Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

T he chills had stopped traveling through Fleur's body around Mr. Porter. Instead, it was replaced with a breathless awareness that choked her as effectively as if he had his hands around her neck and was squeezing the very life out of her. She had the feeling she was his indentured servant until the end of time. When she was young, she had entertained dreams of a dashing hero sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to his castle. Not once did the visage of a dark villain leading her into the bowels of the underground pop into her mind. But that was exactly what was happening now.

She wondered if this was what hell was like. While Mr. Porter might not be a demon in the Biblical sense, he was a man who would go to any lengths to get what he wanted. At the moment, he appeared to want her.

Rather than allow his presence to completely cause a downward spiral, she tried to focus on his features, to find something redeeming.

He was particularly handsome with his pronounced cheekbones and the defined jawline with the dark stubble that always seemed present. She recalled the first time she'd seen him and that was one of the first things she'd noticed, other than those piercing silver eyes. She had hoped that there might be a spark of warmth or empathy inside but as yet she had found nothing but a calculated calm.

If she was helping him to fight… whatever it was he wanted her to use her fencing skills for, at least it would be better than being subjected to that same cold glare when she was naked and vulnerable in front of him. She was surprised he might trust her with a sword not to "accidentally" use it on him. But perhaps he was that confident in his awareness that he could fend off an impending attack.

The conversation grew stilted from that point on and Fleur was thankful for the reprieve. She wasn't sure what to say to this man. Oddly enough, he appeared the same. Or perhaps he just preferred the silence as well.

The hackney finally stopped, depositing them in a street that Fleur had hoped to never occupy. A dirty unkempt dog walked by as she disembarked. Two men dressed in shabby clothes were speaking across the street. At first glance it appeared that they ignored the two occupants that stepped to the ground but when one of the men turned his head and looked directly at her with a wink, she knew better than to trust her surroundings.

"Where are we?" she whispered to her companion as she sidled closer to him. Something told her that he was safer to be around than anyone else that might come crawling out of their drunken holes.

"Whitechapel." Nothing but a clipped reply and no further explanation.

"Why are we here?" she prodded. "And how long do we intend to remain?"

He let them inside a ramshackle building that looked as though it had seen better days. Inside was one of the smallest rooms she had ever beheld. If she thought the cottage she had shared with her brother in Greenwich was small, this was miniscule in comparison. "Why?" He finally answered her question. "Don't you like it here?"

She glared at him. If that was his attempt at a joke it wasn't very humorous. "Not particularly."

"A pity as that is where I have your shroud." He walked over to a chair where the item had been tossed haphazardly. He picked it up and returned to hand it to her. "I would change out of that lovely gown before someone assumes that you are a whore."

She snatched the garment and held it close to her like a shield. "We both know I am nothing of the sort, so I would kindly ask you to keep your opinions to yourself." She glanced around the solitary room. "Where am I supposed to change?"

He walked over and sat down in the chair. Lighting up another cheroot, he waved a hand where she stood. "That works for me."

Fleur wanted to tell him to make sure he kept his head turned as she started to remove her clothing but he didn't seem to pay her any attention. He continued to puff on his cheroot and stare out the single window that had enough grime on it that he surely couldn't see a single thing beyond it.

Taking a deep breath, Fleur started to unlace her corset. It tied in the back and was a bit difficult to maneuver at first but she would rather die than ask for Mr. Porter's assistance. As she finally got the laces to cooperate with her fumbling fingers, she glanced about and tried to picture herself staying there overlong. Surely if the man had five thousand pounds to impart without batting an eyelash, then he had to have better lodgings elsewhere. While she didn't expect Mayfair, it would be nice to be somewhere that she didn't have to worry about rats running rampant around her feet. She had yet to see any of the foul creatures but she wasn't about to discount their existence.

When she reached the end of her corset, she took it off with a relieved sigh. Next were her skirts. She stepped out of the many layers until she stood in her chemise, stockings, and slippers. She would have loved to have a pair of boots right about now, especially if Mr. Porter intended for them to traipse about such a disreputable area. But she supposed she had to utilize what she had.

