L ooking as if one belonged in the ton without actually gaining attention was a skill that Peggy had mastered a short six months ago. She had been flitting in and out of ton parties ever since, financing a large bag of savings, which she intended to use to take her mother and grandmother to America.
A land where opportunity awaited. A place where they could hope for more than cruel deaths in cold rooms on broken cobbled streets.
She did not quite have enough yet. She’d calculated expenses for the three of them to live safely and relatively well for several years down to the last penny.
She was not going to go to a new country with questionable finances and end up in a worse position.
No, they were going to go with a very large nut. Once there, they’d wear decent clothes and be whoever they wished to be. After all, the three of them could take on new characters like a man put on his cloak.
And she was close. Just a few more finds would put them in the perfect position to take a good ship to Boston.
And they would buy a house and set themselves up, as could be done in the new world. That would be her escape. She would be free of the dirty backstreets of London.
Every robbery was exciting… But it was also terribly risky, having to hide and pretend and manage to slip expensive, small items out of houses without being caught.
Thieving was a very dangerous business.
She’d worked her way up, starting by picking the pockets of gentlemen on the street. She’d taken scarves, purses, pocket watches, cuff links, and even cravat pins. And in the last year, she had picked the pocket of many a gentleman whilst dancing with them at balls, routs, and in Vauxhall Garden.
This night, she had slipped into the party at Heron House, knowing there would be grand takings. She’d decided the risk was worth it. And perhaps…a part of her had longed to see how the legendary Sylvia, Dowager Duchess of Westleigh and former grand actress, lived.
She had apparently been a fool, even though she’d promised her mother that she never would be. At least it wasn’t because she was selling herself to some gentleman. But the gentleman now standing opposite her, telling her he was going to take her to be judged? Well, he was a rather formidable fellow.
A handsome, formidable, arrogant, privileged fellow.
Dark hair framed a face that looked as if it had been meant for sin. And she was very familiar with gentlemen who had been meant for sin. The East End was full of tough comers, men who could beat one to a pulp, slip through the darkness as if the darkness was their own soul, and command a crowd. Because if one could not command, one would quickly find themselves obliterated. He had the feel of such things simmering below his surface, and yet he was clearly a gentleman. A man in control of whatever darkness lingered in him.
The black leather eye patch over his eye did something to him. Instead of making him look harrowing, it made him look roguish, capable, as if he had faced death and the devil himself and come out on the other side triumphant.
No doubt he was a favorite of the ladies. But not her. He would not be her favorite. No. She needed to pivot quickly because the act that she had used the few times when she’d almost been caught before had not worked on him. She had prattled and batted her lashes and tried to sound completely without threat.
A brainless cake of a woman.
He had not been taken in. He had somehow sensed almost immediately that she did not belong in this house. And now she was in trouble.
He reached for her elbow.
“I say,” she said. “You do not need to manhandle me.”
“I do,” he said.
“I promise I shall cause you no trouble.”
His lip curled at that. “I don’t believe you,” he said. “I think that your name is trouble.”
“It is not,” she said.
“What is it then?”
“Peggy,” she affirmed.
“It is a good name. Peggy,” he said, letting her name linger in his mouth, as if it were a sweet to be savored. “It’s not from this part of town.”
She snorted. “What? Do you wish me to speak like the East End baggage you no doubt think I am?”
“Are you from the East End?”
She remained silent, but then she gave a slight nod of her head. She refused to be ashamed of it.
“Well, Peggy from the East End. I’m Maximus, and I’m pleased to meet you. I have never met a Peggy before.”
He almost certainly didn’t know anyone named Peggy. Peggy was not a name for his class. Peggy was a name for hers, and she was not going to get stuck here with him. He might seem like a relatively decent fellow, but she was no innocent in this. A gentleman would have no problem with sending a young woman of her background packing on a ship to some unknown land or, worse, to Tyburn to dance, and not the waltz.
He began to maneuver her towards the door.
“Now, now,” she said. “Really, my lord?”
“Now, now, really,” he mocked in turn.
She sucked in a sharp breath. This night had gone all wrong. She should have stayed at home when the button popped off her dress as she was getting ready. It had been an omen. But she’d been determined because she was so close to having all the money she needed to book the tickets.
Her grandmother had fretted and tried to urge her to stay in for the night. As a woman of the theater, her grandmother had a great many superstitions.
Peggy had insisted that her grandmother stitch the button back on. She had been doing this now for some time. She was quite skilled at it after all. And her grandmother, though worried, had rehearsed with her once again how she would behave when she entered the party.
Then she’d been off.
She’d gotten quite good at finding a small group to slip into such houses with. Once in, she would immediately disappear into the crowded foyer and slip into the halls. And if anyone ever did spot her, she always had an excuse. She was lost. Or she needed the lady’s closet. Or she was admiring the artwork because she was a student of history. There were many things that a young woman could say, but she had been caught in a closet.
It had been a mistake to go in and hide, but she’d been in the process of taking up the clock and stuffing it into her pocket. And so, she’d had to dart into the small space and shut the door behind her.
She’d been certain that whoever had entered the room would either smoke their cheroot, drink their drink, or have their assignation quickly. And then she’d be free.
But devil take it, this gentleman? He appeared quite jumpy. He’d heard her. She was usually as quiet as a mouse, which suggested to her that she had not been loud. No, he was quite sensitive to sound. He was observant, very observant, which was why he had known she did not belong. It was why she could not dupe him as she had duped so many others.
