Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

I n anticipation of his kiss, Fleur's lids fluttered closed and she held her breath. She didn't know why she was so desperate for this embrace. Perhaps it was because of the dark promises that he offered her. Or that she was just as desperate for an ally in this sordid world. She wanted someone that she could trust, that she could dare to love.

But was that something she could even hope to gain from Mr. Porter?

Was it something she actually wanted from him?

He moved away and her frustration rose to the forefront. It caused her to lash out at him. "You offer paradise, and yet, you only tempt me with the prospect, dangling it in front of me but never following through."

His eyes flashed molten silver as he stepped back, so close that she could feel the heat emanating from his body and the tempest in his stare. "Do you really want to traverse this path, Miss Davies? Once you do, there is no turning back. Your virtue cannot be replaced and scandal is sure to follow."

Fleur's eyes filled with moisture until his face turned blurry. Angry at herself, she was the one to spin away from him. Hugging herself, she spat, "What does it matter any longer? What good is virtue if you don't have anyone special to share it with? It's not as if I had any suitors tearing down my door. I gave up everything—for Flavian, and now he can't even rescue me." She ended on a harsh sob, her heart breaking as she allowed herself to face the truth. If her brother was as honorable as she had tried to imagine he could be, he would have found some way for them to survive instead of allowing her to take all of their burdens on her shoulders. Her brother was the one person upon whom she believed she could always rely, but after years of sacrifice and letting time pass her by, he couldn't be bothered to leave Harriette's side.

She wanted to believe that Harriette was some sort of monster who had trapped him in her townhouse, but Fleur knew that wasn't true. There was no dungeon in that townhouse, no evil spell that had been cast upon him. She worried for him, but she wondered if he was sparing a single thought for her. When she'd left for the auction, she had waited for him to forbid her to go, to promise that they would find some other way, but he had allowed it all, while he brooded about his shortcomings.

She remembered the last words he'd spoken to her, that some people weren't worth redemption. It had cut her to the quick then, and it did the same now. She didn't know how she'd allowed herself to fail him . She realized that he'd spoken the truth when he had called her a martyr for taking the fall for both of them.

Fleur put a fist to her chest, wondering if her very heart was breaking in half. The amount of guilt that she was carrying around inside of her was almost unbearable. It was bad enough that she blamed herself for Flavian's faults, but after she had understood who had won the auction, she realized that she hadn't been despairing of becoming a courtesan at all. She might have railed against it at first, mainly for her virtue's sake, but from the first moment she'd met Mr. Porter in Greenwich, she had been intrigued. Her brother might believe that she had willingly given up everything when they had parted on sour terms, but Flavian didn't know that she was willing—almost eager —to enact her new role with Mr. Porter. It felt like the worst sort of betrayal and she had no one to blame—but herself.

She suddenly felt as though the walls were closing in all around her. She couldn't take a full breath and her hands were starting to shake. "I need to get out of here," she whispered, and rushed for the door. Escape was within her grasp, and if she hoped to tell Flavian she was sorry for everything, she had to make an attempt to reach him.

She ran past the surprised housekeeper and threw open the front door. She flew down the steps and headed for Harriette Wilson's house. Everything disappeared in a blur as she focused on her goal. She swiped at her face, the tears that were still flowing and making it difficult to see.

Other than when her parents had died, had Fleur given in to the impulse to cry. There were many times she came close to losing her composure, wondering how she was going to make it, but Flavian had always managed to keep her strong and steady. Without his calm assurance, and her sole purpose for working so hard, what did she have left?

She gathered her skirts and sprinted up the stone steps of the courtesan's residence, the place she had come to for refuge only a few days before, and pounded her fist on the door, ignoring the brass knocker completely.

Her summons was answered in short order, the butler looking as though she had gone mad. Perhaps she had. She certainly didn't feel in control of anything anymore and it was a helpless feeling. "I need to speak with my brother," she urged.

He lifted his chin a notch. "I am afraid he's out at the moment."

He started to shut the door but she wedged her foot inside. "Then I will wait." She shoved her way inside and ignored the shocked look from the servant which proved that he was lying. Rushing around the lower rooms, she called out his name. "Flavian!"

Everywhere she looked was empty, so she headed for the second floor. The butler was saying something behind her, but his words didn't register as she started to inspect every room.

Her heart lodged in her throat, fearing that he was truly gone.

But then she tried one last door.

She skittered to a halt when she spied her brother in a compromising position—with Harriette.

Hearing the commotion behind her, Fleur started to back away, but it was too late. Her presence had been noted. Without bothering to cover her nakedness, Harriette's chest was in full view as she offered a look of surprise. It was soon replaced with a sly smile. "Why, Miss Davies. We weren't expecting company."