She jumped when a pair of men's black boots slammed into the floor behind her. She spun around, the shroud still clutched to her chest, as she faced Mr. Porter. She didn't know how long he'd been standing there observing her struggles and neither did she care to find out.

She recognized her shoes and said, "You thought of everything, didn't you?"

"I never go anywhere unprepared."

With that, he turned his back to her, so she quickly donned the shroud and the shoes. Once she was finished, she announced, "I'm done. Now what?"

He headed for the door. After he opened it, he said, "Follow me."

* * *

Drake wanted to tell her that this was nothing more than a test to see how far he could push her to do his bidding but the truth was he did have something that needed taken care of this night. He generally preferred to work alone but considering Miss Davies was skillful with a sword and it wouldn't be amiss if he had someone to watch his back with this particular gang, then her presence was rather perfectly timed.

He'd first heard about the issues arising that afternoon. One of his contacts had sent him an encrypted message that told him of the turmoil that was about to take place at an illicit boxing match. Amos Jones had requested his help and Drake had been more than willing to provide it. There weren't many people who Drake owed any sort of loyalty—except one man. Amos had saved him when he'd been left for dead. Because of that, he had always been available when Amos had called on him. He doubted that Jones was his true last name but one he'd adopted over the years just as Drake had done.

They had met in the workhouse, both young men who were angry at the world and set on turning it upside down. They had certainly done that, amassing their fortunes from those that didn't deserve to live above ground and finding a way to steal their inheritances that hadn't truly been earned but wasted. Truly, Drake had considered it an honor to relieve such men of the burden of coin and they generally took care of the downward spiral on their own.

He'd never killed for sport, only when necessary, when his own life was in jeopardy. Some of the more notable gentlemen weren't so understanding when it came to being destitute. With Amos's assistance, they had found a way to cover up their good misdeeds.

However, Drake had vowed that he was done with the conspiracy and intrigue. He had enough money that he didn't have to take any job that didn't interest him. He could be more selective in his clients.

And where he spent his vast wealth.

Drake glanced at the shrouded figure beside him. He had asked her to wear the covering, not just for his protection, but for her own. London was riddled with gangs and men willing to slit Drake's throat for little more than a shilling. It was true he had Amos and other men he could depend on if needed but not everyone in the West End was a friend. It was best that her beauty was concealed. Some would be more than happy to relieve Drake of his newfound courtesan.

And they wouldn't be as considerate of their prize.

Drake was glad that Fleur remained silent as he led them on foot a few blocks, down alleys where human and animal vermin alike were just starting to come to life for the night. He could hear her slight breathing beside him and he wondered if she was shocked at the gruesome sights around them, or horrified by the living conditions of so many. Men were relieving themselves against the brick and limestone buildings while harlots wearing loose fitting garments were luring their prey into darker alleyways where they would decide if the coupling was worth it, or if they should just slit their partner's throat right then and there. Children were not spared this life. Some wore shoes, others were barefoot, but innocent they were not. Pickpockets ran rampant through the streets.

Drake should have spared her the unpleasant scene around them but not only was time of the essence, there was no use coddling her from a life he was well suited. If they were to be together for an undetermined length of time, it was best she knew what sort of man she had unwittingly tied herself to in that gentleman's club. He was a realist. He wasn't the sort to offer flowery prose or long-stemmed roses.

This was his life. This is what he had called home for so many years.

She didn't say a word.

But he knew she would. It was inevitable.

When they reached the establishment Amos had directed him to in the message, he finally stopped and turned to her. "Stay by me and don't say or do anything without my signal."

"What is that?"

He set his mouth in a tight line. "You will know it."

She gave an obedient nod beneath the shroud and he walked toward the entrance. Before he was let inside, a man stopped him with a hand on his chest. "An' jus' where do ye think ye're goin'?"

