Chapter 3

three

R OYSTON WOULD PROBABLY spit ash and dust for the rest of his life, and his eyes would never stop burning.

Sitting on a bench at the Royal Waterloo Hospital, he wiped the tears that kept streaming down his stinging face. No matter how much water he drank or how many times he washed his skin, his eyes burned, his nostrils singed, and his throat seemed filled with scratching sand. He couldn't complain, though. Aside from the ash and a minor cut on his hand, he was fine. The same thing couldn't be said about those people who had died in the fire. Others, who had been transported to the hospital, wouldn't likely survive their wounds. Too many people had been hurt if the frenetic activity in the hospital was an indication of the seriousness of the incident.

He'd lost sight of Lord Havisham after he'd been sent to the hospital. He'd lost sight of Miss Angeline Haywood as well, but she should be all right although that burn on her arm might get infected. Speaking of which, she walked over to him. Or at least, he thought it was her. His teary, swollen eyes offered only a blurred vision, but he recognised her pretty mauve dress and her petite frame. He remembered she smelled like wild roses, but right now, she could smell like horse dung and he wouldn't notice it.

"Mr. Alexander?" She sat next to him. "It's me, Miss Angeline Haywood."

He recognised her sweet voice as well. When she'd accused him of being rude, it hadn't been so sweet. Also, somehow she knew his family name.

"Miss," he croaked out, coughing in the handkerchief that had once been white.

"How are you?"

"Alive. How's your wound?"

She was a giant mauve blur, but he spotted a movement of her arm. "They applied a poultice to the burn, bandaged my arm, and gave me some laudanum for the pain." Her voice was strained.

"I'm sorry." He coughed.

"Thank you, but it's nothing compared to what other people suffered."

He coughed again. Bloody hell.

"Let me help you," she said.

"You're hurt."

"As is everyone, and I'm not in extreme pain now." She hooked her arm through his. "Come with me. The nurses have set up a room for those patients who need to wash and clean their eyes. Eye and throat problems seem to be common conditions."

Since he didn't have the energy to breathe, talking required too much effort. He let her guide him through the crowd of white-coated medics and nurses to a bright white room. He couldn't make out anything else about the place, just a giant, blurred white thing and other blurred objects. Blinking didn't help to clear his vision.

"There." She helped him to a chair. Then the slosh of water came.

He wiped his eyes again but no luck.

"Let me." She passed a wet cloth over his face several times, wringing it now and then.

A faint scent wafted from the cloth as she patiently removed the ash. Her gentle touch was soothing.

"It's rose and chamomile water," she said. "It's good for the eyes. You might need to see a doctor anyway and make sure there isn't any damage, but the water will help."

He said nothing. With his eyes closed, he focused on breathing. The smell of burning wood would forever remain in his nostrils.

"I didn't thank you," she said. Her soft breath fanned on his cheek. "You saved my life and that of many others. You were so brave. Everyone is singing the praise of the earl of Havisham's brave footman who dared the fire."

Another coughing fit racked him. The cough was so strong that he felt as if red-hot claws were scratching his lungs. "No need to thank me," he said in a raspy voice.

"I beg to differ. Especially since I called you a brute."

"I don't care about that."

She washed his eyes many times until he smelled of something else other than smoke and his eyes burned less, but his sight was still blurred.

"Better?" she asked.

From what he could see, she was staring at him with an intensity he didn't find pleasant.

"Yes." He swallowed more water, but each sip scratched his throat. "Miss, I thank you for your help, but if you need to go to your mother, I understand." He'd rather be weak and sick without a witness. Thank you.

"My mother is all right." She paused before whispering, "You came back for me."

"What was I supposed to do? Let you die? Besides, to be honest, I wasn't thinking at that moment. All I knew was that I wasn't injured and that I could help." He rubbed his eyes. Bad choice. They burned tenfold.

"Don't rub. You'll make it worse."

He jolted when she took his injured hand and cleaned the cut with another cloth. His first instinct was to protest, but her soft fingers on his skin had a calming effect. There was something enchanting in the way she held his big hand in hers.

"How do you know my family name is Alexander?"

"Lord Havisham told me. He's here. A doctor is visiting him. My mother is here as well. She keeps coughing, but aside from that, she's fine."

"His Lordship will need me. Where is he?"

Her grip on his hand hardened. "His Lordship is all right. You're definitely in a more serious condition."

Sod his duty. She was right. He would sit there and enjoy the moment of calm as Miss Haywood tended to his wound.

"The earl is coming," she said, releasing his hand.

"Royston." A big black spot that had to be Lord Havisham stood in front of him.

"My lord." Royston rose.

Lord Havisham put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him down. "No need to stand up. You need to take care of yourself. You did something extraordinary tonight." There was too much excitement in his voice for a man who had risked his life an hour ago. "The young man you saved before the theatre collapsed is the queen's grandson," he added in a whisper.

"Good gracious," Miss Haywood said. "Is he all right?"

"He'll stay here for the night because he can't breathe properly, but he should recover well." Lord Havisham dipped his head, or at least that was what Royston saw. "You're the man of the hour."

