A Lady Undone (3 page)

Whitechapel was a place out of hell. If one ever doubted that there was evil in this world, all they needed was to take a trip down the lanes of this part of town. Wyndham’s boots trudged over the muddy cobbles, wet with piss, ale, and God only knew what else.

The boy Billy stood in the doorway of the Merman’s Tail huddled against the paneling, his bare feet blackened as he scuffed them back and forth to keep warm.

“I thought I gave you a few shillings to buy some decent shoes, lad.” Wyndham fought a sigh. The street urchins made the best informants, but it wore his heart ragged to see their constant pain.

Billy shrugged. “Ma needed the money. Me and the other babies aren’t going to the workhouse, ya know.”

“I know,” Wyndham said firmly. It was so tempting to speak softly, but Billy wouldn’t respond well to such a thing. Creatures who had to claw their way daily to survival hated sympathy with a singular passion.

He wished he’d recalled that when speaking with the Duchess of Duncliffe. Though she mightn’t be a street urchin, he’d seen the anger flash in her eyes when he’d made it clear he understood what her marriage had been like.

It had been a foolish thing, but he’d wanted her to see how much he admired a woman who could rise above such a tyrannical husband.

He ran his hand over his coat, allowing a slight chink to pass the muffling folds of wool. Just loud enough for Billy to hear. “That’s for you, a few of the other lads, and your family if you can aid me with information. Are you interested?”

“Don’t be daft, gov. Course I am. Beats standing in this corner waiting for someone to pass me a few pennies to buy gin.”

“I’ve told you to stop drinking gin.”

Billy gave him a broad brown toothy grin. “You told me to buy shoes and all too.”

“So I did.”

Billy scrubbed his dirty fingers under his nose. “What you after, then?”

“I need you to ferret out who’s resentful of the Duchess of Duncliffe’s charitable home.”

Billy’s lip curled. “What, you mean the home for beat up skivvies?”

“A home for abused women, Billy.”

“Well, there’s lots don’t like it. Lots of mums running out on their men, taking the babies with them, leaving the men to shift for themselves. Lazy cows the lot of them.”

Wyndham stared at the boy, holding back a quick censure. “Is that what you truly think?”

Billy shifted on his feet. “Sometimes me dad hits me mum. She cries.”

“Is she lazy?” Wyndham couldn’t bring himself to use the words Billy had no doubt been spoon-fed.

“Me mum? Works herself like a horse. She . . .” Billy broke off his young voice cracking. “Yeah. Well, it’s a tough life this.”

“It certainly is, my lad. Now, you’ll listen for anyone in particular who wishes to do the duchess or her building harm?”

Billy gave a tight nod. “Word was all over about the stone being chucked through her window. I’ll get it sorted. It’s a good night for it, payday for most the men. They’ll all be drunk off their arses come sundown.”

Which was exactly why he’d come at this hour. “No gin for you tonight, then. You’re working.”

Billy smiled. “Yeah. I don’t really like the stuff anyway. Burns me gullet right proper.”

Perhaps because half the gin in Whitechapel was treated with various properties that were basically poison. “You’ll live a lot longer, Billy, if you lay off it.”

Billy pushed out from under the awning and stopped in the street. “Who wants to live longer, gov? This world’s bad enough for the short stay I’ve got.”

With a cheeky salute, Billy ran off through the growing crowd of men and women eager to drown their sorrows now that their pockets held their pay packets. It was tempting to give Billy a little extra something, but he couldn’t risk the boy getting drunk, no matter what he said.

God, how he wished there was something more he could do. But Billy was a drop of water in an ocean that couldn’t be held back. Besides, he helped the boys on the street and their families as best he could.

The irony that a street boy might now save a duchess didn’t escape him. At least, the Duchess of Duncliffe would be grateful. So many others of her rank would see Billy as little more than refuse beneath their slippers.

He turned west and began the walk home. His feet ate up the ground as he easily avoided the unwashed and filthy bodies of the damned, leading him to the quiet townhome that had been his father’s and his father’s before him.

