Making up his mind, he shoved the bottle into his waistcoat pocket and headed up the back stairs to find Miss Ramsey. He couldn’t leave her to face the dowager without warning.

But he must be quiet about it. If anyone were to see him…

No. He’d not dwell on that.

Rounding the corner of the landing, he waited for Henrietta and Sarah to pass by.

“She won’t last out the week,” Henrietta’s snide remark caught his ear. “Mrs. Harper should never have hired her on. I could have taken Fannie’s position, and that’s the truth. This girl cannot possibly do the job.”

“What can Mrs. Harper be thinking, allowing her to serve at the dowager’s rout?” Sarah followed Henrietta, the coal scuttle banging softly against the older maid’s skirts. Avery stood aside and allowed them to pass. They did not acknowledge his presence at all. It was as if he was simply a stick of furniture. Don’t trip on it, mind you, but certainly don’t bother making conversation with it.

The cut had long ago ceased to bother him.

Continuing on his way, Avery mounted the stairs slowly so as to hear Henrietta’s reply.

“I am glad that she shall serve. The stupid girl will anger the dowager, we’ll make sure of that. This afternoon I am to instruct her how to go on. What a job I shall make of it!” Henrietta’s giggles echoed in the stairwell.

Avery’s stomach dropped. Damn and blast. Redoubling his speed, he mounted the stairs two at a time. He must keep Henrietta from ruining Miss Ramsey’s chances of succeeding on the morrow. It really was too bad that he could think of but one way to keep her from her sabotaged lessons.

* * *

“Are you sure it’s okay for me to come with you?”

Miss Ramsey’s voice floated over his shoulder as he led her through the streets. They’d left the fine parts of the West End many minutes ago and were now nearing St. Giles.

“There was no choice,” he said patiently, holding an arm out to stop her from crossing in front of a hack. “The dowager’s rout is tomorrow evening, and if you’re to know how to go on, I must instruct you. Do not worry. Mrs. Harper has been told you’ve been sent on an errand for Cook.”

They continued across the street, and Avery tried not to notice the growing concern on Miss Ramsey’s face as she took in their surroundings. The fine homes had given way to crowded hovels, filth and garbage littering the streets. The warmth of Miss Ramsey’s body soaked into him as she pressed close to his side. He repressed his desire due to her proximity, though it was a damned difficult thing to do.

“Mrs. Harper said she’d have somebody tell me what to do. God, what a stink. Where did you say we were going again?” Miss Ramsey’s gloved hand pressed over her mouth and nose, and her forehead wrinkled in distaste. How strange that such a repugnant expression could look so lovely.

“We are going to my aunt. She is ill.” He stopped to allow a tradesman’s cart to pass before continuing. “But as for the rout, Mrs. Harper intended for Henrietta to show you how to go on. Henrietta wanted Fannie’s position for herself. She made it quite well known that she’d be most happy if the dowager found you unsatisfactory.” He bit back the part about prison. No reason to frighten the girl.

Their footsteps squished through the muddy streets as they entered St. Giles. To distract her from the worsening conditions in the streets, he began reciting a litany of advice for the morrow.

“The dowager is His Grace’s mother. You will need to be most careful while in her presence. Mind how you go there.” He steered her away from a pile of filth in the street. “She does not tolerate mistakes from her servants. You’ve one chance to impress her, and once lost, you shall never have another.”

“So, no pressure,” Miss Ramsey said dryly, tucking an errant blond lock behind her ear. “Not only is my future mother-in-law a former duchess, she’s also a terrifying dragon lady. Good thing I brushed up on my dragon-slaying etiquette.”

She fell silent, and Avery let her take in the scene of the square.

It was familiar to him. After all, once his mother had passed on, he and his father had come to live here, in one of the shanties by the church. The foul odors, the calling curses loud in the air, the crowded conditions were all as native to him as breathing. He turned, and his throat closed at the shock on Miss Ramsey’s face.

“Your sick aunt doesn’t live here, does she?” Her words were thick with horror.

An odd mixture of shame and offended pride filled him. “It’s not such a bad place. There’s a roof over her head and enough food to fill her belly. If I had the means, she would make her home in a more comfortable situation.”

She turned to him, biting her lip before speaking. “Avery, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

He dismissed her apology with a wave. “No matter.”

“You used to live here, didn’t you?”

Her insight nearly felled him. He drew himself up taller. “Yes, I did.”

Her small hand curled around his arm. “No wonder you’re so tough. You had to be, growing up here.”

He cast a glance over to her. She was looking into his face, without pity, without any sign of condescension. She simply stated a fact, but there was a light behind her eyes, one that made him wonder if she esteemed him for overcoming his former hardships.

Though he longed to reach out, bathe himself in that light, he cleared his throat and continued. “Follow me, if you please.”

Despite his longing at having her so near, he made sure to remain as close as her shadow as they wound their way through St. Giles toward his aunt’s one-room hovel. Guiding her toward the next corner, he pulled down his hat and prayed as he passed the Wolf and Dove public house that no one would notice him. The first time he’d gone to a mill, which had been against his will, was at the insistence of the proprietor, Benedict Turpin. He’d won half a crown, as promised, but had made the acquaintance of Thomas Prachett in the bargain.

“Quickly now,” he said in a low voice to Miss Ramsey, hustling her past the door.

“Russell, as I live and breathe,” a cackle came from the door of the pub. The man leaning against the door spat into the street, then smiled with a mouthful of rotten teeth at Avery. It was Turpin, of course. One of Prachett’s men. The one who’d introduced them.