He'd saved a royal lad. And? When he'd snatched the half-unconscious young man from a box filled with smoke, he hadn't had any idea who the lad might have been. The small group of people surrounding him should have been a clue, though. Surely, the lad's servants had been with him. If anything, if the royal grandson died, Royston would be blamed.

Having saved a royal didn't seem something he should be happy about. He was glad the royal grandson was alive, but he couldn't care less about who the lad was.

Again, he chose to stay silent.

"Miss Haywood," Lord Havisham said, "thank you for taking care of my footman. Royston is a loyal servant, and loyalty is always repaid."

Royston had no idea what His Lordship meant by that.

He bowed his head. "Thank you, my lord."

"I'll have my personal physician visit you." Lord Havisham took his arm and helped him up. "If you can walk, we'll go home and make sure you are well cared for. I want this hero to receive the treatment he deserves."

"Have a speedy recovery, Mr. Alexander," Miss Haywood said.

Royston wanted to say something, but an ache pounded in his head and a sudden exhaustion caught him. He bowed his head and followed Lord Havisham.

The water in the bathtub was the colour of ink by the time Angeline had finished taking a bath.

So much ash had blackened her hair and skin that she was surprised she hadn't burned. She wiggled the fingers of her injured arm and grimaced. The poultice the nurse had applied helped, but her whole arm throbbed. As the physician had said, the burn would leave a big scar. She wasn't looking forward to changing the bandage every day. The wound was going to hurt.

"Are you all right, love?" Mama helped her out of the bathtub.

"Sore and tired."

"I know. I know." Mama shook. "I'll braid your hair."

Wrapped in a fresh dressing gown, Angeline sat at the vanity and avoided looking at her tired reflection in the mirror.

Mama didn't look better. Her paleness was concerning. She hadn't spoken a word from the moment they'd left the hospital. Fatigue bruised her eyes, and her lips were pressed into a flat line.

"Mama." Angeline caressed her bandaged arm. "I was thinking of visiting Mr. Alexander to know how he's faring in the next few days."

Mama gave a brusque nod.

"How are you? Sit here." Angeline patted the stool next to her. "Why are you so quiet? I'm worried."

Mama did as told. "I'm all right." She rearranged the pots of cream and rouge.

"You're in shock. The fire scared me, too." She held her mother's hand. "But we're alive."

Mama shook her head. "It's not the fire. I mean… what happened today was awful, but it made me think about our lives. You got injured."

"It's nothing."

"I beg to differ. The wound might get infected, but don't worry. I'll use all my knowledge of medicinal herbs to make sure you heal properly." Unshed tears shone in her eyes.

"I trust you, Mama."

Her mother wiped a tear quickly. "If you'd died today?—"

"Don't say that." Angeline squeezed her mother's hands.

"I couldn't have borne it." She sobbed. "I can't go on without you."

"But I'm here."

Mama didn't seem to listen. "And if I'd died today, you would have been alone, unprotected, vulnerable."

"But you're here." Angeline hugged her mother, inhaling the familiar lavender scent.

"You don't understand." Mama disentangled from the embrace. "There are things you don't know about me, about what I do. Things that will put you in danger."

She easily believed that. Statistics and probabilities weren't her forte. She wouldn't last five minutes handling the stock market. But danger? "I don't understand anything about the stock market. Only you can invest money so successfully."

"Darling." Mama's black eyes turned darker. "I don't invest any money in the stock market. I don't understand finance better than you do. In fact, I hate statistics."

"What are you talking about? You're a genius." Besides, why were they discussing the stock market instead of the trauma of the fire? "You have a talent for numbers I don't possess. We have a lovely house and food on our table, thanks to your business skills."

"No." Mama gripped Angeline's shoulders. "I lied to you. For years. The money I earn is from…" She took a shuddering breath.

"Yes?" Angeline stretched out her good arm, ready to catch her mother if she fainted. Mama paled further, and her eyes grew wider by the minute. "What is it?"

"You are going to hate me."

Angeline let out a nervous laugh. "Don't be ridiculous. I could never hate you. Tell me the truth. You're scaring me."

"I have tumbles with rich gentlemen," she said all in one breath.

Angeline tilted her head. "Would you say that again?"

"Our money comes from the tumbles I have with gentlemen." Mama shot each word as if they were bullets.

The world shifted on its axis. It was a good thing Angeline was sitting because she would have fallen to the floor.

"You have tumbles in exchange for money?" Goodness. Considering they lived a comfortable life, Mama had to have a string of clients. But it couldn't be possible.

"It's worse than that." Mama rose and poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher. "These men don't only pay me for the tumble." She drank the whole glass. "I become their mistress, their dirty secret. Meanwhile, I collect material on them."

"Material?" Angeline propped an elbow on the vanity, needing support. The pain in her arm was almost forgotten.

"Compromising letters and paid bills because they take me out to dinner or to fancy hotels. Sometimes they rent a room for me in a fancy area. I also take photographs of them and me together when they're too drunk to understand what's happening. Sometimes they're daft enough to agree to have their photographs taken."

"I need a moment to think." Angeline rubbed her aching forehead. The revelation was too much.