Empty now.

Over the last months his dream for the sort of family that his grandfather and father had had re-awoken. It had been a dream he’d put aside when he’d gone to war and delayed when he’d returned home. He’d been in no state to begin a family then. But now?

Suddenly, Clare’s beautiful face came to mind. He smiled to himself. Surely, he was mad to even contemplate the possibility. He’d known her for moments, but perhaps a few moments was all it took?

•   •   •

“You met him, then?”

Clare’s stepdaughter’s face was alight with purpose and concern. Mary and she had become unlikely friends after the events of the duke’s death. It was not uncommon to be a stepmother younger than her stepdaughter, but in their circumstance it was most odd.

For Clare kept a secret from Mary, one she wasn’t entirely sure the young lady would approve of. Still, they’d shared a mutual hate of the man who had nearly destroyed them both. It was this bond which kept her from most rudely booting Mary out the door at hours that were not meant for calling. “Yes, I met him.”

“He was supposed to be looking for me years ago, you know.”

Clare raised a brow. “Did he find you?”

“No.”

“Perhaps he is not so skilled as I have been led to believe, then,” she teased.

Mary laughed. “The earl can hardly be blamed. I’d escaped from the asylum after all and disappeared into Edward’s household. I didn’t wish for anyone to find me.”

Escaped from the asylum. How many ladies could say such a thing? How many had been sent there and would die there? Too many. Too many would be lost in the relentless tide of men’s will.

Clare brushed a lock of hair back from her face and turned to the fire, allowing the warmth to penetrate her skirts. Even in her great town home, the walls couldn’t quite keep out the winter cold. “Do you ever wonder why we were so lucky, Mary?”

“Lucky?” Mary echoed, her full skirts brushing against Clare’s as she too neared the flames.

“To have escaped with our lives. To have survived whole.”

Mary drew in a slow breath. “We have survived and we have escaped, but whole?”

Clare bit her lip. Her suffering didn’t begin to compare to Mary’s. She had discovered the atrocities slowly, over months of discourse and the careful building of a friendship more dear to her heart than any she’d ever known.

Carefully, she stretched her hand out and took Mary’s palm in hers. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps we shall never be whole, but at least we are not conquered.”

A gentle smile tilted Mary’s lips. “We could never be that. Not you or I. When my father decided to make our lives a misery, he had no idea what he had done, did he?”

“No,” she whispered. How could her husband have known that a shy young wife beaten almost entirely into submission could turn upon him so drastically, so fiercely?

Mary squeezed Clare’s hand. “Now, enough of my father. He darkened our door for too many a year. Did you approve of Lord Wyndham? Will he do? If you dislike him, I shall speak with Edward.”

Clare quickly shook her head. “No, he is perfect.”

Mary’s slim dark brows rose. “Perfect, is he?”

Clare blew out a theatrical sigh. “Mary, you know full well I shall never marry again, and I certainly have no intention of looking at a man the way you seem to intimate.”

Mary shrugged slightly. “You needn’t marry him to look at him or to do other things.”

“Mary!” Clare pulled her hand from her stepdaughter’s, her cheeks burning. “I have gained true independence. What a fool I should be to put a thing at risk.”

“I suppose,” Mary admitted. “But, my dear, he is handsome and a good man. Though no one could ever surpass my Edward, Wyndham did aid my friend Eva, and now he aids you. I think we can consider him safe from the usual unpleasantness that is the male sex.”

“Lord Wyndham is a very interesting man and, as you say, a good one, no doubt. But even the best of men couldn’t tempt me. Though . . .” Her throat tightened. “Sometimes, I do wish I could find what you and Edward have found.”

Mary’s face brightened. “Everyone should know the kind of love Edward and I have. I pray that you will. For you deserve it, Clare. Few deserve it as much as you.”

Clare took Mary’s hand and squeezed. She was so blessed to have a friend whom she could bare her heart to, if not her darkest secrets. “Now that you’ve heard my secret longings, you must go back to Edward. It’s late.”

