The Marquess' Angel_Hart and Arrow_A Regency Romance Book

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The Marquess' Angel_Hart and Arrow_A Regency Romance Book Page 7

by Julia Sinclair


  "I love being a Carrow, so stop that at once. And I thought, well, maybe I could use your help."

  Thomas looked around. The buildings around him that weren't actually crumbling were stained by soot, grime, blood from the butchers close by, and things even less pleasant. A pair of drunks passed a blue bottle back and forth between them, curled up under a pile of old newsprint for warmth.

  "What on earth do you need help with here?"

  To Thomas’ surprise, Blythe's face took on a stern look. She probably was a Carrow after all.

  "Just about everyone around us could use some help or other. Are you going to help me, or are you just going to make fun of me?"

  "I'm certainly going to help you, but if you somehow make us members of a thieving gang, I'll be rather irritated."

  She ignored his little joke, offering him her hand, and they started walking down the street again. "So, Honey isn't the first girl I've gotten to safety with the Quakers," she said. "I helped another woman last year, and she's doing well now, living up north and married to a good man, but she's never stopped missing the daughter she lost in London."

  "You think her daughter is working in one of the cat houses?"

  "God, I hope not. They were separated when the girl was seven. She'd be ten now."

  Thomas supposed he had imagined fights of the kind that mothers and daughters had, recriminations and slammed doors. This was obviously something different. "How the hell did she lose her daughter at the age of seven?"

  "Don't take that tone about Sandra, Thomas. She was in a terrible place, and it was not her fault. The man she was with... didn't like that she had a daughter, I suppose. She woke up one day, and Rose was gone. Her man had Rose taken away, and Sandra couldn't do anything about it. The constables wouldn't listen to a fallen woman, and they think the poor down here sell their babies for gin anyway."

  "Dear God."

  "Yes. Sandra couldn't do anything while she was living with that awful man, and then she was escaping and making a life for herself in the north. She's doing well now, but she's never forgotten her daughter."

  "And how do you come into this, exactly?"

  "Well, I was the one who helped her connect with the Quakers, and much like you saw with Honey, I guided her there. It's not much, but it gave her the courage to leave, knowing that another woman would be with her. She's written to me like clockwork ever since she got settled, and she's told me a great deal about her daughter."

  "And Parrington allows you to receive letters from a formerly fallen woman?"

  "Tristan may believe that the letters are from the treasurer of a woman's league up north, but that's neither here nor there. But to finish, Rose has a distinctive birthmark on her face, dark red and covering her right cheek from chin to eye. Just a week ago, someone who was staying with the Abeggs mentioned seeing a girl like that in Seven Dials, in a workshop."

  "And, of course, you are going to go investigate. In the middle of the night. In one of the worst neighborhoods London has to offer. And you were going to go alone."

  Blythe offered him a slight smile. "Are you sure you're not a Carrow? That sounds like something Tristan might say."

  Thomas scowled because she wasn't wrong. He supposed that the risks that he took, and even the risks that Georgiana took, were different than this. They were out for fun, novelty, or notoriety, to be talked about and admired. Most of the time, they did not take risks that might simply result in them being knifed and disappeared on a quiet foggy night.

  "Anyway, the place we're going wouldn't talk to me if I showed up in my good-works guise. I decided that it was best to take a more direct approach."

  "Well, I can't say that the cause isn’t just. Lead on."

  They walked for another twenty minutes, and Thomas realized that Blythe was leading him away from the main thoroughfare, from the gin shops and cat houses that gave Seven Dials what custom it received. Now they were in the narrow residential buildings where people slept ten to a room and where fires from impromptu hearths were a common risk. The streets were dim, lit only by the occasional link boy making his way about and the light spilling from the quiet public houses, and Blythe kept to the shadows. Finally, she pointed at a shabby store that looked nearly identical to the others. A shingle hung over the narrow door, a shirt with patches painted on it.

  "That's where the Abeggs told me that Rose might be being held. We need to get in there to see."

  "And how are we going to do that?"

  "Well, since you're here, you're going to keep watch on the very off chance that a constable somehow got lost and felt like arresting someone much smaller than him."

  "And what are you doing?"

  Blythe cast a quick look up and down the street and reached up her skirt. With just a quick tug, she freed a slender pry bar that had been dangling from a string around her waist and showed it to Thomas with a slight grin.

  "Oh, my God, you're actually a criminal. I have fallen in with a housebreaker."

  "Don't lose your nerve now, Thomas, or I'll start to think that the Martin reputation for wildness is all talk about parties and fashion. Are you going to help me or not?"

  Thomas could say no, that this was insane, and see about getting a rented hack back to his home. Hell, he could have dragged Blythe along with him and prevented her from doing whatever insane thing she was going to do in the next hour. He found that he couldn't do any of that.

  "Of course I am."

