by Hilly Mason
“All right,” she finally relented.
“Good. I want to debut the spectacle at our show at the River Theater in Philadelphia.”
She blinked at him. “But that’s only a few days away!” she protested.
“Oh, I know,” Gregory said. Suddenly he leaned forward, and quicker than a flap of a hummingbird’s wing he brushed his lips against Isla’s cheek. “But I know you are capable doing it.”
Isla lifted her hand to brush the spot where he had kissed her. Why hadn’t she recoiled, or kneed him in the gut? Instead, she laughed uneasily, embarrassed by the way her cheeks enflamed.
“Would you like to take a walk with me through Philadelphia for a bit, Miss St. George? The weather has been so pleasant lately. It’s hardly humid today.”
He offered his arm, and she hesitated for a half of a second before taking it. “So how are you liking America so far?” he asked amicably as they strolled down the street. She was about the same height as Gregory, and eye level. This close to him she could smell his aftershave and the soap from his laundered clothes.
“It’s hot,” she admitted. “I don’t think I prepared myself enough for the weather here.”
Gregory chuckled. “It took me a few years to really get used to it. But I do find myself missing the gray skies of London time and again.”
“I don’t miss London,” Isla said.
Gregory raised an eyebrow. “Oh, and why is that?’
“I never felt like I truly belonged there.” She shrugged one shoulder. “I never really felt like I belonged anywhere. I was thankful that Lord Jackson Craig came to take me away on a journey. I think it’s just what I needed.”
“And is America any different? Do you feel a sense of belonging here?”
“I dinna ken,” she said softly. “I’m still trying to figure that out, I think.”
Gregory stopped and pulled them into the privacy of an alley. He put his hands around the small of her back and pushed her so suddenly close to him so she had no choice but to rest her hands on his chest.
“Gregory…” Isla began, confused by his actions. Did he mean to kiss her in front of the whole damn street? She tried to wiggle away, but his hold was firm.
“I wanted to do this the moment I saw you,” Gregory said huskily as he brushed a stray strand of hair from Isla’s face.
“Do what?” Isla demanded. She wanted to bite that hand. “Step away from me at once!”
“I want to kiss you.” He closed the distance between their lips and pressed his to hers. God, we’ve only just known each other. What was he thinking? She froze for a moment before sinking her teeth into his lower lip, hard.
Gregory yelped and pulled away, holding his fingers against his lips and pulling it away, revealing a fresh dab of blood. “What the devil did you do that for?”
Isla glared at him. “I told ye to get away from me, ye wee cod!” she told him. The acrid taste of the man’s blood filled her mouth. She spat. “Blech! Ye don’t taste verra good, ye ken.”
Gregory’s face lit up like a tomato as he lifted his chin and swallowed forcibly, his Adam’s apple rising and falling dramatically. He then wiped the blood away from his lip with the back of his hand.
“Jackson Craig is no hero.”
“Ye think this is all about him?” she asked incredulously.
“He killed for his own gain.”
I killed someone.
“What do you mean?” Isla asked, lowering her voice. “Are ye talking about wee Claire? Her death wasn’t his fault.”
“God help me, of course I’m not talking about the child. He killed a man in cold blood.”
“I-I see…” Isla wrapped her arms around her torso and clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering, despite the mild weather.
He frowned at her. “I would suggest you assess your priorities before falling in love with a man like him,” he said caustically. Then, tipping his cap angrily, he left her alone on the sidewalk.
Is that what this was all about, her feelings towards Jack? She stared after Gregory before turning the opposite direction towards home. Despite what she had told Gregory, she was starting to realize that she belonged more in London than in Philadelphia. Sophia, the one person she could confide in, was thousands of miles away. She supposed she could write her a letter, but she was never good with words, as Jack was.
Jack. He was probably in the middle of the Atlantic by now. If only she had a chance to speak with him again, to tell him how much she had taken his comforting reassurance for granted.