“How true.” Mary turned away from the fire, glancing toward the hall. “But I had to discover for myself if all was well and that you would be well taken care of in your endeavors.”

“You must cease your worrying.”

“You’re my friend and I must look out for you,” Mary said firmly.

“I’m grateful.” Clare leaned forward and kissed Mary’s cheek. “Now, good night.”

With a smile, Mary swept out of the room toward the foyer and her waiting coach.

Clare didn’t linger. It had been an exceptionally long day.

If the rock through her window hadn’t been disturbing enough, her encounter with Lord Wyndham had been surprising. He’d managed to speak to some part of her she’d assumed was dead. In all truth, she was certain it would be best if that part stayed that way. And yet . . . she found herself hoping to see him again soon.

She bustled out into the hall and the wide steps which led to the different wings of the grand house. As she always did, she paused before her predecessor’s portrait.

The last duchess, Esme, had died on those very stairs. She too had been hounded by the duke. Because of that, she felt a very special bond with the woman she had never met. It felt important to remember her whenever she passed the portrait and be grateful that her life had not ended in her marriage as Esme’s had.

After a moment, she followed the staircase to her left and wound her way through the darker halls to her bedroom.

The candles cast their golden glow in the barely penetrable shadows and she tucked her arms about her waist, fighting a shiver.

She hoped winter would be over soon. An early spring would be most welcome not only to herself, but to all in the East End. It was a brutal time of year, one she hadn’t even been truly aware of. She’d always assumed winter was for snow, and parties, and Christmas.

For some, it was.

For the many, it was a chance to die in the open air, a gin bottle clutched in a frozen hand.

She turned down the last, wide corridor then slipped into her large chamber, glad of the heat already emanating from the large fire next to her bed. It crackled and snapped, heaped with oak brought down from one of the ducal estates.

Her blessings were more numerous than she could count. On this freezing night, thousands were huddled in their rooms, barely surviving the cold. Or worse, they spent their nights in the unforgiving streets with nothing but stone for their pillows.

She looked to her own great bed, the velvet counterpane and linen already turned down and stopped. Something wasn’t right. She took a step closer. And then another.

Her heart pounded so hard in her chest, she could hear nothing but its unrelenting beat.

The sheet of parchment on her pillow was scrawled with thick black ink. The words were at first difficult to discern, given their poor writing.

At last, she read the words. “Do not come back.”

But that was not what sent a stripe of icy terror down her spine. The note might as well have read, “You are not safe.”

Whoever had written it had managed to enter her home, find her bedroom, and leave it without discovery.

She whipped around. Could they still be in her room?

With a muted cry she ran for the hallway, furious that she felt an emotion which had not occurred within her breast since her husband had breathed his last.
Fear.

Clare paced before the fire, absolutely enraged that she had had to ring for her staff in the downstairs drawing room and gather them about her like a rescue party. They’d come quickly, of course, and then she’d sent word to Mary and her husband the duke. Her uncle would be livid that she had not included him, but the idea of dealing with his shouting this evening was beyond her patience.

Now, Mary and Edward were sitting quite close on the small couch behind her pacing and Lord Wyndham was in the kitchen questioning her staff.

“My dear,” Mary’s insistent voice cut through the air, “you might wish to sit.”

Clare stopped her agitated movement and allowed herself to focus on her worried friends. She brought her fingers to her forehead and closed her eyes, her head aching at this new and unfortunate event. “My apologies, but I feel so . . .”

“So violated,” a voice said from the doorway.

She tensed at the sound of that deep rumble. Much to her consternation, a great deal of the worry which had driven her back and forth on her jaunt before the fire dissipated. How could he do that? With two words? How could he somehow wrap her up in the safety of his voice and presence?

Even from across the room, she knew without a doubt the man was in his element. “Yes,” she finally said. “That is as good a word as I can think on.”

Wyndham strode into the room, his cravat lopsided and his russet hair tumbling over his forehead. “Someone has entered your bedroom without your permission and left an unpleasant missive. I would imagine such a thing would make you feel as if you had been attacked.”

