Chapter 7

7

Around eleven the following morning—afterthree hours of waiting in his carriage parked across the street—Spencer saw Joanna step out of the door of the mediocre Georgian house wedged between two similar structures.

Warmth shot through his body as he watched her figure move. Dressed in a simple white bonnet, a gray spencer, and a brown muslin dress, she swiftly walked past the brick facade, her shoulders curling in on themselves as if she wanted to hide something…herself, perhaps. He didn’t like that. A woman like her shouldn’t hide. Was it because she went out unchaperoned when she shouldn’t?

Miss Joanna Digby…

His Persephone…

He had learned her name from Grandmama, and after discovering she lived with her brother and sister, finding her brother’s address was a quick matter of asking his friends, whom he’d seen in Elysium after the fire at the opera. According to Rath, Mr. Gideon Digby was a respected solicitor by day and a notorious rake by night.

The curves of Joanna’s body moved seductively under her plain dress and modest spencer. She passed by her home’s two-paned sash windows. Bright pink and magenta geraniums sat in pots on the windowsill, and Spencer imagined Joanna watering them every week. They must thrive under her touch.

With the now-familiar surge of vigor from the chase pinching in his gut, he knocked on the wall of his carriage to signal to Carl he should follow her, something they had agreed beforehand. His carriage moved slowly after Joanna as she walked through the morning mist, which clung to the cobblestoned streets, under the overcast sky. A carriage, its wheels rattling, slowly made its way down the street in the opposite direction. As Joanna passed by one of the neighboring town houses, window shutters creaked open, and a maid, apron wrapped around her waist, vigorously shook out a rug, sending dust motes into the dim daylight.

At the next crossing, she climbed into a hackney.

While they followed her through London, Spencer’s mind replayed everything he knew about her.

As he’d found out from Grandmama after the fire, once she was safe at home and drinking tea, Miss Digby and her siblings were distanced from their ducal uncle and living on limited means, due to Ashton’s refusal to release Gideon’s inheritance. Some said Ashton had gambled it away, and Spencer believed that could be the case. It was clear Joanna lived very modestly, while Ashton swam in wealth. The thought lit a fire of acidic anger in his stomach.

Some time later, they reached Whitechapel. Mud squelched under the horses’ hooves and the wheels of the carriage. They passed by crooked and rotten houses, through an uneven labyrinth of streets, with laundry hanging from house to house. They drove through a market reeking of fish, where thin housewives in patched dresses picked through molding vegetables and inspected wet sacks of grain with sad eyes.

Partway along Petticoat Street, Joanna’s hackney stopped, and she climbed out. Spencer descended, his eyes never leaving Joanna, and told Carl to wait around the corner.

He followed her at a distance as she knocked on the door of number twelve. He didn’t like seeing her in this neighborhood infested with criminals, but he waited, watching carefully for any sign of trouble coming her way.

Several minutes passed, and no one came to the door. She looked around, then knocked at a neighbor’s house, and a woman opened the door.

She started talking to the woman, but Spencer was too far away to hear a word they said.

That was it.

She must be here searching for information about Ashton’s wrongdoings. Why else would she visit Whitechapel and put herself in this precarious position? And if Joanna was about to learn something useful, he must, too. He marched across the street, every step sending a little bolt of lightning through his limbs the closer he came to her.

Soon he stood next to Joanna and a step away from the neighbor hovering over the doorstep. The woman’s eyes bulged as she looked him over.

Joanna gasped at him in disbelief.

“Miss Joanna Digby,” he said in greeting. “My Persephone.”

She paled.

“My apologies,” he said to the neighbor. “We were supposed to meet at this address. Who did you say lives at number twelve?”

The woman looked them up and down, took one step back, and shut the door. Only, Spencer was faster. He put his healthy leg between the door and the frame.

“I apologize again,” he said. “Where are my manners? You must be very busy, and we are wasting your valuable time.” He pulled out a shilling from his purse. The woman’s gaze glistened, and she didn’t make another movement to close the door.

“I can only keep me family fed for a day or two with this,” she said.

“Of course,” said Spencer as he dug into his purse once more and took out a pound. He doubted if the woman saw more than ten pounds per year. “Would one pound be more agreeable?”

He held out the one-pound note between his index finger and his middle finger. Her eyes focused on it like a cat’s on a mouse.

“It would, m’lord,” she said.

He nodded, handing the note to the woman. His gaze slid to Joanna, whose jaw was locked angrily, her green eyes ablaze. He realized the unfairness that she couldn’t play by the same rules as him without greater financial means.

But he was going to win because he had to. Whatever reasons she had to pursue Ashton, none of them could match his.

The excitement of his victory was chased away by the thought of his enemy, Spencer’s heart covering with a callous crust.

“I ain’t know their name,” said the woman as she hid the banknote under the hem of her neckline, her eyes jumping to look around conspiratorially. “But there’s a bloke, comes in every Sunday, right during Mass, and legs it in five minutes.”

Mass was held at 10 a.m. on Sundays, and most people would be in church. Streets would be empty. It was the perfect cover to go unnoticed. Spencer wondered briefly why this woman stayed at home and had time to observe the comings and goings of her neighbor.

“What does the person look like?” Joanna asked.

“A tall, skinny man,” the neighbor said. “Dressed same as any of us round ’ere.”

“How long has he been doing this?” asked Spencer.

She shrugged. “Been about a year and a half…maybe two, I reckon.”

“Does he come alone?” asked Joanna.

“Never seen ’im with nobody else.”

“Who used to live there before him?” asked Spencer.