Chapter Fourteen
It took all his will not to march into the manor and destroy the Murrays with his bare hands. They had lied to him. Blatantly lied to him to get what they wanted.
But they were also Isla’s parents, and he had witnessed how happy she was now that she had finally met them. Who was he to tell her that they had deceived him? He could handle his problems himself, and in this case, he would leave the Murray’s estate and never look back. It was better for Isla, and better for him. If he saw the Murrays again he didn’t know if he could hold himself back from doing something he would later regret.
But as he was walking through the city he realized that the events did not add up. Mr. Murray told him that Milton had escaped from the jailhouse and had robbed innocent people along the way during his escape until someone eventually shot and killed him.
But if Milton had actually escaped, Jack couldn’t picture his brother parading down a busy street. He was smart enough to lurk in the shadows. Furthermore, Milton would have no reason to rob anyone. If he were to escape, the first thing he would do would be to make sure his wife, Aki, was safe—not get himself into deeper trouble.
He knew the Murrays didn’t tell him the truth. Could that mean that there was a chance that his brother was actually alive?
It was raining badly by the time he made in to downtown Philadelphia. It was a wet, sticky rain that made him uncomfortable and even more disgruntled. He found an inn and barged through, immediately ordering an ale. After his third or fourth round, he took the tankard with him to the room he had rented for the night and drank himself to sleep, trying to forget about the image of Isla chasing after his carriage.
After what I’ve done to her, why would she want to speak to me again?
The next morning he stumbled down the stairs and back into the tavern to order breakfast, hoping that the cook still had the pork he had smelled in the kitchen the night before. His head was pounding and he was trying to decide if he should get rid of it with more alcohol when someone called his name.
“Jackson Craig?”
Jack cringed at the voice. He had almost slept with the barmaid the last time he had visited the tavern, and he had all but forgotten about her during his trek to and from England. Obviously she had not forgotten about him. Her hazel eyes flashed at him dangerously, and her lips curved downward into a frown as she slid in the seat next to him.
“Hullo, Deirdre,” Jack muttered. Deirdre was a pretty woman, with ample curves that she knew how to accentuate. He thought it safer to keep his eyes lowered to the bar counter.
“I heard you were in England. How was your journey?”
“Uneventful.”
“As talkative as ever,” the woman purred, as she petted his arm. “How’s your brother?”
His hands tightened into fists. “Dead, from what I’ve heard.”
Her eyes widened in genuine shock. “You can’t be serious. I saw him just a few weeks ago.”
Jack glanced over at her, trying to make his face impassive. “You did? Where?”
“Why yes, he was with…” she faltered. “I’m not supposed to tell.”
“I’m his damn brother!” Jack said, raising his voice, causing a few wary patrons to glance his way. “Tell me where the hell he is!”
“H-he spent the night at Madame Truffle’s brothel.” Deirdre said quickly, her face flushing with anger and perhaps a bit of fear.
Jack relaxed and
slinked back into his seat, forcing himself take deep, steadying breaths instead of shaking the poor woman for more information.
Did Milton escape and live? Jack wondered hopefully. And did the Murrays want to cover it up? The only way to find answers would be to retrace his brother’s footsteps, starting first with the jailhouse to speak with the sheriff, then the brothel.
“Are you spending the night here again?” Deirdre asked hopefully. She must have sensed that Jack’s rage had abated.
He shrugged. “Gotta sleep somewhere.” The next ship to England was three days away, and he expected to spend all of those three days drinking if his brother was actually dead.
A hand brushed his arm. “I can keep you company if you’d like.”
Jack stared at the hand detachedly. He almost agreed to Deirdre’s proposition because he was terribly lonely and needed some sort of comfort. But he knew he wouldn’t find the comfort he needed with this woman. He knew who he wanted, and he knew he could never face her again. He didn’t deserve Isla, even if she had forgiven him. Isla didn’t know the secrets he held. And if she did… she would probably think him a monster.