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  It was strange, Blythe decided, having someone along when she ventured out at night. Having Thomas by her side as she walked through the city streets granted her a kind of invisibility she had never had before. When she was usually out, she did her best to be no more remarkable than a mouse scurrying along the edge of the sidewalk. When she was with Thomas, she had the invisibility of a claimed woman. It rankled, but it was also damned convenient.

  Whatever else might be said about the Martin heir, she had to admit that he was game. For a moment, she'd thought he was going to tell her she was insane and leave her to it, but then, even in the dim light, she saw a glint that seemed very familiar to her in his eye.

  When the quiet street was completely empty, they crossed to the left of the clothes reseller shop that was their target. There was barely enough space for Blythe to walk between that shop and its neighbor, and for one hairy moment, she thought Thomas wouldn't be able to squeeze through at all.

  Once in the back, she struck a match so she could see better. The light was small, brief, and hopefully innocuous enough that it wouldn't draw any attention.

  "So, what are you thinking?" Thomas looked up and down the alleyway between the rows of houses and shops. It was open at both ends and only wide enough for a dog cart to get through, but it would serve if they needed to leave quickly.

  "Do you know ‘Daisy I'm a Lady’?"

  "The... music hall tone?"

  "Yes. If you see someone suspicious coming or you see any sign that someone in the rooms above is moving about, whistle the first few bars. I think I can fit in through that window there, and I'll be able to look around. The walls in this part of town are thin, and I'll be able to hear you if something goes wrong."

  "That song is terrible, and I will want to know why you know it when this is all over. But that's it. You want me to play lookout while you go into the house of people who might be actual kidnappers?"

  "Don't I take you to the best places? You said you were in."

  "I am. Dammit, be careful."

  "Of course."

  As she went after the small window that was just about at eye height to her with the pry bar, Thomas slouched against the wall, head down and arms crossed over his chest. As long as someone didn't get too close and see how fine
his clothes were, they could easily mistake him for a drunk taking a moment before stumbling the rest of the way home.

  The window popped open with ease, and Blythe reckoned she could squirm through without too much risk of getting stuck. She pulled herself through the window, stifling a cry when she felt Thomas grab her by the legs, offering both support and a stop in case she fell.

  A tall table sat directly under the window, and she crawled onto it quietly, slipping silently to the floor before it could break underneath her. She lit another match to see her surroundings before blowing it out nearly immediately. Her memory was good enough that she could start to feel her way through the narrow rooms, and before she had gone five feet, she heard a soft murmur of children's voices.

  Somewhere above, there was a creaking sound as if of feet on rickety floorboards, but when she listened, she could not hear Thomas whistling.

  I might have been too confident with Thomas. He seems to think I've done this before.

  She hadn't, but she moved slowly and smoothly through the house, always toward the sound of those voices. She wondered why children were up so very late, but then, close to a room that seemed to be filled from wall to wall with old rags and clothing, a sliver of light shone from a cracked door.

  Blythe hesitated just beyond the light, wondering how she should approach it, when she heard a soft voice from within.

  "And they flew off on the prince's horse, to a kingdom under the sea. The princess kissed the prince, for to make him... him live forever?"

  "Immortal, I think."

  "Yes, to make him immortal like she was. And they lived happily from their time to ours. And if they are not dead, they live still."

  Fairy tales?

  "That was a good one, Stasia. Will you tell another?"

  "No, I am tired now, but did you finish your work?"

  Work? It was hours before dawn. Why in the world were they doing work?

  Taking the risk, Blythe crept a little closer, pressing her eye to the slender opening of the door.

  The room was wide but low, and at the center of it was a table piled high with fabric, some made into clothes, others just loose cloth. Around the table sat four girls, their needles flashing as they talked. It was like a scene out of a fairy tale in some ways, the girls sewing away into the night.

  Then she saw the chains around the girl's ankles, and Blythe couldn't help but gasp.

  The girls stilled instantly, their faces turning toward the door. As they did, Blythe could see that one of the girls, gaunt and blonde, did have a dark red birthmark on her face.

  "Who is there?" asked the girl who had been telling the story. Her accent made the question come out thick and clumsy. "We are good. We are working."

  Blythe took a deep breath and opened the door quietly, closing it after her. "I'm a friend of Rose's mother," she said, nodding at the girl with the birthmark. "I'm here to help you."

  The girls looked at her with fear and doubt, but hope as well. Good. Sometimes when she had to help people out of dangerous situations, the most difficult part was helping them escape their own overwhelming fear. This time, she didn't think she would have to do much of that.

  "My mother sent you?" asked Rose.

  "She did. She has missed you a great deal, Rose."

  "They... they told me she didn't want me anymore. That she sold me."

  Blythe felt her heart ache for the girl and also a rising fury at the man who had done this to them. "That's not true at all. Your mother is safe and living up north. She wants you, Rose, believe me."

  She glanced at the other girls. "There are people who will help you as well, even if we cannot find your families or return you to them. But first, you must help me. Tell me, do you know where the key to your chains are kept?"

  The girls looked at her dubiously, and she could imagine they had tried to escape before. Every attempt must have been punished to make them this nervous, and she tamped her rage for a better time.