“It is not so bad as that,” she rushed. After all, she’d been attacked before. In her own home. In a different bedroom of this very house. By her husband. “But I had felt safe here.”

The Duke of Fairleigh stood, his broad shoulders straight under his black coat. “Unfortunately, you are not. Did the servants know anything, Wyndham?”

Wyndham shook his head. “No, they seem baffled. I’m inclined to believe them. At present, we do not know how our intruder gained admittance, though someone who knew how wouldn’t find it particularly difficult to remain unseen in such a large house. My real concern is this . . . ” Wyndham paused. “How did the intruder know which room was the duchess’s?”

The silence which followed Wyndham’s last sentence drove home her uncle’s harsh visit this morning. Soames, though deeply unpleasant, had made clear that she wasn’t taking the threat of physical danger seriously enough. Did someone truly wish her dead? But worse, if the author of the notes knew where she slept . . . “Whoever this is knows where I am throughout the day, don’t they?” she whispered.

Wyndham locked glances with her, no sympathy this time. Only hard truth. “I would deem that likely. Until we know who is behind all this, you cannot stay here, Your Grace. I recommend—”

“She will come stay us with,” Mary cut in, her face unusually pale in the candlelight.

Wyndham lifted a hand, staying her. “That sounds like it would be ideal, but it mightn’t be in all actuality. I’d like to take the duchess to an undisclosed location and guard her personally.”

Mary’s lips pressed into a thin line at this declaration before she said, “You think we cannot keep her safe?”

“No. Whoever is doing this will know that you are close and that she would go to you for assistance,” Wyndham said simply. “So, you cannot know where the duchess is. Not for the next few days.”

Clare shook her head, hardly believing this could be happening. “That is not possible. I have my work. And if it were to ever be known that I stayed with you—”

“Trust me, it will never be known,” Wyndham soothed, but in that soothing there was determination. “Your Grace, you cannot do your work if you are dead.”

Clare swallowed. It wasn’t fair. She’d only just obtained her freedom a little over a year ago, and now she was to hide? The unfortunate answer was a resounding yes. She did have to hide if she wished to save her work and herself. Good Lord, how she hated that someone was once again trying to control her through violence and threats. “Can you at least tell me where we are going?” Wyndham shook his head.

“I see.” Clare swallowed. “Then I must say goodbye to Mary and Edward right now?”

“Yes,” Wyndham replied.

For a man who had spoken so verbosely this afternoon, his short, matter of fact answers conveyed exactly how serious he thought her situation was, and so she was even more inclined to do as he bid. If he had over spoken or tried to convince her, she might have resisted. But that calm, clear intent of his? How could she falter under that?

She looked to Mary’s drawn face and Edward’s taut stance. “They will worry for me.”

“I have people that will be able to get word to your friends, Your Grace,” Wyndham assured. “And I do not think it will take too long to discover who is at this.”

“What convinces you of this, Wyndham?” Edward asked, his usually sure, deep voice wary.

Wyndham leveled his gaze on Clare, regret turning those amber depths nearly black. “Because . . . I think it is someone she knows.”

•   •   •

If someone, anyone, had asked him a few hours earlier if he’d be in the company of a beautiful woman this night, he’d have laughed in their face. He wanted a wife, a true wife, one like Ian had with Eva or Edward with Mary. Or his father and mother.

Men who frequented ladies of the night were not likely to find such a thing and long ago, he’d learned that he was not a man to enter into a dalliance lightly. Unlike most of the men of his acquaintance, his dratted feelings always managed to become entangled in his brief amours.

Giving liaisons up had not been overly difficult. A war had kept him distracted, but in the last months, the desire to have a lady of his own, one he could care for, hopefully love, and have children with had grown from a long held dream to something he dared hope accomplish.

He eyed Clare carefully, a ridiculous yet insistent voice humming,
She could be the one
.There was something about her as she sat across from him in the nondescript hackney that stirred feelings he’d only ever hoped he could have.