“No,” he finally said.
The woman shrugged and gave him a smile, although it was clearly a struggle to hide her disappointment. “I should probably head home anyway. My father is doing poorly and likes to have me by his side.” She retrieved her hand from Jack’s arm and stood up. “Goodbye, Jack.” She kissed him on his forehead before she left.
After his breakfast of ale and stale bread, Jack went back up to his room and splashed his face with water. Wiping off with a towel, he glanced in the mirror in front of him and then rubbed away the markings of the woman’s scarlet rouge from his forehead. His beard had grown in thickly, giving him a wild look, like some sort of Viking warrior. He hadn’t shaved his beard since before he left for England. In some ways he was a different man then. There were circles under his eyes, and lines framing his mouth, making him look as though he had aged ten years.
“You’re a damn mess,” he muttered to himself as he grabbed his knife and lathered a bar of soap. Once he had finished shaving, he ran his hands over his jaw and chin, reveling at the smoothness.
When he went back downstairs to head to the jailhouse, he overheard a conversation between two men sitting at a nearby table.
“And what the hell is a menagerie?”
“They’re gonna have a bunch of different exotic animals. I hear there’s gonna be a lion tamer too. A woman, no less.”
Jack’s ears perked up.
“When is this show?” he asked them.
The two men turned around and stared at him for a moment before one of them answered. “It starts next Thursday, I believe.”
The lion tamer had to be Isla. Was he even entertaining the idea of showing up to her performance?
The storm had cleared up overnight, and the heat was back in force, with the moisture still lingering in the air like a wet blanket. His shirt was already sticking to his back when he walked over to the jailhouse and pushed his way through the door.
The sheriff, Baxter, was sitting at his desk, and jumped when he saw Jack walk in. A few papers fluttered to the ground and he reached down to start picking them up, trying in vain to ignore the larger man.
“Where is my brother?” Jack demanded. The Murrays had promised him that they would not tell a soul about Jack killing a man, but he did not like hanging around law enforcement more than he needed to. He hoped he could get his answers and leave quickly.
The sheriff gave him a quick glance as he pushed his glasses farther up on the bridge of his nose. He was an older man in his fifties, small and thin, like a broomstick, and just as easily breakable.
“Your brother?” he asked mildly.
Jack clenched his fists. “Don’t pretend you don’t know who I am. I’m the only man who’s six-foot-four in this godforsaken city.”
Baxter’s lip trembled. “Y-you know you I could arrest you on the spot.”
Jack folded his arms across his broad chest, his muscles tightening the fabric of his shirt. His heart beat quickly, but he was certain the sheriff was ignorant about Jack’s secret. “You really want to try that? What would your wife do if I told the public about how you visit Madame Truffle’s brothel every Friday night?”
The man paled. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Jack lowered his eyes. “Tell me what happened to my brother.”
The sheriff pulled at his collar as though he was suddenly warm, and then stood from his seat and shut the door. He sat back down at his desk and sighed, running his hand through his thinning hair. “He named a good price,” he finally said.
Jack sat down in the chair in front of him. “What the devil do you mean?”
“I mean,” Baxter cleared his throat, “he paid his way outta here. I told the Murrays that he had escaped and was killed, but really he just gave me a good sum of money to keep my mouth shut and I… I let him go.”
“Do you know where he went?” Jack asked tightly.
The man shook his head. “Nah, he didn’t say. Why would he? I’m sure he wants people to think he’s dead. Otherwise the Murrays would kill him on the spot, and me too.” He paled again. “Lord, I probably shouldn’t have done it, but it was so much money. I couldn’t just say no. It’s gonna pay off my house, you know.”
“I don’t care about your bloody house,” Jack grumbled. He turned his head to the side, thinking. What money was the sheriff talking about? He and his brother had made a decent amount off of fur trading for a while, but it wasn’t enough to pay someone’s mortgage. The only other money they had was in the sprawling estate they’d left in England.
