With This Kiss (14 page)

The second goal, getting him out of the fight, wasn’t so easily accomplished. The giant wasn’t about to give up. He swung about, leading with a beefy left fist that caught Morgan dead center in the stomach, nearly doubling him over.

Then he heard Julia’s scream.

He spun around just in time to see his wife, her forearm caught by one of the thieves, stumble backward in an attempt to escape his grasp. The jerky movement knocked them both against a cart of kindling, toppling the rickety vehicle. Cries of outrage from the elderly vendor added to the melee as the cart crashed to the pavement, spewing the loosely bundled sticks in all directions.

Morgan moved to help Julia but was stopped as the giant he had been fighting took advantage of his momentary distraction. The man’s thick fist connected with his jaw. Morgan fell hard against the brick wall of the alleyway as the giant’s partner shot forward, the fallen knife in his grasp.

The thief swung the blade in a vicious arc at his chest. Morgan caught the man’s fist in his left hand, temporarily stilling the motion of the knife. He drove his right fist into the thief s belly, and then slammed an uppercut into his jaw.

The giant lumbered forward with a roar of raw fury, obviously intent on finishing the brawl. At the same instant Morgan caught a glimpse of drab brown skirts. Julia — apparently lacking the sense to run for her life — stepped into the fray. Her hands wrapped around a thick piece of kindling, she swung at the thief’s head.

While her intention might have been admirable, her aim definitely needed improvement. The stick flew by Morgan, missing his cheek by a fraction of an inch. Although far off its mark, the blow did provide a welcome distraction. The knife-wielding thief paused for an instant, blinking in confusion. That was all the opening Morgan needed. He drove his fist into the thief’s chin, knocking him flat. The man hit the ground hard.

Julia swung again, this time aiming for the giant. Morgan barely managed to dodge the blow; the giant, however, wasn’t so lucky. The broadest part of the heavy stick hit him dead center in the groin. The giant’s features reflected a split second of shocked agony, then his skin went ashen. His knees abruptly buckled as he hit the pavement with the force of a fallen oak.

After the raucous noise of the fight, the heavy silence that followed seemed eerily oppressive. Morgan gripped his knees and hung his head down low, struggling to catch his breath. After a long moment he raised his gaze to his wife. Julia stood looking at the giant in shocked wonder. Then she shifted her attention to the stick she held. In that instant both Morgan and the elderly kindling vendor shared identical, instinctive reactions: they winced, and then turned their lower bodies slightly sideways, as though to protect themselves from a similar blow. Clearly embarrassed, Julia dropped the stick.

Morgan’s eyes moved assessingly over her body. Her gown was torn and dirty, her apron drooped half-untied across her bodice, her hair tumbled around her shoulders in fiery disarray. “Are you injured?”

“No, I’m quite well, thank you very much.” Amazingly, her voice sounded remarkably composed. She brushed back her hair and smoothed her skirts, as though this sort of bothersome event happened regularly.

“Where’s the third man?” he asked.

“He ran away after the cart fell.”

The shrill peal of a police whistle echoed in the distance.

“Would you like to file a complaint with the local magistrate?”

Julia’s gaze moved to the two remaining assailants, both of whom lay groaning in the street. She considered the question, and then slowly shook her head. “No, I think not. It might be rather awkward should this incident make the daily papers.”

His thoughts exactly. The whistle drew closer. “In that case,” said Morgan, “I suggest we remove ourselves from this scene.” He bent to retrieve his billfold from the spot where it had fallen, opened it, and passed a twenty-pound note to the elderly vendor. “I trust this will cover the damage to your vehicle, sir.”

The vendor’s eyes widened. The money was more than triple the value of his cart and all the kindling it carried. “Yes. Yes, I believe it will,” he agreed, hastily tucking the bill away.

Moving with brisk efficiency, Morgan took Julia by the arm and waved at a passing hackney. The driver pulled to a stop, then gave a sigh of deep annoyance as he took in their state of battered dishevelment. “What the hell do you think—”

Morgan wiped the blood from his chin and slapped a five-pound note on the seat beside the driver. “Grosvenor Square.” He pulled open the hackney door and thrust Julia inside. He followed after her, slammed the door shut, and banged his fist against the ceiling. “Now,” he commanded.

