Page 27 of The Duke
It took her an absurd moment to consider if he inquired of her ownership of the dress or the blood, but decided to answer about the latter.
“No, my lord, the blood is not mine.”
He took a long moment to observe her, eyes snagging on her matted hair, her split lip, her sodden dress and bandaged hand.
“You may call the authorities, my lord.” She glanced down, unable to stand his regard. “I’ll not stop you.”
“Fetch that lap robe and cover yourself, Nurse Pritchard,” he directed instead. “You’re showing enough flesh to send my feeble heart into conniptions. I’m dying, not dead. Good Lord.”
Hurrying to comply, Imogen huddled into the soft, warm lap robe and clutched it to her.
“Now,” he continued. “I’ll stay my hand with the authorities if you pull that chair close and tell me why you were caught with your hand in my purse, whose blood is on your bodice, who struck you, and why you’re dressed like… well, like you’d charge a penny a dance.”
Perhaps it was because in all her life, she’d been acquainted with many men who’d call themselves gentlemen, but she’d never before met a trulygentle man. Someone who’d have her cover up rather than reveal herself. Who’d use a euphemism before calling her a whore. Surprised and humbled, she did exactly as he’d instructed.
Her story poured from her like a final confession. She told him of her mother and sister, of their two-room flat that smelled of fish and despair. She spoke of her father’s debt and her indentured servitude at the Bare Kitten. Recounting her dismissal from St. Margaret’s, her attack, and the probable dead body they were likely even now taking from the alley.
Anstruther listened without interruption. Only his mustache twitched as he made little tsking sounds of distress from time to time.
Imogen didn’t weep until she reached the part where she’d planned to steal from him. To take his money and meet Isobel on her way to school, slipping her the coin before she disappeared, hoping to find anonymity somewhere. Here the tears flowed freely. Tears of shame, of sorrow, and of helplessness.
He was quiet a moment after she’d finished her tale, and she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Imogen couldn’t say why, exactly, but she’d left Trenwyth out of her story. She said nothing about the night with him. About the connection they’d had before he returned an ill and changed man.
She knew that if she took that regret out to examine it, she’d disgrace herself past all repair.
“What time is it?” Lord Anstruther queried softly.
Imogen blinked up, dashing at her cheeks. “My lord?”
“It’s either very late or very early, which is it?” He gestured to the pocket watch on the bedside table and she handed to him.
“Very early,” he muttered, and then turned to capture her gaze with his. “You listen to me, Miss Pritchard, you have a choice of two kinds.”
Imogen swallowed, but remained silent.
“I will give you that bag with all the money it contains and send you on your way right now, but I warn you that you won’t get very far.”
The kindness of his offer both humbled and startled her. She stared at him for a moment in dumb amazement. “What—what’s the second option?” She was almost afraid to ask.
His mustache lifted in a mischievous smile. “That you marry me, of course.”
CHAPTERNINE
London, May 1879, Nearly Two Years Later
Cole wanted to take the steel-spring blade he’d attached to the inside of his prosthesis and shove it through Liam Mackenzie’s brawny neck. Not because the Marquess of Ravencroft was his enemy. It was simply that every word from his former commanding officer’s mouth dripped like acid into the dark, empty void where his heart had once been.
“I’m telling ye, Trenwyth, it’s like she never existed.” The dark Scotsman helped himself to some Scotch from his own distillery kept in a crystal decanter on the sideboard of Cole’s private study. “If I didna know ye better, were ye not so relentless, I’d think her naught more than a dream. Some figment of fantasy ye’d conjured to keep yerself sane in that piece of hell.”
Cole turned away and released the top few buttons of his shirt, not wanting the monstrously large marquess to see him choking on his disappointment.
Where are you, Ginny?
“She’s starting toseemlike a ghost,” he confessed. “I’ve lived a lifetime in the three years since she and I…” Drifting to the study window, he pulled back the drapes and braced his right forearm against the pane, avoiding his reflection.
“It’s been so long,” Ravencroft murmured gruffly. “Why do ye torture yerself still by persisting in this hopeless search?”
“Perhaps I’ve become accustomed to torture.” His eyes refused to focus on the tableau in front of him, instead gazing into the murky, blood-soaked images of the past. “That prison. That hell. She provided me a piece of heaven there. She occupied that place in my mind that they couldn’t get to. That they couldn’t take from me. She’s there still, but even I’m beginning to fear that she was a delusion. A construct. Something… someone I needed at the time, but never truly existed.”
