Chapter 3

Chapter Three

P atrick had always thought the plush armchair in his study to be quite comfortable. In the past, he'd only slept in it when he'd had a few too many drinks and couldn't be bothered to stumble down the hall to his bed, so perhaps that made all the difference. He had managed to get a few hours of fitful, uncomfortable sleep, but now his head felt ready to burst. His neck protested loudly as he tried to straighten it, and the wound in his shoulder throbbed incessantly.

"Finch!" he called, as he slowly pushed himself out of the chair.

Finch entered barely a minute later. He merely raised a brow and shook his head at the sight Patrick presented.

"I'll prepare a bath," he said before hurrying back out of the room.

An hour later, he was clean, shaved, and dressed in a freshly pressed grey suit. Much better. On Thursdays, he met with his two partners at their club. Usually, he looked forward to their meetings, but today… what was he going to tell them about Rosie? Better yet, why was he not taking her to Raven House? She was exactly the kind of woman they took in to provide opportunities for a better life. But for some reason, he didn't want to take her there. Not yet, at least.

The sounds of female laughter still escaped from his room at the end of the hall, which gave him a perfect excuse for avoiding Rosie and sneaking out like a coward. Finch would make sure she was taken care of while he was gone.

Fortunately, his feet knew the way to The Raven's Den, because his mind was on other things. What could he possibly tell Ash and Michael about Rosie? Likely his cowardly behavior would continue, and he'd avoid the subject for now. Taking a deep breath, he let himself in through the back entrance. He made his way down the dimly lit corridor and through a curtain that opened into the main parlor. They had an office above, but they'd always preferred to hold their weekly meetings in the comfortable surroundings of the gaming floor.

Patrick joined his two friends at their customary table. Ash was dressed in his usual black from head to toe, his raven-topped cane resting on the table in front of him, a glass of brandy beside it. For the people in his inner circle, Ash was benevolent, had a good sense of humor, and was fiercely loyal. If you were outside of that circle, you'd best not mistake his kindness for weakness. Ash had a ferocious sense of justice. He would, unquestionably, rain hellfire down on anyone who harmed even a single hair on the head of someone he cared about.

Michael, on the other hand, was much more benign. He was jovial but reserved. He wasn't ruled by his emotions the way Ash and Patrick both were, and he somehow had a way of helping the pair of them keep their dark demons in check. Having given up all spirits many years ago, he sipped on his ever present glass of barley water. His too-long, blonde hair was tied back neatly at his nape.

As Patrick sat down, he pulled his prop of choice, a coin, from his breast pocket, and spun it on the table. As the "spare", he had no value at home, and was happy to be anywhere but there. Being part owner of a night club was not only a great way to pass the time with his closest friends, but it also had the added benefit of infuriating his pompous older brother.

Michael pulled out his watch and opened it. "It's not like you to be late." It was a question rather than an accusation.

"Apologies," Patrick offered, "I overslept."

Ash raised a single brow. "I overheard some gossip about a scene that took place last night with Madame Bustier," he paused and sipped his brandy, "and you." He tipped his head toward Patrick. "Is any of it true?" He swirled the golden liquid in his glass.

Of course Ash would have heard. He knew everything that happened within a mile radius of The Raven's Den. "Unfortunately, I imagine most of it is true."

And here came the disappointment. Ash let out a long sigh. "So where is she then?"

Michael looked back and forth between the two of them. He obviously hadn't heard about Patrick absconding with a woman from Maison Rouge.

"She's at my flat," Patrick said quietly.

Ash's brows lowered with something akin to derision. Not something he often saw on his friend's face. At least, not directed at him.

"You know we can't take her in if you've slept with her."

"Oh for Christ's sake, Ash. I didn't bloody sleep with her."

"Then why didn't you bring her to Raven House?"

"Because of this," Patrick said angrily. "I knew you wouldn't approve of me using the services of—well—we're not all like you, Ash. We can't all just be celibate for the rest of our lives."

"Whoa." Michael pointed a warning at Patrick.

Ash's lips pressed into a thin line, and he nodded slowly. Patrick had lashed out, selfishly wanting to blame someone else for his poor choices. He hadn't really intended to hurt Ash, but had managed it all the same.