The quiet strength about her seemed to overcome any fear she had. Those eyes, much older than her young years, stared out the fogged windowpane into the dark night. There was no hint of hysteria about her, just a calm sort of acceptance. All he could do was marvel.

“You do stare a great deal, my lord,” she said suddenly, her gaze still fixed on the passing outskirts of London.

He cleared his throat to cover his embarrassment at being caught out. “I do apologize, except . . . ”

She turned her face to him. Blue-tinged moonlight spilled into the carriage, bathing her face in an otherworldly glow. The soft blond locks falling about her face appeared as spun silver, turning her into a mystical goddess, not just a woman. “Except?”

Even that voice.

He held his breath. Her soft yet deep womanly voice filled the space around them, caressing his skin, making him wish to hear nothing but her voice for hours. It was the stuff of timeless waters and restless wind.

“My lord?”

“You are captivating,” he finally said, accepting that admitting his preoccupation was the only thing to do.

She narrowed her eyes, and in the moonlight, those orbs sparked like vengeful stars. “Are you about to be foolish?”

“It depends. What would make a fool in your eyes?”

“You sound as if you are a man who is about to make love to a woman.”

“Have you been made love to, then?” he asked, doubting it very much.

“Given that I have put myself into your keeping, this does not seem a wise or encouraging tack for you to take.”

“Your safety is essential. The only reason why we are alone is because it is necessary, but nor will I lie to you. You evoke something in me which I have no wish to hide from view.”

“Find the wish,” she clipped.

“I’m not attempting to seduce you, if that’s what concerns you.”

“No?” she challenged.

“No,” he confirmed. And he wasn’t. A mere statement of truth was no seduction.

She shifted on the seat, her hands folding tightly on her lap. “There have been men in the last few months, despite my late mourning, that have attempted to press an advantage. Who have spoken of my beauty because I am a wealthy widow.”

“Ah.” His lips twitched at the image of her bombarded by poncing idiots. “No doubt, you have had odes composed to your earlobes.”

She hesitated but then laughed. “Why must you do that?”

“What?”

She rolled her eyes. “Infuse everything with a sense of lightness?”

“The world is dark enough as it is, madam,” he said gently. “I needn’t add to it, need I?”

“No.” She eyed him carefully as though he was sporting a second head or something similarly strange. “I suppose not.”

“This world would be a far better place if we all turned from darkness, and sadness, and let ourselves be merry.” It was a lesson he’d learned when he’d returned from war. He’d found himself at a crossroads. He’d chosen to let the poison of the past drift away, choosing life instead.

“But I think you try to hide something with all your merry turns of words, do you not?”

He leaned forward, determined that he should be as open with her as possible. Doubtlessly, she’d known enough lies from men to fill a lifetime. “I’m not trying to hide how I feel about you.”

“You
feel
something for me?” she drawled.

“Is it so difficult to believe?”

“You have known me less than twelve hours,” she exclaimed. “So, yes. It is.”

“
Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?
” he quipped, though he couldn’t help feeling that once again he had suddenly tripped upon something. He would never go so far as to say he loved Clare. He didn’t know her, but he was compelled to know her. To give himself over to their meeting as if fate had thrown that rock through her window.

And the longer he spent in her company, that woman he’d dreamed of as his companion began to look more and more like the duchess sitting across from him.

She frowned. “I think we can leave Shakespeare out of this.”

“Shakespeare shouldn’t be left out of anything,” he replied. “He understands the hearts and souls of all men and women.”

Clare’s mouth opened and a look of pure astonishment softened her features. “You are a romantic, sir.”

“I am a man of facts. You are with me now because you need protection. But I am also a man who will not laugh at what life contrives to put before us.”

“Are you saying our meeting is fate?” she scoffed.

“I am saying that there are things more wondrous in this world, more full of magic than we could ever imagine. And I, for one, despite the terrible things I have seen or perhaps because of them, choose to believe in them. If my thinking means I can have feelings for you after twelve hours of acquaintance, then yes, I am a romantic, Clare, and I am not afraid to admit it.”