Page 67 of The Duke
Imogen. She held him quite transfixed. Be she a sphinx, a siren, or a snake charmer, he decided it was time he found out more about his bewitching neighbor.
For her own good, if nothing else.
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
“I really think he’s going to kill me this time.” Heather’s frantic wail barely registered against the vicious clamor at the door to the Anstruther mansion. “I couldn’t stay with him. I couldn’t do the things he wanted me to, not anymore.”
Imogen held the buxom woman against her shoulder, wondering if it was the blood from the prostitute’s nose or the woman’s tears that soaked her bodice. It had only been a day since the incident at Hyde Park, and her nerves didn’t seem sufficiently fortified for another dangerous crisis.
“How many men are out there?” Cheever demanded, holding himself against the door.
“I don’t know!” Heather sobbed. “I counted maybe three or four when I was running, but O’Toole called for more of his men to join the chase. And it was getting dark.”
Imogen held her former adversary from the Bare Kitten closer, marveling at the strange and frightening turns life sometimes made.
“I know I was ghastly to ye, Ginny, and I don’t deserve yer protection, butpleasehelp me. I had nowhere else to turn.” The desperate woman clung to her, and Imogen forgave her immediately.
“You will address the countess as my lady when in this household, madam,” Cheever admonished with a sniff.
“I’m sorry, my lady.” Heather nodded, sufficiently chastised, and the fact that the old Celtic fire that used to blaze from her eyes had been extinguished caused Imogen no small amount of concern.
“There’s no need for that, Cheever, I’m sure—”
Another pounding knock was followed by a door-rattling crash, as though someone had hurled themselves against it.
“And I’m sorry I brought this to yer doorstep.” Heather sniffed, only just seeming to notice the blood running from her swelling nose down her mouth and chin. She swiped at it with a soiled-gloved hand, but only managed to smear it. “But when I heard ye was taking in whores like me, I thought ye might forgive what’s past between us.”
Another rattle shook the rafters of the giant sturdy house. “Return what’s mine!” screamed a harsh Irish voice from the other side. “That crafty trollop needs to face the consequences due a thieving whore!”
“Begone, sir!” Imogen called back. “Or I’ll be forced to send for the police.”
A bark of cruel male laughter from several men met her threat. “You’ll have to go through us to get to them, darlin’. And I don’t see that ending well for you.”
“Not a copper for miles,” another scoffed.
Imogen cringed as they called her bluff. Of all the days for something like this to happen. A riot of dockworkers had erupted in Southwark and threatened to spill over the bridge into Westminster. Morley and Argent had called Rathbone and O’Mara away. Violent deaths had already been reported, fires started, and all of Scotland Yard rushed to contain the chaos before the pavement of industry ran red with the blood of hundreds.
They had left not only Imogen unprotected, but also the rest of the city. If ever there was an opportune moment to commit a crime, it was today.
“His name’s Johnny O’Toole,” Heather said. “He’s been terrorizing Piccadilly, beating us girls when we don’t give him what he thinks he’s due. Bringing us rough men and taking the extra he charges for the deviant things they do to us. The bastard calls it protection.” She spat. “He found out that I put his new girl, Tess, on a train back to Brighton. She wastwelve. She didn’t want this life. Not after what he did to her.”
“Is that why he broke your nose?” Imogen asked.
“Aye. And he meant to do worse had I not walloped him one with my shoe and fled.” She lifted her skirts to show Imogen a grimy foot with ripped stockings, and Cheever couldn’t contain his gasp of distress at the improper sight of her ankle.
Imogen handed Heather off to Gwen, who’d recently joined her in her charitable ventures, as she’d tired of working for the odious Dr. Fowler at St. Margaret’s. This hadn’t been the first time Imogen’s work had called for the care of a nurse, and with two more buildings already purchased, she’d begun to hire more staff.
“Take her upstairs to one of the back washrooms,” she said gently, then turned back to the door, summoning all the resolve and courage she possibly could.
“Don’t go out there!” Heather surged forward, flattening herself against the seam of the two solid grand doors.
“Open up, or we’ll break it down!” The warning burst against the entry right before another heavy blow tested the strength of the frame.
“I’m getting the hunting rifle,” Cheever threatened
“You think we don’t have a gun?” O’Toole volleyed back. “You’d better be a good shot, old man.”
“They have more weapons than just that. Knives, clubs, knuckles. Don’t ye have footmen?” Heather cast her gaze around for someone else. “Someone who can help?”
