Page 89 of From Duke Till Dawn
“Are you going to hurt him?” Despite Martin’s dishonesty, it was clear that Becky still cared about the blighter.
“Only talk,” Cassandra assured her. “And get back what’s owed to so many.”
“All right,” Becky finally said. “You’ll find him at Hope Street, in Whitechapel. Above a chandler’s. It’s the third door on the left.”
Once more, Alex and Cassandra shared a look. They were nearing the end of their hunt. Her safety would be secured. And when everything finally fell into place, their time together would be over. How could she want something so badly, but fear it at the same time?
After a quick consultation with each other, they decided to approach Becky Morton’s Whitechapel rooms on foot. A carriage, especially a ducal carriage, would surely attract attention in that ragged part of London. They’d ridden in the carriage until the neighborhood turned seedier, and then proceeded on foot.
Being in Whitechapel made tightness clutch at Cassandra’s shoulders, and her arms felt chilled. It was so like Southwark and the grimness of the Marshalsea.
Packs of barefoot, bedraggled children ran through the narrow streets. She’d been one of them, hungry and angry. Men and women stood in groups, watching and weary as another day passed without the prospect of work or wages. The buildings leaned into the street, as if exchanging gossip, and debris lay piled up in indiscriminate heaps. An early twilight settled over the lanes, heavy with smoke. Despair could be tasted on the tongue, stale and sorrowful, and Cassandra fought a rising panic at being back where she had started. She kept her hand light and loose on Alex’s arm, though she wanted to dig her nails into him and hang on for dear life.
“I’m never coming back,” she muttered under her breath.
“Our business here will be quick,” he assured her, clearly thinking she meant she would avoid Whitechapel in the future.
She didn’t correct him. Now was not the time to tell Alex that she would never return to places like Whitechapel or Southwark or St. Giles, or even the slums of Paris or Rome. Yet they beckoned to her, waiting for her to slide back into the desperate poverty of her youth. No one who grew up in squalor ever truly forgot it.
They turned onto Hope Street. It was a short little avenue with a few run-down shops and private rooms lurching above. No one lingered on the curb or leaned out of windows. An air of loneliness hovered over the packed earth and strung between the buildings like a cobweb.
In the middle of the block stood the chandler’s shop. And above it, if Becky had been telling the truth, was Martin.
Her footsteps hesitated.
“Wait here, and I’ll see to Hughes,” Alex said.
She shook her head. “It’s my face he needs to see. The hurt and danger he’s caused me. There’s no easy way out for him.”
Alex nodded and guided her to the stairs beside the chandler’s. The steps were falling down like a mouth full of rotten teeth. It took some agility to climb them, but soon they reached the hallway on the next floor. They were greeted with peeled paint and stained floorboards and holes in the wall.
Cassandra hoped Becky Morton did sell her necklace and start over in Grimsby. No one deserved to live like this.
They walked across the creaking boards to reach the third door on the left. Behind it was Martin, the missing money, the answer to everything. Yet her hand froze in midknock. She exhaled, long and shaky.
“This is stupid,” she whispered to Alex. “I should be glad to face him and put this behind me. But I’m...” She searched for the right word, the right feeling. “Scared. Sad.”
“Not stupid,” he said lowly. “Understandable. It’s natural, feeling conflicted. Hughes is a bastard who did you a great wrong. It’s unforgivable. Doesn’t mean it will be easy to confront him.” His gaze warmed. “Yet if anyone I know can meet this challenge, it’s you.”
He reached down and squeezed her hand. Warmth coursed through her.
Everything could change at this moment. Once they had Martin, the idyll they shared would be over.
Lifting her hand, she knocked. Someone moved inside, steps on the floorboards, and stood on the other side of the door.
“Who is it?” a man snapped, his words tight with caution.
She glanced at Alex. Martin’s voice. He truly was inside.
Calling on her ability to change her accent, she said in a rough, guttural voice, “Got a delivery for ye. From the fishmonger.”
“I didn’t order any fish,” Martin barked.
“A dame called Becky said to drop it here.”
There was a pause, and then a clicking sound as the door was unlocked. Cassandra braced herself.
The door creaked open. Martin’s familiar visage peered out. His eyes went round when he saw Cassandra and Alex. His gaze met hers. They stared at each other for a moment.