The driver flicked the reins, and the hackney pulled off. Glancing outside the window, Morgan saw two of the local police arrive behind them. As he had hoped, the twenty-pound note was enough to buy the kindling vendor’s silence. In reply to their questions, the old man lifted his shoulders in a convincing shrug, pointing to his upset cart.

Satisfied, Morgan leaned back in his seat and directed his attention toward Julia. Although she seemed unharmed, the trauma of such an experience often took time to manifest itself. With that in mind he carefully scrutinized her face, searching for signs of shock or hysteria. But instead of being near tears, Julia met his concerned gaze with a victorious smile. She clasped her hands together and leaned forward, her sherry eyes sparkling. “We did it, didn’t we?” she said, almost giddy. “We bested those hooligans. That was marvelous. Truly marvelous.”

Disbelief tore through him, followed immediately by a surge of anger. “I’m delighted to hear that at least one of us enjoyed that debacle.”

Confusion showed on her delicate, dirt-streaked features. She cocked her head and studied him across the dimly lit confines of the coach, as though stunned by the suggestion that he might not relish a midday brawl with three knife-wielding thieves.

“You can’t be angry,” she said.

“Can’t I?” Morgan brushed a clump of dirt from his sleeve, grimacing in disgust as the torn garment ripped even further.

She watched him in silence, then primly straightened her shoulders and folded her hands in her lap. “For the record,” she said, “I didn’t enjoy it. As a matter of fact, I was quite terrified. I was merely expressing my appreciation for the fact that our assailants are lying in the street right now, rather than you and me.”

“It was foolish in the extreme to travel to this section of London. I shouldn’t have allowed it in the first place.”

“I have journeyed here hundreds of times in the course of researching my column. Never have I been assaulted.”

“You’ve been lucky.”

“I’ve been alone,” she corrected, coolly meeting his gaze. “Fortunately, I am not in the habit of flashing my money about as though I were using the bills to swat away flies.”

A sardonic smile touched his lips. “A bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?”

“Hardly.” She turned pointedly away, directing her attention out the window and to the heavily populated borough in which they traveled.

Just as well,
Morgan thought. He was in no mood to be civil. Judging from the brooding expression on Julia’s face, neither was she. Simmering resentment hung between them, and the air felt thick with unspoken words. He shifted impatiently, attempting to divert his attention by watching the passersby, but was regrettably unable to do so. It might have been possible had they been in his coach, where he could have disappeared into the plush luxury of the rich leather squabs. But the hackney’s seats were cracked and torn, the brittle leather bit into his legs. The sour stench of the interior was intensified by the heat. The springs were so badly worn as to be nonexistent. He and Julia were continually bumping knees, no matter how deliberately rigid his wife held herself in her blatant attempt to avoid contact.

The driver plodded doggedly forward, jostling for position among the phaetons, hansoms, hackneys, tillburies, growlers, dogcarts, gigs, broughams, and landaus that choked the narrow streets. Half-naked children romped in the alleyways, searching for relief from the heat by splashing in oozing brown puddles. Ragged and despairing mothers sat on front stoops, holding wailing babes in their arms. Drunks staggered through fetid piles of household refuse. The blind and crippled begged for alms. Glancing to his left, Morgan caught sight of a battered wooden sign that hung suspended from the corner of a crumbling brick tenement building: Paradise Place.

“Incredible,” he muttered. “They would do well to raze this entire section of London.”

Julia turned to him and arched one delicate auburn brow. “What a caring and compassionate sentiment. Where would you propose these people live?”

“Anywhere would be better than this.”

“That’s not an answer, is it?”

Morgan released a sigh of disgust and folded his arms across his chest. “Let me see if I can divine where this conversation is heading. Because I was born to a life of wealth and privilege, I must be inherently evil, morally responsible for the plight you see around you.”

“Your standing in society does not make you evil,” she returned coolly. “Your indifference does. Apparently you belong to the legions of men and women who have yet to understand that human beings ought to dwell differently from cattle.”

“Forgive me,” he said, nodding his head in a grave bow. “I had forgotten I was speaking with such an enlightened reformer. The exalted Tattler herself. Naturally you have a solution to all the city’s most abhorrent plights.”

