smile crossed Daphne’s lips. “Ah, dove—you look like I just tossed you into the Thames. I don’t need to know your name. I’ll forget I ever heard it. I understand because I was once where you are now.”
“Daphne is not your given name?”
The smile on her face grew wider, her eyes twinkling as she shook her head. “So—Pen—you would like to keep that part?”
Pen nodded, her eyes wide.
Daphne looked up at the stone arches of the piazza for a long moment. “How about Pen—Penrose Smith? One cannot swing a riding crop without hitting a
Smith.”
A hesitant smile lifted the corners of Pen’s mouth. “That…that sounds doable.”
“Excellent.” Daphne patted her knee. “You must tell me, where were you headed? You looked to be in a hurry.”
Pen took the last bite of her gingerbread, chewing and swallowing before answering. “I don’t think you want to know.”
“Try me.”
Pen glanced over her shoulder in the general direction she’d been aimed toward, her voice small. “The rookeries. A brothel. The first one that would take me.”
Daphne paused, her head tilting to the side as she stared at Pen. “Have you ever done anything like that before?”
Pen gave a slight shake of her head, refusing to meet Daphne’s eyes.
Daphne nudged a second gingerbread into her hand. “All the brothels would take you, dove. That wouldn’t be a problem.”
Pen’s look shot to her. “You’re not judging me?”
She shook her head. “I thought about doing it once myself, a long time ago. But then I discovered how I didn’t need to when I had one pivotal stroke of luck.”
The slightest glimmer of hope lit in Pen’s gut. “What was your stroke of luck?”
“I caught the eye of a man in Hyde Park—a rich man. He turned to look at me—a pig he was, truly. He was promenading with a woman—her hand in the crook of his arm—and he turned around to stare at me.”
“You are quite beautiful.”
She shrugged as she took a sip of her tea. “Beauty will only get you so far.” Her hand flitted into the air. “Anyway, the oddest thing happened—the woman that pig was with left him and came back to find me. She was his wife and she wanted to buy the hat off my head. She thought the hat was what had made the man look at me. That is when the luck of the idea hit me.”
“What was the idea?” Pen took a bite of the new gingerbread—she could taste it for real now that her ravenous belly was only irritably hungry.
“I could sell beauty. That’s what I do, how I am able to support myself. I sell beauty without selling my body. It’s what these women want—what many of them want most in life.” Her hand swept out toward the crowd of people. “They want a man’s head to turn to them, these forgotten wives of the ton. It could be their husband’s head. Or their husband’s best friend’s head. Or a stranger’s head. They are not picky. These women just want someone to look at them. To want them. They want to matter.”
Pen’s brows pulled together. “How do you sell beauty?”
“I put something beautiful on someone beautiful and they line up to buy it. These women think a hat, a bauble, a fan, or a bracelet might just gain the attention they are so desperate for. I have made a business of sourcing those things and then selling them to the finest ladies and their friends. I am far below their station so they don’t find me a threat, especially when I only sell my collections to women. And I am very careful not to give any men in their spheres any attention.”
“That is amazing.” Even as the words came from her mouth, Pen’s heart sank a little. As wonderful a story as this was, Daphne’s business was so far beyond Pen’s capability at the moment, it hurt to even think about it.
Daphne handed her the third gingerbread. “I am rarely wrong about people, Pen. What you did in the market—stopping to warn me when you could have just walked by without a second glance—especially for how desperately hungry and tired you obviously are—it is unusual.”
Pen shook her head. “No, it was the right thing to do. I would have felt terrible about it for days if I had just moved on past without a word.”
“And that kind of integrity is rare. Aside from that, you—you can turn heads, dove. Even with the dark circles under your eyes, I can see that. All you need is some sleep and some food and you would be perfect to join me.”
“Join you?”
“As one of my assistants. I just lost one to marriage, so I need the help. You have integrity, I already know that. You have beauty and will be able to show the trinkets off well. And you were canny enough to catch the chandler at what he was doing when I was oblivious to it. You don’t know how many times I have gone to that man—I shudder to think on all that I have lost to him in the years.”
Pen’s fingers curled into the gingerbread, making it crumble as tears threatened. “I don’t…I don’t know what to say.”
“The job entails not only the shows I do for the ladies and the preparations for them, but sourcing the goods as well.” Daphne leaned toward her. “I have only one question—are you ready to work hard?”
“I’ve known nothing but.”