"Fleur?" Her twin had seemed to come to his senses. He blinked at her. "What are you doing here?"

Her mouth opened but no sound emerged. What could she say? That she had expected something different from him? That perhaps he might have actually been concerned for her welfare, rather than enjoying himself as Miss Wilson's current paramour? He certainly wasn't being mistreated or suffering in the least.

She met his gaze and expected guilt or— something , but nothing passed over his features save a flash of annoyance.

"Goodbye, Flavian."

It killed her to do it, to leave him behind, knowing that he was going to make the same mistakes, but she could no longer help him. He would have to stand on his own and face the consequences of his actions. She was done fighting his battles. She had her own life to contend with.

With a sense of defeat, Fleur returned to the first floor. She started for the door and when she glanced up, she saw the irritated glare from the butler. But more than that, Mr. Porter was standing in the frame, his cap hanging low over his forehead. He didn't move, but seemed content waiting for her to approach him.

"I had to see—" Fleur's voice broke and she swallowed hard. "I needed to know—to say—" Heaven help her, she couldn't seem to string a coherent sentence together. Gathering her strength, she clenched her fists and lifted her chin slightly. "Take me home."

Without a word, Mr. Porter turned and together, they headed for his townhouse.

* * *

When they returned, Drake led Miss Davies to her room. There he ensured that the cook made something that would help her sleep. She had been through an emotional strain and she needed proper rest. She had endured a lot in the past few days, and he certainly hadn't helped to ease her transition. In one night, she had lost everything and he should have been a bit more sensitive to that. Sometimes, he forgot that not everyone was as jaded as he was, able to withstand the turmoil that life continued to toss in his direction. The last thing he wanted was to wipe that beautiful smile off of her face. There were times he wondered if she was the last bit of hope in his miserable existence.

As she obediently drank the tincture that the cook had brought, Drake struggled to keep his hands to himself. He wanted to brush the slight strands of hair away from her forehead. Kiss her on the cheek and murmur that everything was going to be all right. But it wasn't something he could promise, so he refrained. He didn't act on the other temptations either, because he couldn't allow himself to get too close. There were too many things he still didn't know about her and he had learned to be guarded. His heart seldom made an appearance except to keep the blood pumping through the rest of his body. He wondered, at times, if that blasted organ had turned black and cold as he didn't feel much of anything anymore.

Except when he looked upon her face.

Fleur .

He clenched his jaw as he sat on the edge of the bed. He would make sure she was properly settled before he left. He owed her that much.

It didn't take long before the drink started to take effect, as her eyes began to grow heavy. "How are you?" he asked softly, although he couldn't quite rid his words of the gruff undertone that he had adopted over the years.

"Better." She sighed heavily. She put a hand to her forehead. "I'm sorry for such a… terrible outburst. I assure you that I never act that way. I am generally much more… composed. I don't know what came over me."

Grief. Loss. Despair. Drake knew them all because he had suffered from the same. Instead, he said, "There is nothing to apologize for."

Her focus locked on him. "But surely you must think I'm mad."

He offered a slight curve of his lips. "We all go mad sometimes."

"Have you?"

All my life. "On occasion."

"How do you… recover?"

I hope you can answer that question. "I get up every day and go to bed every night." Feeling more vulnerable than he would like, he got up and walked over to the window. Glancing outside at the brilliant day, he adjusted his attention back to her. "But I don't lament what is already past. Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow is not promised. All we have is this moment."

"That's very poetic," she murmured, and he could hear the weary tone in her voice.

If there was one thing Drake had never called himself, it was a poet. But he supposed there was a certain melancholy prose to his answer. He prayed that didn't mean he was getting soft. He would never survive if so.

He cleared his throat and walked over to the door. "Get some rest. We will speak again when you wake."

She mumbled something incoherent and he could tell the herbs were starting to take effect.

Unsettled, Drake returned to his study, intent on finishing his accounts, but the moment he walked over the threshold, he was struck with a sense of panic the likes he hadn't suffered for many years. When he was young, abandoned on the streets of London, these attacks had occurred with more frequency, but as he'd matured and learned the hardships in life, it had molded him into the man he was today.

He decided that watching Fleur struggle with her own trials today, it had sparked something within him that he thought had long been buried. At least, he had tried to smother that part of his past with all of his transgressions. He had done terrible, likely unforgiveable things, to get where he was now and although he should be apologetic for most of them, he found that portion of his conscience had withered away. But the avenues of his brain that were still connected to that scared child were apparently still evident.