  Stasia, the foreign girl, spoke first. "There is a peg on the stairwell going to the bedrooms. The key hangs there. I saw it when they first bring me here."

  "Thank you. And how do I get there? Tell me as precisely as you can."

  She listened carefully to their instructions. The house was not so very difficult to maneuver, but it was cluttered, and some of that clutter would make an almighty racket if it was dropped.

  "All right. I'm going to get that key. Stay as you are but be ready to run as soon as I get you all loose. If there's anything you cannot live without, grab it, yes?"

  The girls nodded, and Blythe felt a sense of fierce affection for them as she went back into the darkness. Her nerves were strained to the shattering point, but she moved slowly and steadily. She felt in front of her with each foot before she took a step. Progress was agonizingly slow, but it was still silent, and soon enough, she was crossing the shabby parlor toward the stairs.

  She risked lighting a match so she could see where she was going, and for a moment, her heart nearly stopped when she saw a man's shadow thrown large against the wall. She stopped the automatic shout from passing her lips, however, and a second look told her that it was only a dresser's dummy.

  More importantly, Blythe could see the key hanging from its peg on a bit of twine, and she could also see that the way toward it was clear. She shook the match out and walked a little more quickly toward the key.

  She breathed with relief when she felt it cold in her fingers, and then she started to make her way back. She was just maneuvering her way around a table full of leather scraps when she heard it, the opening bars of "Daisy I'm a Lady," and soon after that, she heard the heavy tread of feet on the floor above.

  No time to figure out where those feet were going; no time to find a good hiding place. She walked quickly back to the room, and the whole time, her entire body was telling her to run, run, run...

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  10

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  TEN

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  Every second that Blythe was gone seemed to drag like an hour. Thomas forced himself to stop thinking about what terrible things might be happening to her and instead concentrated on his job: keeping watch. Things were going well until he saw a pair of drunks, real ones, reeling down the alley.

  Thomas pulled himself a little closer to the wall, willing them to pass by, and for a little while, he thought they were going to do just that. He had just started to relax when one drunk drained the blue glass bottle he'd been sucking on, drew back with his arm, and sent it sailing up to shatter against the very building that Thomas was leaning against and Blythe was creeping around in.

  Thomas swore, and as he stepped into the alley to look, one of the windows above lit up.

  For a terrible moment, he thought his throat was too dry to whistle, and then he forced out the first few bars of the ridiculous song Blythe had indicated.

  Was that it? Did she sincerely expect him to just whistle and hope it all came out for the best? If that's what Blythe genuinely expected from him, she was going to learn better. He had to get whoever was coming down the stairs focused on something else besides the tiny woman exploring the house. Fortunately, he was a Martin, and making a scene was something of his specialty.

  The second run through the back of the alley was far less careful than the first one. Thomas banged his wrist hard against a bit of protruding stone, and when his sleeve caught on something and he kept running, a big chunk of his sleeve stayed behind. He caught his breath when he hit the thoroughfare again but then spun right around toward the door. He practically fell on it, pounding on the splintery wood with his fists and shouting in a slurred voice for the proprietor to open up.

  For a moment, he thought nothing was going to happen and he'd have to break in a window, but then he heard a heavy step on the other side of the door.
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  The door cracked open, and someone thrust a lantern into Thomas’ face. "What the hell do you want?"

  "Clothes, my good man! I was told this was just the spot to go, or at least, that's what they told me a few streets back before they kicked me out. Can you believe it? Kicked out? Me?"

  Thomas figured that the only thing that kept the man from slamming the door in his face was hearing Thomas’ expensive accent and seeing the gleam of Thomas’ good boots.

  "You're... looking for clothes here? Right now?"

  "Well, when else would I be looking for them? I need some good clothes for an event Lady Sefton is throwing this week, and I have no interest in looking like less than the best, so let me in."

  Not waiting for an answer, Thomas pushed his way into the house, startling the man so badly that he didn't stop him. The room was shabby with a pervasive smell of mild rot, but Thomas didn't let that stop him as he started to reel around the room, slurring and knocking into the tables and chairs.

  "Ha, so sorry, my good man, I suppose I got a little half-seas over at the last place, or maybe one of the places before that..."

  The man tried to make Thomas sit in a chair, but Thomas fell out of the chair and then was up in a heartbeat, inspecting the dummy, exclaiming over how dark everything was, and he'd better not see the same design on Lord Castlereagh at the opera next week.

  He was too big for the man to wrestle to a stop, too rich for the man to want to kick him out, and too loud for the man to get a word in edgewise.

  Thomas kept at it for what felt like a small eternity until he heard it.

  From somewhere outside the house, he heard the sharp clear whistle of “Parson Hollis,” the staid processional that he and Blythe had danced just a few days before.

  Still slurring, still reeling, Thomas shoved a handful of shillings at the man, letting half that handful drop to the floor. "Oh, just put it toward the suit you are making me. Mother will be ever so cross if I don't make it home for breakfast..."

 

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