The sheriff wasn’t going to be any help to him. He would have to go to the brothel next.
Jack stopped at the corner Maple Street and looked up. The brothel was one of the first buildings built in Philadelphia when the city was founded, and on the outside, it seemed unobtrusive. But Jack knew what went on in the inside, how painstakingly Madame Truffle decorated her rooms, each with a different theme for whichever mood her patrons were in.
He admittedly had fond memories of the place. It was where his brother had taken him to for his entry into manhood.
“You can’t start a new life in a new country without becoming a man first,” Milton had told him as a younger Jack hesitated by the brothel doorsteps. “C’mon, it’s going to be one of the best times of your life. I promise.”
The woman who had indeed made him into a man was not much older than himself, but seemed years wiser. Pearl was beautiful, like an angel, with her sea green eyes, heart-shaped face, and plump pink lips. She was also very gentle with him, and patient—and Lord knows what a nervous wreck he had been.
After that night, he would visit the brothel now and then and request only Pearl. He’d imagined with her beauty and gentle touch that she was one of the most popular whores in the brothel, but when she was with him it was as though nobody else existed. It was her job to make him feel special and she did a bloody good job at it.
Because he was constantly traveling, Jack hadn’t visited the brothel for a year. He learned when he returned about a year ago that Pearl had died from a venereal disease, which luckily Jack did not carry. Madame Truffle made it a point thereafter to perform routine checkups on her employees, although Jack knew the risks were still there. He never took a woman to bed again after hearing of that, but remained friendly to the owner.
Milton was married now, and to his best knowledge did not frequent the brothel anymore, but he was also friends with the owner, and might have come to the establishment during his escape from jail for a place to stay, as Deirdre mentioned.
He knocked on the door and was greeted by the butler, Jeremy, who recognized him immediately.
“Lord Craig,” the Jeremy said, bowing slightly. “Wonderful to see you again. Right this way, please.”
He was led through a hallway to the Madame Truffle’s office. In one of the rooms
along the way scantily dressed women hovered over a card table, with one lucky man in the middle, enjoying their company. Jack knew that many people thought poorly of the men and women in this profession, but in his experience most of them had good hearts and were treated well under their Madame’s watchful eye.
He couldn’t help but think of Pearl. He was never in love with the woman, but they had been good friends. She had been his confidant when nobody else would listen to his troubles. Hopefully nobody else in this establishment would suffer the same fate.
“Lord Craig!” Madame Truffle announced brightly. For a well-off lady, she dressed rather humbly. A sharp contrast to Mrs. Murray, he couldn’t help but noticing. She wore a plain linen gown, her hair pulled back and adorned with a small crown of white paper flowers. The only jewelry she wore was a pair of ear bobs and an emerald necklace. “It sure has been a while, hasn’t it?”
The last time he had visited was when he received word of Pearl’s death. Coming back made him melancholic, but he also realized that he had moved on, that the pain wasn’t so deeply set anymore.
“Indeed it has, Madame Truffle.”
“I take it you are not looking to spend time with one of my girls tonight?”
“I think you know why I’m here.”
She nodded, closing the door behind her. Her voice lowered into a more normal pitch now that the patrons were out of earshot. “Milton came by here about three weeks ago, needing a place to stay for the night.”
“Did he say where he was headed?”
Madame Truffle shrugged. “Home, is all he said.”
Jack nodded. Home. It could mean a lot of things. It could mean England, but Milton never had the desire to return back to their homeland, especially now that he had taken a wife. Still, if he wanted to be presumed dead, perhaps it was his only option.
Or maybe not. America was vast enough that Milton could easily start a new life somewhere else. Jack was fairly certain Aki wouldn’t want to leave America. She felt more strongly to the land than Milton did of England.
Jack initially believed that Milton wouldn’t go back to their little cottage a few miles away from Philadelphia. But maybe that was exactly what he did. Hiding in plain sight. It didn’t hurt to look and find out.