He took her elbow again and led her out into the dark hallway. Where in the devil was he taking her? Would he take her to the duke? After all, the duke would be able to send her off immediately to be locked away and then be judged in the morning. Or the duke might judge her himself, even if he was not what could be called a local magistrate!
Her mouth dried and fear began to coil in her belly as the reality of her situation began to take shape.
Dukes didn’t need to be local magistrates. They had more power than gold, as far as she could see. And that meant there was really only one thing for it.
“Forgive me,” she rushed, searching for any way out of this. “My slipper has become untied, and I should hate to trip.”
“I promise I’ll catch you if you fall,” he drawled, undeterred.
She scowled. “Do you think that I lie to you, sir?”
“Yes,” he said, striding on. “Lying seems to come to you as a drunkard to his drink. But don’t worry, I won’t judge you over it. I come from a family of actors.”
“Sylvia… She’s—”
“My grandmother,” he stated. “Though that’s quite familiar of you to call her Sylvia.”
Her mouth nearly dropped to the floor. She’d known he was a lord, but she’d not realized he was so closely related to the dowager duchess.
The dowager duchess was a legend in the East End. That shining star of hope that allowed every young woman to believe that she too could find a duke and be swept from that part of society. But that was a ridiculous pipe dream, one that she would never have.
“Let me go,” she tried one last time.
“I can’t.”
“Well, then there’s nothing for it, sir.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
And then she twisted, drew back her foot, and kicked his shin well and good with the toe of her slipper.
It was not a usual slipper.
It was a slipper that she had had made specially for situations such as this, the pointed toe reinforced with steel. No silly girl was she. She would not be caught in the corner by a man and made to feel weak because he was strong. He let out a strangled note of pain and bent down, as she knew he would. She yanked her hand from his stunned grasp, and she was off.
She bolted down the hall. All she had to do was make it to a window. She could throw it open, toss herself out, and be lost to him in the grounds. They were vast grounds. She already knew that. She had seen drawing plans for it. She did not go to houses without doing research. She knew that if she made it out into the grounds, she could disappear into the nearby wood and then make her way back to the city, her prized clock in hand.
Her feet pounded hard on the carpet. She sucked in breath after breath, her stays pressing to her ribs as she raced through the moonlit hallway. As she pumped her arms, she shoved the clock into the special bag sewn into her gown. It banged against her leg as she passed portrait after portrait of judgmental relatives. It was a long hall.
A very long hall. But she was adept at fleeing. Girls like her had to be.
She threw herself to the right and down another corridor. She spotted a window at the end, which was open due to the summer heat. Its ivory curtains billowed out towards her.
She could sense her freedom. She threw herself forward, and just as she was about to toss herself through, hands reached out and grabbed her from behind, pulling her tightly against a strong form.
“No!” she cried out, kicking and fighting. She would not go easily. She could not. The clock in her pocket swung wildly, banging against him and then her own legs. She bit back a cry of pain.
“Devil take it, woman,” he growled, holding her against his broad, hard chest. “Be still.”
“I shall not. I’m not going to Australia. I’ve worked far too hard.”
She tried to kick at him, but he quickly turned her, keeping her tightly held to him.
“Now be still,” he commanded, his breath hot against her face. The sweet scent of mint filled her senses.
She ground her teeth. “I will not be still. I will fight to the bitter end. Let me go.”
“I will fight with you,” he said.
She struggled hard against him, but he was like the Tower of London, except this fortress was made of muscle and bone. There was no escaping him. It was infuriating and somehow exhilarating. He wasn’t going to slit her throat.
No, she somehow knew it. Perhaps because of the way he held her. He didn’t hold her like the London street toughs she knew, who could break a girl’s neck the way a butcher broke a bird’s.
No. Though he held her in his powerful grasp, he was careful .
Her heart was pounding hard in her chest. Her breath was coming in short takes. His hands were splayed over her body. And then, finally, she did the only thing that she could do. She went limp in his arms.
Slowly, she let her breath slow. But her heart continued to hammer hard. His face was pressed to the side of her face. He enveloped her, imprisoning her in his massive strength.
“Why did you run?” he rumbled.
“Why?” she echoed. “Clearly, you are a man of privilege.”
“I am,” he replied.
“Australia. Remember?” she prompted. “Prison,” she added.
“Why in God’s name do you think I’m going to send you to Australia or a prison?”
“Why wouldn’t you?” she demanded, quite astonished by the feel of his hard body holding hers up. “You are a toffee-nosed nobleman who only cares about—”
“You have no idea what I care about, Peggy,” he whispered softly. “Now, you listen to me. There’s no escaping, and you don’t want to.”
“Why not?” she said.
“Because I’m going to help you,” he said softly, his voice a low hum against her cheek.
She shivered. But not with fear… She shivered with something she couldn’t name. “I know the sort of help that gentlemen like you give to ladies.”
“No,” he replied. “Not like that.”
“There’s always a price to pay,” she bit out.
“Yes,” he rasped. “There is always a price to pay. Life demands it. You were very articulate and very correct about that before. But we shall come up with an agreement, you and I.”
The strange feelings dancing through her were torturous and, for a moment, she was tempted to beg. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Instead, she asked quite simply, “Why can’t you just let me go?”
“Because,” he said, “if I do, you’ll just end up in the arms of somebody else. And I can’t let that happen.”