"I know, love." Mama stroked Angeline's shoulder. "It's all true. There's no stock market."

"But for what purpose would you collect— oh, goodness." She breathed hard, and her throat ached all over again. "You blackmail them."

Her mother nodded. "Not all of them. Only those who deserve it. No one cares if a gentleman has a mistress as long as the relationship is kept quiet. The nastier the gentleman, the more eager he is to keep his dirty secrets quiet."

The shock caused Angeline to pause for a long moment. Mama had spoiled her since she was a child. Even when Angeline had worked as a waitress, she couldn't say her life had been harsh. She lived in a nice house, and food filled her table. But blackmailing people wasn't her idea of leading a happy life. Not to mention that she wanted a husband and a family. If Mama's scandalous life came out, she and Angeline would never recover. They would be shunned and might end up in prison.

"Mama." She licked her dry lips. "What you do isn't simply illegal. It's wrong."

"Wrong? Who's worse, those men who don't hesitate to be unfaithful or me? Do you think I would let those pigs put their dirty paws on me without having them pay the consequences? They deserve it. I tried to live only on the fares they gave me, but it wasn't enough to provide an education for you."

Oh, no. Angeline pressed a finger to her temple as guilt lifted its nasty head. Her mother had solicited herself so that Angeline could study.

"What if what you do comes out? Tricks and plots like blackmailing people have the tendency to be discovered. What would happen to us? We might be arrested or, at the very least, become outcasts, and no man would touch me with a barge pole. I'll never get married."

Mama's eyes narrowed to slits. "And? It wouldn't be a loss. You can't trust men. Do you think that just because a man marries you, he's going to love you and care about you? He'll discard you as soon as he grows tired of you and will find someone else younger and fresher."

"Just because Father was a scoundrel, it doesn't mean every man is like him." Although the word scoundrel was a too-nice word for her father. Felon or crook was a more appropriate term.

Mama was officially the widow of a gentleman. The truth was that no one knew where Angeline's father was. He'd left when she'd been a toddler. Likely, being a criminal, a drunk, and addicted to opium, he had died in an opium den. Angeline didn't care. She felt guilty sometimes about her lack of care, but she didn't remember anything about him, and he hadn't shown himself in over twenty years.

Mama sat again on the stool, her shoulders stooping. "I don't want you to make the same mistake as I did. Marrying, that is."

"Right, because blackmailing people isn't a mistake." Angeline didn't want to discuss the value of marriage now. That was unimportant compared to the monumental revelation Mama had dropped over her shoulders.

She took another moment to digest the news. "Lord Havisham? Does he know that you are a… a…"

"Harlot? You can say it. I don't care."

No, Angeline wouldn't use that word for her mother. "Are you his mistress? Is this why he didn't want to see me in his box?"

She gave a reluctant nod. "I haven't been with him yet, but tonight was the opportunity to plan our first meeting. He offered two tickets for the play, inviting you although I told him clearly you weren't to be touched or informed of my probable liaison with him. Initially, he agreed to everything. He said we would have a normal night at the theatre and pretend to be only business partners as long as you were present. I thought he wanted to talk to me during the intermission, but he had other ideas. He told me he wanted a taste of what I could offer. Hence, you had to stay out of his box."

"What?" Angeline put a fluttering hand on her chest. "That's awful."

Mama didn't flinch. "No, it's normal."

"Why did you take me with you tonight of all nights?"

"I didn't know he would have prevented you from entering the box. I wanted you to have a proper night out and enjoy the play. But then the fire broke out, and you disappeared, and the thought of losing you was too much." A sob shook her. "I had to tell you the truth, make you understand why I've never taken you with me, and if something had happened to me, tonight, you would have been all alone with all the horrible things I did. The thought of those men I blackmailed coming after you because of me scared me to death. Without me to protect you, they would hurt you…" She sobbed harder. "I can't even think of what they would do to you."

"Heavens." Angeline's throat tightened, but not because of the fire. "You're alive and well. But you must stop this blackmail business. It's dangerous."

"It's our livelihood."

"We don't need more money," she whispered. "We have enough in our account to live decently for a few years."

"And after those years have passed?" She regained some colour. "What I do?—"

"It's dangerous."

"It isn't only about money, but power. Power I would never have if I had a husband." Mama wiped her eyes and regained her composure quickly as if reluctant to show her fragility. "Once you get married, you become your husband's property. You lose your freedom."

If freedom was having tumbles for money and blackmailing people, Angeline wasn't sure she'd like that type of freedom.

"I hold all the power in my relationships. That's what matters."

Angeline disagreed. It seemed those men used her mother. "Sooner or later, a gentleman will want to avenge himself or simply call the police."

"I don't care what happens to me." Mama lost her determined expression, sagging on the stool. "But today made me understand you could have been left alone with my mistakes."

"No more blackmailing. Please," Angeline said.

"I can't stop now." Her bottom lip quivered, and she started crying again.

Angeline hugged her. What Mama did was wrong from many points of view. But she was Mama, and Angeline's heart broke at hearing her cry. Mama must have spent many nights doing things she hadn't wanted to do. The thought was like a vine tightening around Angeline's throat. She'd help her mother get out of that life.