Page 27 of Eliza and the Duke
“Because we can’t let them catch us.”
It was such a simple statement to cause such terror to grip her heart.
“What happens if they catch us?”
His eyes said it all. Nothing good.
She grabbed up her skirt and sprinted with renewed verve. He took them down one dark alley after another. She knew she’d never be able to find her way out without him. Finally, he slowed and they walked. He kept her close to him, though, his arm at her waist as they moved through the alleys. She wondered if whatever awaited them in the dark might be worse than what trouble followed them.
Several times different men came to attention when they approached. Simon would call out some variation of a greeting that would see them stand down until they passed. Sometimes they’d greet him by name. Twice he tossed a coin over in what seemed like pay for their safe passage. She lost count of how many times they hurried past figures moving in the darkness against a wall. Grunts and soft cries filled the air, leaving no doubt in her mind what was happening. Women found customers at the pubs and brought them to the alleys.
“This is what it’s like,” he finally whispered when their hearts had slowed. It seemed they had lost their pursuers. His voice was soft but resolute. “The people that live here work hours every day for pay that doesn’t cover rent and food forthemselves, let alone their families. They’re left to make up the difference at night.”
She tried to imagine how hopeless it must feel to labor all day and then be forced to turn to prostitution at night in an alleyway. The truth was that whatever she imagined was a pale comparison to the experience of living it. She and her family hadn’t had very much, but they’d never been forced to sell their bodies to survive. As much as she sometimes struggled with her decision to sell her hand for a title, it wasn’t the same as being taken by a drunk man against a wall that smelled of human waste.
She tightened her fingers around Simon’s and he squeezed them gently. The next street was a bit wider, wide enough for a carriage to easily traverse. It was a smaller and grittier version of Whitechapel High Street without the interlopers. An open sewer ran down the middle of the street. Plaster crumbled in the wide gaps between the bricks, and some of the walls were covered in crude drawings and words. The paint around the street-level doors and windows had long ago peeled away.
They had no sooner left the opening of the alleyway than several men solidified from the shadows. Simon tightened his arm at her waist and pushed her behind him. She held on to him and peered over his shoulder.
The only light here was from the moon overhead, but her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. The man before them was of average height with a solid frame. He gave the appearance of being well-fed, which she couldn’t say for most of the people they had passed in their run through the maze of streets.
“Good evening, Cavell,” he said.
Fifteen
Simon bristled at the verysight of James Brody. The fact that he was in the same space as Eliza only served to put Simon further on edge. Brody was unpredictable. Circumstance dictated his wickedness, but it was often complemented by the delight he took in his own moral decay. Most knew that Brody had a strong hand but thought he could be reasoned with. They had good reason for thinking that. Brody wanted them to think that. But Simon had seen with his own eyes what happened when his tightly moderated control snapped. He’d seen the man go too far. He’d seen how his eyes lit up with the ecstasy of unbridled power. Simon had seen him break a man just because he could get away with it.
“Brody,” he said in acknowledgment.
“Wot are ye doin’ here?” Brody asked. He gave no clue to what he wanted.
Simon came back frequently, and it was no surprise that Brody knew that. Brody had men everywhere, knew what washappening on every corner of his part of the city. The only surprise here was that the criminal had sought him out.
“Wot do ye want?” Simon asked, though he kept the annoyance from his voice. Eliza’s hands were pressed to his back, and he took comfort in the fact that she seemed willing to stay behind him and allow him to lead the talk. He’d turned them slightly so that their backs were facing the wall and not Brody’s men who followed them in the alley.
“I’ve arranged your next task. Thought we’d discuss it.” Brody’s eyes roved over what he could see of Eliza. “Who’s this?”
Simon couldn’t appear too defensive; it would only draw more of Brody’s attention to her. Instead, he said truthfully, “A new friend. Anne.”
“Anne…” Brody let the name roll over his tongue. “You’re a pretty gal, Anne. Wot are ye doin’ with a bloke like this one?”
She shifted and Simon put his palm against her thigh, a subtle indication that she should stay behind him. Her fingers tightened around his coat. “He bought me a gin,” she said in a low voice. Her accent wasn’t American, nor was it Cockney, but something indistinguishable.
“Bought ye a gin, has he? Ye should make him buy ye more than that before ye go deep into these parts.”
“Let’s have it, Brody. I need to get her back.”
Brody’s eyes narrowed on her, but he raised his chin in acknowledgment. “Not in front of her. Come.”
The last thing he wanted to do was leave her alone. “She’s nothing. Tell me now and let’s have this done with.”
A stony silence followed. Simon turned and Eliza was staring up at him with her wide eyes. “I have to talk to him or he’ll never let us go.” He kept his voice low so that it wouldn’t travel. “Stay here and don’t let anyone touch you.”
She gave a firm nod of her head and glanced toward the men that had been steadily creeping toward them from the alley.
“Leave her be, Beck,” he said to the one he recognized in the group.
The man shrugged. “Hurry along, then.”