"Fuck!" He slammed a hand over his coin. "Where the hell is my brandy?" He stormed over to pour himself a glass. He took a large swallow and allowed its warmth to calm him. He was being a selfish bastard. As he returned to the table, his friends eyed him as if he were a wild animal that might strike at any moment. It wasn't like him to behave that way. He winced at the pain in his shoulder as he shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the back of his chair.

"I'm sorry, Ash," he said as he slumped into the seat. "That was uncalled for." He took another drink. "The truth is, I don't know why I didn't bring her to Raven House."

He looked up into Ash's eyes, surprised that there was no judgment there. No anger. Why couldn't he ever just be angry?

"She was so scared, Ash. So vulnerable. And so exhausted she fell asleep in my arms, even after I'd been nothing but a terrifying beast getting her out of that place. I couldn't just abandon her somewhere else, even though I know you would have kept her safe."

Ash nodded his understanding. He still hadn't said a word, and somehow that was so much harder than if he'd yelled and cursed and told Patrick what a fool he was.

It was Michael who finally spoke. "You should probably at least give her the choice, Patrick."

It just didn't feel like much of a choice. Sure, it was better than Maison Rouge, but it still just felt wrong. Why did it feel that way with Rosie when it never had with any of the others? They currently had 18 Lady Ravens, and so many others had already come and gone. They offered the women the ability to earn money without having to take their clothes off and also the opportunity to learn skills for a better life.

"I will." He meant the words, but still struggled with the idea of following through on them.

Ash cleared his throat. "Why don't we get back to business? That is why we're here, afterall."

* * *

Rosalyn plopped into the chair in Patrick's room. Who knew being fitted for gowns could be so exhausting?

She took a moment to just breathe.

At least she was dressed now, and in a gown that was far too fine for her. From the sounds of it, they were planning on making her several more. What did that mean? How was she ever going to pay Patrick back? What was he expecting from her in return?

She let out a long sigh. At this point, she was already obligated to repay him in whatever fashion he demanded. She needed some answers.

She pushed herself out of the chair and stepped into the hallway.

There were soft banging noises coming from a corridor off to the left, so she let her ears lead the way. Finch turned out to be the source of the noise. He sat with his back to the door, at what looked like a workbench. The rest of the room seemed to be a bedchamber. For a moment, she debated whether it would be appropriate to bother him, but honestly, what difference did it make after everything else?

Rosalyn knocked softly on the doorframe and Finch jumped and yelped before spinning around to face her.

"Oh no! I'm sorry, Finch! I didn't intend to startle you."

Finch pressed his empty hand over his chest and after a moment, he giggled. There was no other word for it. The sound was so surprising it jostled a laugh out of her, as well. When they both eventually calmed, Finch let out a long sigh and set down what looked like a small hammer on the desk behind him.

"Oh, Rosie, I should have checked on you after they left. I just assumed you'd be resting. Are you hungry? I'm sure I can throw something together." He didn't wait for an answer before he moved toward the door.

Rosalyn held up her hands to stop him. "Actually, I was looking for Patrick. Is he still resting?"

"I'm afraid he's gone to his club and won't return until the wee hours of the morning." He grimaced apologetically.

"Does he go there often?"

"Most nights," Finch said with a nod.

So he was a gambler. Rosalyn was all too familiar with where that could lead. Her father's need for cards is what ultimately forced her mother to marry a monster after his death because he'd left them in debt. Rosalyn shook her head and let out a long sigh.

"But don't worry," Finch rushed forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'll be here to keep you company, so you won't be alone."

Rosalyn smiled. Finch was so kind. "I wasn't worried about being alone, but thank you. I'll be glad of your company."

"Then why the loud sigh?" He leaned back as if trying to read an answer on her face.

There was no reason to lie. "My father threw away everything he owned because of his need for cards, so I'm not terribly fond of gambling." Rosalyn shrugged.

Finch looked confused for a minute, but then understanding dawned. "Ooh!" he drawled. "He doesn't go there to gamble. When I said his club, I literally meant his club."

It was Rosalyn's turn to be momentarily confused. "You mean, he owns the club?"

Finch nodded. "He's one of three partners."

"I see." But she didn't really. "And what is the name of his club?"