“Mr. and Mrs. Adey,” she said. “But they got chucked out, didn’t they? Couldn’t keep up with the rent.” She glanced between them. “Now, if that’s all yer after…”

Spencer swallowed, feeling an odd blend of emotions. Disappointment gnawed at him for not encountering the man at the address, yet there was a surge of excitement in prolonging the chase. This concoction of feelings quickened his breath, anticipation and frustration mingling as he considered the hunt, hopefully against his Persephone, that would resume come Sunday.

“That is all,” he said.

The woman closed the door before him, and Joanna turned to him, her green eyes so bright with anger they could be emeralds. “How dare you?” she demanded, her chest moving up and down quickly with her breaths.

“Miss Digby, I beg your pardon,” he said, marveling at the color he brought to her cheeks. “The question is, how dare you? You should have shared the information with me at the ball instead of running away.”

“How do you know my name?” she demanded. “And how did you find me?”

But before he could reply, there was a movement in his side vision, and a prickling sensation of danger at the back of his neck. Without turning his head, he looked. Across the street, leaning against the corner of a building, was a man dressed like the typical inhabitant of Whitechapel in a torn coat and greasy trousers. The eyes of the man, from under his cap, were on Spencer…or on Joanna.

He didn’t like either option.

He supposed, since his appearance last night at the opera, Ashton must know of his return by now.

A chill slipped down Spencer’s spine at the thought as he remembered surroundings much like these at Portside, and men much like this observer, knocking him out, then stripping him and carrying him to the ship. It was a night that had irrevocably changed his life and those of his family.

“Come, Miss Digby,” he murmured, as the urge to take this woman to safety had the hair on the back of his neck standing up. “Let us talk about it as we get out of here.”

He started walking, his shoes squelching in the mud, but after a few steps he noticed that she didn’t follow. In fact, when he turned around, he saw the back of her figure moving in the other direction, serpentining around street urchins, local women, some of whom had babies strapped to their chests, and surly men with dark eyes.

Muttering a curse, he turned around and hurried after her. She glanced back and sped up.

“Miss Digby!” he called.

When he looked over his shoulder, the man who had been leaning against the building was now following them twenty or so feet behind.

He walked as quickly as he could, but his wounded leg started to hurt again, and he limped through the mud. When he finally caught up with her, he was grateful she didn’t disappear into the crowd like she had so often before.

“Miss Digby, I insist that I must escort you to a secure location,” he said. “It’s not safe here.”

“Excuse me, sir,” she said, scoffing, “I do not even know your name. How can I go anywhere with you?”

“My name is Lord Spencer Seaton,” he said. “You’ve met me before.”

“Lord Spencer Seaton?” She frowned as though she was trying to place the name.

They were passing by Elysium now, and Spencer barely glanced at the beautiful building nestled among the old and crumbling houses. He’d spent many pleasurable nights there, but nothing drew his interest there anymore—apart from a mild entertainment at the club’s owner being his new brother-in-law, who ruled over Whitechapel like the prince regent ruled over England. Despite having expressed anger to Richard about the situation, Spencer thought it amusing. What other noble family in the whole of England would agree to have such a disagreeable connection?

The Seatons were different. They rarely played by the rules and found joy in defying society’s expectations, but they were still generally admired and accepted, their company desired.

“Yes, I saved your life last night at the opera. You may as well show a little gratitude by trusting me.”

“Trusting you?” she scoffed, deftly sidestepping a man maneuvering a barrel. “Why should I place my trust in someone who tried to take the paper I worked so hard to obtain, and without any apparent justification?”

“Believe me,” he retorted, “my reasons are more than justified.”

She squared her shoulders. “So are mine.”

The excitement of the chase gone, and only fear chilling the tips of his fingers, he looked over his shoulder again. The man was closer now. Spencer sped up, making sure he walked with her, side by side.

“Please, come. My carriage is waiting just one street down.”

“I will not get into the same carriage with you,” she declared. “Not only because it would be scandalous and ruin my reputation, but because I do not know you, sir.”

He leaned closer to her. “You know me, Persephone,” he murmured, and for the first time saw a flash of warmth in the depths of her gaze.

However, it was gone as swiftly as it came.

“You’re mistaken, Lord Seaton,” she said. “Please do hear me and leave me alone.”

With determination in her step, she quickened her pace and left Spencer behind. However, after only a few strides, her foot slid on the slick ground. She stumbled awkwardly, trying to regain her balance before ultimately collapsing into a murky puddle with a yelp that echoed through the bustling marketplace. Mud splattered around her, drawing attention from nearby people. Some onlookers stifled their laughter while others openly snickered at her misfortune. One child in particular pointed and laughed with unrestrained glee, his voice ringing loud above the noise of the crowd.

Spencer muttered an oath and bent down to help her up when, from the corner of his eye, he saw the man following them only ten steps away. He had a menacing scar on his face.

Bending down, he pulled Joanna up under her armpits, flung her over his shoulders, his thigh complaining, and ran as fast as he could with the pain that shot through him every time he used his wounded leg.

He maneuvered through the rows between the market stalls towards his carriage under her shrieks of “Let me go!” and “Help! Kidnapping!”

If this were Mayfair, she’d be ruined. Scandalized. Never to be seen in polite society again.

But this was Whitechapel. People stopped to watch them, but he raised his other arm and announced, “She’s all right. Husband and wife quarrel. Nothing to see here!”

And under the amused and understanding gazes of men and angry glares of women, he carried his plunder to his carriage for her safety’s sake.

Perhaps he was a Hades now, kidnapping Persephone into his dark and miserable world.

It was for her own good, he told himself.

The weight of her body was satisfying and her round thigh, moving as she kicked, was warm through the layers of her clothes and felt tantalizing under the palm of his hand.