He walked over to the cabinet that housed his brandy and withdrew the decanter. He didn't like to drink often because it dulled his wits and he generally needed them at a moment's notice. But not tonight. Not now. He wouldn't allow any interruptions.

Removing the stopper, he took several long gulps. It was nearly empty by the time his hands had finally ceased shaking and his senses were gratefully dulled once more.

Drake took off his cap and threw it on top of the desk as he sank into the chair and momentarily closed his eyes. He was relieved that Fleur couldn't see him in such a state of dishabille. He never wanted anyone to see the boy that was scared of his own shadow.

He wanted that boy to stay dead.

He was better off for it.

* * *

Slowly, Fleur opened her eyes as consciousness began to return. For a moment, she was disoriented, uncertain where she was, but as memory came flooding back, she wanted to hide beneath the covers of her bed and never show her face again. It was cowardly of her to consider such actions but she would rather disappear forever than face the stern regard of Mr. Porter again.

Drake.

She didn't allow herself to think of him in such intimate terms, because it was best if there was a divide between them. They could share mutual pleasure without going any further. Not only did she know he would want it that way but it would be safer for her if she did the same. He offered her nothing but heartbreak if her emotions ever became involved. She wasn't sure she could ever extend the offer of something as simple as friendship. That would mean caring and she doubted the sentiment would be reciprocated.

And yet…

He had taken care of her in a dire time of need, when the pressure had become too much to bear and she'd crumbled beneath the weight of it all. It was temporary insanity, a momentary weakness. It wouldn't happen again.

It couldn't.

Fleur sat up in bed. She was glad to see that she was still fully dressed in the ivory gown. It had lost some of its luster when she'd first donned it but an attack of hysteria would upset most anyone.

Shoring up her courage, she went downstairs to brave the lion in his den.

He wasn't in the study.

Curious, she glanced in a few other rooms but Drake was nowhere to be found.

She was starting to head for the downstairs kitchen when she spied a footman walking toward her. Except it wasn't an ordinary man. This one had dark skin and a patch over part of his face, leaving one perfectly blue eye to glance out at the world. Drake's cohort was just as lean and muscled as she recalled, and his focus was direct and knowing as well.

"Amos, is it not?" she greeted with an uncertain smile as he paused in front of her.

He flashed a white smile. "You have a good memory, Miss Davies."

Thinking that he would surely know where Drake had gone, she asked, "Have you seen Mr. Porter? I was hoping to speak with him."

He sent a thumb in the direction of the dining room. "He was just finishing his lunch."

She mumbled her thanks and scurried past him. As she walked inside the dining room, she was surprised to find a mahogany table and six chairs taking up the middle of the room. There was little else to recommend the space, but it was an improvement to the empty space before. It was the first thing to catch her attention.

"This is new," she noted as she trailed a hand along the shiny wood.

"Yes."

She looked up at the curt reply to find Drake standing by the mantel. She didn't know if it was possible, or perhaps she was still feeling the effects of the tincture she had drunk, but he looked more intimidating than usual. That intent gaze nearly took her breath. "I saw Amos," she said, for lack of her brain trying to remember what she had sought him out for.

"He's here to fill in as a footman."

This surprised her. "I didn't realize he adopted so many roles to his personality."

Some of his tight demeanor softened slightly. "He is doing it as a favor to me."

"Why?"

He tilted his head to the side. "Did you sleep well?"

It was obvious he had evaded the question. It concerned her but she didn't want to press the issue and put him in a foul mood. "As good as can be expected." She took a restorative breath. "About earlier?—"

He waved a dismissive hand and pushed away from the mantel. "There's no need. It's forgotten." He glanced at the table. "Order whatever you want to eat. The cook is under instruction to treat you as she would myself."

He started for the door.

"You're not staying?"

He hesitated, saying over his shoulder. "I will return later on this evening to escort you to the opera. Unless you have changed your mind?"

"No. That sounds… lovely." And it wasn't just because she was getting to do something exciting, but because she would be with him.

He nodded his head and left as Fleur sat down to dine alone.

* * *

"You didn't tell her?"

Drake glared at Amos. "It's best if she doesn't know. It would only upset her more."

They were on their way to make further arrangements in case they had to put their alternate plan into motion. He hoped it didn't come to that, but he didn't put anything past Miss Wilson and her desire to live as she'd always intended. She was already using Flavian as her pawn but it didn't appear that Fleur's brother minded in the least.

He clenched his jaw, angry that the man didn't have the spine it took to stand up for what was right. He surely knew how his sister had been treated, and yet, he remained at the courtesan's bedside like an obedient dog.