“Not at all. But at least I attempt to incite change.”

He smiled. “I take it you are referring to your column.”

Grim defiance glittered in her eyes. “I am.”

Although Morgan knew better than to engage in a fruitless and antagonistic discussion of what Julia obviously considered her life’s great work, her tone of haughty moral superiority rankled too much for him to simply let the matter drop.

“As it appears we are to be stuck in this rotting hell for at least another few minutes,” he remarked, “this would seem an ideal opportunity for you to share your benevolent wisdom. Let us see if you can cast light into the darkened corners of my soul, shall we?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Your column. What do you have in mind for next week’s column?”

“You want to hear it now?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Indulge me.”

She eyed him warily for a long moment, then reached into her pocket and felt for her notebook. Miraculously, it hadn’t fallen out during their tussle with the thieves. She flipped open the slim volume and scanned the contents. “I have a few items left from last week’s research that I didn’t have room to mention earlier. Not my best work, but it will suffice.”

“Oh?”

She lifted her shoulders in a bored shrug, tapping her finger against the slim volume as she recited, “Lady Bartholomew served her guests chicken liver at her latest soiree, rather than the pate de foie gras indicated on the menu. Lord Lionel Winfrey has been seen riding un-chaperoned with a certain attractive lady who is young enough to be his granddaughter. Although they have been acquainted only a fortnight, they have already formed a rather intimate romantic attachment — an attachment that remarkably coincides with the recent death of Winfrey’s elder brother and the passing of the family title and estates to Lord Lionel. And finally the beautiful Audrey Winter, mistress of Sir Augustus Campbell, is reputedly carrying his child.”

“Shocking,” he said. “I can see why you would receive a certain elevated satisfaction in printing that. Such profound revelations must be told.” As the hackney turned onto Regent Street, Morgan leaned out the window and gave the driver direction to his estate.

Julia waited until he had finished and resumed his seat. Then she said, “Those items are mere filler to the central subject of this week’s column. As you are undoubtedly aware, my work is not read unless it is couched between such frivolous bits of gossip.”

“What would that central subject be?”

“It concerns Messieurs Matthews and Hornsby, makers of the pretty little cakes of soap I’ve seen in your household.”

Morgan arched a dark brow. “When did the making of soap become a threat to English society?”

“It is not the making of soap to which I object, but the manner in which it is made.” She paused, a look of pained reflection etched on her face. “Matthews and Hornsby operate a vast factory in Cheshire that employs predominantly women and children. In return for mere pennies a day, they are expected to toil from dawn to dusk over boiling vats of tallow and lye.”

“Mere pennies, granted, but does it occur to you that those meager sums might be the only thing keeping those children and their mothers from starving to death?”

“Nevertheless, the chemicals with which they work are frightfully caustic, and the vats are far too heavy to be lifted by such tiny arms. Two weeks ago a vat of boiling tallow spilled, severely injuring four children. One of them, a little boy only six years of age, was blinded. The physician who attended him reports that the child’s sight has been permanently damaged.”

Morgan frowned. “Unfortunately that sort of incident is not unusual in the factories.”

“The frequency of its occurrence does not make it any less shameful.”

“Did you have a remedy in mind, or are you merely calling this tragedy to light?”

“Ideally, I would like to see the issue of child labor addressed by the House of Lords,” she replied, naming the institution of which he was naturally a member. “But as I recall, that august body was too busy determining which artist should be awarded the employ of designing the statues for Regent’s Park to properly focus on the plight of England’s impoverished children.” She gave a light shrug. “I suppose it’s all a matter of priorities, isn’t it?”

Refusing to be baited, Morgan gave a curt nod for her to continue. “Do go on.”

“If Matthews and Hornsby cannot be legislated into doing the right thing, perhaps they can be driven to it economically. Currently it is quite fashionable to buy their soap — as evidenced by the fact that it is purchased for homes such as your own. I propose to make it even more fashionable
not
to buy it. At least, not until the children are removed from working in the vat rooms. I have no objection to them wrapping the soaps in pretty tissue or packing the crates in which it is shipped.”