Avery’s stomach, having changed into a sack of lead, plummeted.

Then again, luck never had been much on his side.

Eleven

“Fancy meeting you here, you old devil.” The man’s accent was thick, making it hard to understand him.

Leah turned toward the voice, curiosity momentarily overtaking the nerves that had been ruling her brain. She’d been to some scary places in her day. Hell, once she’d had an overnight layover in Detroit. But even that hadn’t prepared her for the harsh reality of the London slums.

Avery’s shoulders, lined with tension before, tightened even further as he turned to face the one who’d addressed him.

“Turpin.” He nodded coolly. “No time to waste, I’m afraid. I’ve an appointment.”

The man stood half a foot taller than Avery, his brownish-white shirt splattered with stains across the front. His jacket was threadbare, the cheap fabric thinning in many places. “Come in for a pint, my lad, and tell us about the fine house you serve in. Fancy a bruiser like you polishing buttons and wiping a lordship’s arse!” He tossed back his head and laughed, and Leah turned her head away quickly from the sight and smell of his open mouth. Ugh, she should have brought a sack of toothbrushes with her through that damn mirror.

“Another time.” Avery turned on his heel and Leah stumbled in shock as he gripped her arm to steer her forward.

“At the Houndstooth tourney? You’ll be there, won’t you, lad?”

Avery didn’t slow, apparently pretending not to hear the question.

Leah moved on her toes, driven by Avery’s strong but gentle grip.

Shut up, she inwardly hissed to her fluttering heart. Anyone would think she’d been kissed passionately at the way her excited heart was thumping. She was apparently so desperate for human companionship that her upper arm had graduated to erogenous zone. At least, she tried to convince herself that it could have been anyone, not just the strong, quiet man beside her that was making her heart turn cartwheels.

Or maybe it was just the fear of the environment. She made use of their proximity to grip his coat in nerveless fingers. What had that Turpin guy meant by “a bruiser like Avery”? And what tourney?

She opened her mouth to ask him, but her train of thought was derailed when they crossed the road. The smell was awful, even worse than it had been before. Mud stood in the streets, fetid pools that made her wonder if they were just dirt and water or something else. The buildings, if she could be so generous, looked about ready to collapse at any moment. But the thing that made her want to close her eyes and not open them until she got back home was the faces.

There were thousands of them. Young, old, decorated with visible dirt or wiped clean, it didn’t matter, they all held the same expression—hopelessness. It saturated their gaunt cheeks, their pointed chins, but most of all, it haunted their empty eyes. It was like walking through a horror movie. She caught herself praying that Avery had never been among their number, although she knew better.

She curled her fingers tighter into his sleeve. “Avery, are you sure we should be here?”

“We’ve arrived.” He pulled free of her grip and opened the door for her. Damn it, how did he sound so calm? And why’d he have to let go of her arm? She ducked through the low doorway into a narrow staircase. The smell wasn’t as bad here, and she breathed a shaky sigh of relief. Even her normally strong stomach had been close to losing it at the conditions outside. How had he come through a life in this place?

The stairs creaked beneath their feet. At the top, Avery produced an ancient key and pushed it into the lock of the narrow door.

“Aunt?”

The only answer in the dim room was a hacking cough from the bed in the corner. The heavy, cloying scent of sickness and unwashed human filled the room. Avery moved inside, and Leah stuck close to his back. She didn’t want to be here. She should have stayed back at the house. She could have figured out how to handle herself on her own, couldn’t she?

No way to fix it now. She was in the middle of England with no way of getting back to Granville House except the man who was bending over a tiny bed by the room’s single window.

“Aunt, I am here.” His gruff voice was as tender as she’d ever heard it. A soft moan was the only answer from the rail-thin form beneath the covers.

Leah leaned to the side to get a better look at the woman.

A lank braid lay on the pillow. Her cheeks were sunken, her skin held the sickly pallor of the nearly dead. Her lashes, long and thick, rested on her sharp cheekbones. Apparently, the moan hadn’t been in response to Avery’s greeting at all.

Leah shifted her weight anxiously. This had once been a beautiful, strong woman. Now she lay here in this tiny room, dying all alone? Worrying the inside of her cheek with her teeth, Leah looked at the rough floorboards. It really put her own life into perspective, and Leah didn’t care for the comparison. She’d been selfish and completely narrow-minded. But what could she have done differently?

The question seemed moot.

“How has she been faring, Mrs. Comstock?” Avery said as another woman entered the room behind them and dumped a bucket of water into the ewer.

“Millie is still breathing, Mr. Russell, but as to whether that’s a blessing or a pity I cannot advise ye.”

Leah watched as the thin, angry-looking woman wiped her hands with a rag. At least Avery’s aunt Millie had someone nearby.

Avery straightened. “I have brought more medicine for her.” He produced a small brown bottle from his jacket.

Mrs. Comstock took it from him and thumped the bottle. Leah bit her lip as the woman uncorked the top and poured a dose into a spoon.

“Mind yourselves,” she admonished as she bent over the sickbed. “You’ve no wish to be near when she swallows this draught, mark me.”

Avery turned away as Mrs. Comstock brought the spoon to his aunt. Leah reached for his hand, wanting to comfort him, but he pulled away.

Mrs. Comstock pried open the sick woman’s mouth and inserted the spoonful of medicine. Closing Millie’s jaw with one hand and massaging her throat with the other, Mrs. Comstock forced her to swallow the dose. Millie fought weakly, hands batting at Mrs. Comstock’s, but in her semiconscious state, there was no way for her to be a real deterrent.