Finch swallowed audibly. "These are things you should talk about with Patrick. I will be sure he makes time for that tomorrow." He gestured with his head toward the door. "Let's go to the kitchen and I'll put something together for you to eat."

"No, Finch. I interrupted you in the middle of something. Just point me towards the kitchen and I will make myself something."

Finch's eyes opened wide with excitement. "You can cook?"

Rosalyn laughed. "Well, I'm no chef, but I can find my way around a kitchen."

Finch clapped his hands together as if in prayer. "Surely you are heaven sent!"

Rosalyn had thought he might be offended by her offer to cook her own food. After all, her desire to do so had been at least partly based on her previous experience with Finch's cooking.

After a bit more convincing, Finch eventually pointed Rosalyn in the direction of the kitchen and left her to her own devices. Unfortunately, it was surprisingly bare. She found a handful of eggs, a large chunk of cheese, and the very crusty end of a loaf of bread. She couldn't even find the ingredients for making fresh bread. With a sigh, she chiseled off a piece of the bread and sliced a few bits of cheese. Clearly, she needed to go to the market, but once again, there was the problem of money.

As Rosalyn sat in Patrick's chair, once more, nibbling away on her snack, there was a noise outside the window. It suddenly occurred to her that she had no idea where she was. She hadn't even looked out the window yet. Perhaps she was just avoiding it because the more she learned about her surroundings, the more real it all became. She still just wanted to believe she was having some sort of strange dream and would eventually wake in her own bed.

Slowly, she stood and placed her plate and napkin on the side table. Then, gathering her courage, she placed one foot in front of the other and made her way across the room. Why was this so daunting? Why did it really matter where she was?

With a deep breath, she pulled the curtain aside and peered through the glass. There was a fair amount of hustle and bustle in the street below, but it was different than it had been outside Maison Rouge.

Pastel parasols floated along, protecting the ladies who moved in a procession on the pavement below. Various carriages, some dirty, and some gleaming with crests on their sides, moved slowly in both directions. It was a strange assortment of people, to be sure.

Straight below the window stood a burly man, his arms folded across his broad chest. He gave a nod as a couple approached and pulled the door open for them to enter. Was that the entrance to Patrick's club? No, that didn't make sense. Finely dressed ladies didn't go to places like that.

With another sigh, Rosalyn allowed the curtain to fall back into place. Perhaps Finch could give her enough to buy a few things from the market. Surely Patrick wouldn't object if she made him a decent meal.

Rosalyn washed her plate and returned it to its place before searching out Finch once more. He wasn't in his room, though. She wandered down the hallway she'd not yet explored and came to a closed door at the end. After hesitating for a moment, she knocked softly. "Finch?" she said quietly. Nothing. Looking nervously back down the corridor, she tried the knob. It was unlocked, so she pushed the door open a few inches, her heart pounding inside her chest.

"Finch?" she whispered again. And then, "Patrick?" for good measure. Still there was no response, so she pushed the door further and stepped inside. This was definitely Patrick's study. It was larger than she had expected. A grand mahogany desk sat straight ahead. The entire wall behind it was lined with floor to ceiling shelves filled with books. Two blue velvet straight-backed chairs sat in front of the desk. Did he sometimes have meetings with his partners in here? To the right, at the far end of the room near the fireplace, were a pair of plush leather armchairs. Is that where he'd slept while she was in his bed? Guilt settled in her stomach. And now she was invading his personal space without his permission. What had gotten into her? She strode from the room and closed the door softly behind her. Finch had to be around here somewhere. She needed to find him so that she could go to the market and, in turn, start to repay some of the kindness Patrick had shown her.

"Finch?" She called more loudly this time. He still wasn't in his room, nor had he been in the kitchen, or anywhere else. Shaking her head, she stepped into Finch's room. Patrick must give him money for buying food for the house, not to mention his wages. There must be a few coins lying around somewhere. She wasn't a thief, but she had to do something. She couldn't just sit in Patrick's room and wait for him to return.

Skipping the drawers in the workshop area, she went straight to the nightstand. Tamping down her guilt once more, she pulled open the drawer and knew she'd guessed right. There was a small, leather pouch in the corner. She reached inside and withdrew enough to buy what she needed.

Now, to find her way outside and to the market before all the sellers closed for the evening.