Daphne smiled, beaming. “Then it is time luck caught you. Will you do it?”
Pen inhaled, cringing at her own words. “This…I cannot help but be suspicious.”
Daphne laughed. “Then you are wise. You can leave me at any time. Anytime you are uncomfortable.” She set her hand on Pen’s knee. “I will be direct. I want to use your beauty to help me sell my wares. Fully clothed, of course, and only to women. That is the most suspect thing I will ask you to do.”
Pen had to steady her breath. “Then, yes. Yes, I would like to join you, but I cannot be out in public—the family I just left—it’s dangerous for me.”
Daphne’s eyebrows lifted. “Dangerous? Why?”
“He—the son—he has threatened to send constables after me and send me to the gallows for stealing. But it is lies, I never…I never…” She drew a shaky breath, realizing her opportunity with Daphne was slipping away.
“Well, one, we are not heathens. We don’t send people to the gallows for stealing here in England—we transport them to Australia, yes, but not to the noose.” She grabbed Pen’s hand, squeezing it. “And two, if you had stolen something you wouldn’t be as hungry as you are at the moment, correct? I imagine this has more to do with the son wanting what he could not have?”
Pen nodded.
“Who are they—this family you lived with? You were their servant?”
“Of sorts—not really their servant—they took me in when I was ten, though I have worked hard doing everything they’ve asked of me throughout the years.”
“An unpaid servant, then.”
“Yes—I see that now more clearly than ever before. They are the Flagtons renting a townhouse on Brook Street. We came from Belize and have only been in town for a few months.”
Daphne laughed, waving her hand. “Dove, I’ve never heard of them. And I have heard of everyone important. Believe me, the circles I sell in don’t know them either. There are the wealthy, and then there are the people of the ton.”
Daphne sipped the last of her tea and then stood, picking up her package, and she looked down at Pen. “Come. We shall get a proper bed for you next. And then another meal, or two, before the night’s end.”
Pen swallowed the last of her gingerbread and drank the remaining tea in her cup. Afraid to believe she was awake and what was in front of her.
Was it even possible her luck was changing?
{ Chapter 21 }
He lost her.
He bloody well lost her.
She was at the Flagtons’ townhouse, and then she was gone.
Strider hadn’t been back in London for more than fifteen minutes when Jasper had broken the news to him. Egbert was supposed to be watching the house—watching over Pen—and then he realized something was off—he hadn’t seen her leave the townhouse in days.
One day she was there, and the next, gone.
And the bloody fools hadn’t sent word to him at the Willows. No. The idiots thought they could find her before Strider found out she was missing.
That had been a week ago. A week and they’d found no trace of her.
Blasted imbeciles.
Why hadn’t she come to him?
The carriage he sat in hit a hard rut in the road and he bounced to the right. Catching himself, he stared down at his hand on the cushions. His knuckles were still split, the blood only starting to scab along the bones from w
hen he’d cracked Egbert’s jaw loose a few hours ago.
Why hadn’t she come to him?
Because she didn’t know where he was, for one.
Because she’d already visited the Den of Diablo only to be turned away.
Because he was nothing but a common thug.
Because he’d left her without a word. Kicked her out of his life.
Because her heart couldn’t take losing him again. She’d said those very words.
How was her heart at the moment?
Strider looked across the carriage at Jasper. “Tell me again what the fishmonger said. Every word.”
Jasper cringed. Slight, but Strider still saw his eyes twitch. “He said the Flagtons’ cook said one day she was there, the next she was gone. The last the cook knew was that Miss Willington left for the market to get bread. The bread came back, but not Miss Willington. She asked the footman that usually trails her when she leaves the house where she was, but he didn’t know anything either. The last he saw her, she was walking into the rear of the townhouse.” Jasper shook his head. “We’ve looked everywhere, Hop. Talked to the footman, talked to the baker. Talked to every vendor, every shop we’ve ever seen her in. No one has seen her since she disappeared into the house.”
Strider swallowed hard, trying not to explode. His arms, his legs, every speck of him wanted to crawl out of his skin. When he’d left Pen in that coaching inn, he hadn’t been able to stomach the sight of her. Not after what she did.
He needed time away from her. Time to reconcile all that had been lost by her keeping that letter from him.
But the instant he found out she was missing, all he wanted was to see her face. Hold her. Run his hands over every inch of her skin to prove that she was unharmed. The need to do that—above everything else—had become brutally clear. Brutally urgent.
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