"You don't believe it will upset her if she finds out you were privy to the lady's schemes?"

"But I'm not," Drake pointed out firmly. "I am merely making preparations to remove Flavian before she can squeeze any more funds from me."

"And you believe that doesn't count as concealing the truth." The other man snorted, his blue eye revealed narrowing slightly. "All this time I thought you were keen on women but you don't know much if you believe your paramour will take this information lightly. You need to tell her before she finds out by some other means and you return to being the cruel villain who separated her from her blood."

Drake didn't reply. He knew that Amos spoke logically but Drake didn't need Fleur getting involved in something any more dangerous than necessary. If she should uncover Harriette's motives, she might try to rescue Flavian on her own. God only knew what would happen should that come to pass. One of the things he admired about Fleur was her determination and her courage but Miss Wilson was not like a disgruntled patron Fleur might have encountered at Greenwich. She knew nothing of the tactics that desperate women in Harriette's situation would do to secure their position within society, a position that had previously been stripped away.

Silence continued to remain supreme as Drake and Amos made their way to the East End of London. These were the streets that they were familiar with. They knew every stench filled alleyway, every dark and dirty lodging house, shop, and pub, as well as everything in between that most everyone else tried to ignore. Whitechapel was the breeding ground for crime, where a man could find himself at the mercy of a pickpocket and the barrel of a pistol in the same night. It was filled with the lowest of humanity, those that had fallen on hard times and had nothing left to lose.

People like Drake had once been. He didn't have to look into the hollow, sunken eyes of the boys in their torn rags as they slept against the side of a roughhewn building. He had been there many times. He could still remember the feel of the dagger handle in his grasp as he jerked awake with the slightest noise, wondering if he was about to breathe his last.

He despised coming back here but he knew these were the men he could count on. With a few coins, he could buy loyalty for a brief time. However, once the job was complete, he might find himself mugged and left for dead. It was the way of the world he knew. But he could also rub elbows with a duke and duchess in the midst of a ballroom if the occasion warranted it. He'd made sure to learn it all.

He led the way into the Crown and Sceptre that had already awakened for the evening. Drink was flowing freely, the loud guffaws from men already well into their cups seated around the center of the bar.

Drake ignored it all as he headed for the door at the rear of the pub. There was a man pissing out the back door but Drake paid him no heed. He was there to speak to someone in particular. Although he wasn't a man he could trust as well as Amos, he was a man who spoke and caused others to listen.

He rapped sharply on the wood four times in quick succession. There was a pause and then the wood flew open and Drake met the stone-faced expression of the gang leader's right hand. He had light hair that was plastered to his head, a gap-toothed grin and eyes that could pierce any soul. "Porter," he said with a snarl. It wasn't a polite greeting that he might have received in a ballroom but the closest he would get to approval to speak to the man in charge.

Drake started to move forward, but when Amos would have done the same, his way was blocked. "Your kind aren't allowed."

That was a slight that Drake had never stood for. He put his face directly in the other man's sight and said in a low growl, "Amos is with me." He waited for an altercation, but a bored voice spoke up from the back.

"Stop being an ass, Reynolds. Let them both through."

Reynolds stepped back with a snort that promised trouble but he did as he was instructed. As Drake and Amos moved further into the room, they encountered the man they sought. The clean shaven, well dressed, dark-haired gentleman looked as if he would be better suited in the middle of a Parliament hearing rather than behind the scarred desk that held more secrets of Whitechapel than Drake wanted to learn. Although he probably already knew most of them, Avalon had been chosen as the keeper of every misdeed that went on in Whitechapel. It was rumored that he had a list of offenders and their respected grievances, as well as the proof to back it all up, which is why he was more feared than the Runners who dared to patrol these streets.

Adopting a casual pose, Avalon clasped his hands together and regarded Drake as cordially as if they were about to have tea. "I heard you were going to be coming by to see me."

"Did you?" Drake drawled, although he wasn't surprised. The man had an uncanny ability to know information before it was ever suggested. It was another asset that made him so revered in the underground.

"You know an audience with me will cost you dear, as well as any assistance I might deign to give, since I prefer to be a neutral party in all matters, although I am somewhat empathetic to your plight." He lifted a brow. "I heard your lady was quite comely. I would be keen to keep hold of such a prize myself. Perhaps you might introduce us?"

Drake wanted nothing less but he knew in order to gain this man's assistance, as well as the men he had at his disposal at the snap of a finger, he had to play nice. "We will be at the opera tonight."

His smile grew to showcase even white teeth. "Then I shall anticipate the curtain rising."