* * *

Fleur's heart was beating so loud that she was surprised no one heard it. Her pulse was a steady beat in her ears and she feared that instead of her virtue this evening, she would be losing her life or, at the very least, a limb.

She had never been much for prayer but she sent one up now, just in case.

As her new benefactor faced off with the man at the door, it amazed her how calm and composed he could be while she was trying to keep from shaking in her boots. She would be thankful when they could leave this place and she hadn't yet stepped a foot inside.

"I have an appointment," Mr. Porter said in a velvety, even tone. Fleur had to admit that he had a voice that was both seductive and menacing. It was strange, and yet, inviting at the same time.

"Do ye now?" The man laughed and Fleur didn't miss the bulging muscles around his upper arms and neck. Nor the jagged scar that ran down the side of his face that he set even closer to his opponent. "I'm afraid it's gonna cost ye."

"I'm running a bit short this evening."

The man laughed richly and then his gaze flicked to her and he straightened slightly. "Who's tha' ye got wit' ye?"

"No one of consequence. As to that payment—" The second it took for the man's attention to slide to her, Mr. Porter had slid a dagger from inside his boot and held it against the man's throat. Fleur thought for sure that the man could have overpowered Mr. Porter since he almost doubled him in size but the stark terror in his gaze expressed his surprise. "We're going in now." He released the man with a gentle slide of the blade down the scar on the side of his face. It was enough to draw a slight trickle of blood but no further harm than that. "You have a good night."

The man collapsed against the side of the building, his eyes bulged out and his face a pasty white.

Once they were out of earshot, Fleur asked, "How did you know it would be so easy to convince him to stand down?"

He looked at her in a tolerant manner. "Once you have played this game long enough it starts to become familiar." He grasped her hand and pulled her behind him and Fleur realized that the man she was with was not as dangerous as the others she would soon meet. She was glad that Mr. Porter was her escort if she had to become a patron of such a place.

The surroundings were similar to any other pub that Fleur had frequented around England with one marked difference. She walked over dried blood stains on the floor. The kind that had seeped into the wood and would never come clean again. Drink flowed heavily and the raucous carousing was almost deafening. From gaming to whores, it was the sort of den of iniquity that put the gentleman's club she'd been subjected to shame. That had been a place to practice money and power.

This was a place to practice all the rest.

Fleur noticed that Drake kept his baker boy cap down low, almost over his brow. She wondered if he was trying to conceal his identity and why that might be. No doubt he'd had trouble here in the past as it didn't seem to encourage newcomers.

That point was proven a moment later when someone grabbed her arm a bit roughly. "Whot's wit' th' disguise?"

"They are with me." It was all Mr. Porter offered for an explanation as he clamped his hand around the offender's wrist. She had a moment of panic thinking that they might start a brawl in front of her but the man must have decided she wasn't worth the effort and released her.

Again, Mr. Porter grasped her hand as he led her toward the rear of the establishment. She thought they might be leaving but then he pushed back a wall to reveal a set of stairs that led down to another section of the pub that was even louder than above. She swallowed down her rising fear as the shouts and screams reached her ears and caused them to ring.

When they reached the ground floor, Fleur realized what all the excitement was about. There was a pit set up in the middle of the commotion and two men faced off with nothing on but a pair of ragged trousers. Sweat dripped from the hair that was plastered to their head and mixed with the rivulets of blood that ran down their bare chests.

Both men's bare knuckles were mangled as well as their faces. It was obvious they had engaged in a battle. And as one of them drew back and made contact, Fleur had to look away but she couldn't escape the sickening crunch that followed.

"Why are we here?" She spoke urgently to Mr. Porter but he either didn't hear her or he ignored her as he continued to glance about the crowd, as if looking for someone.

He finally led her to a corner of the room that was deserted. At least, as much as it could be with a high stakes boxing match taking place. A dark-skinned man approached them and Fleur's eyes widened behind her shroud. He was muscular and wearing a patch over one eye, his persona just as intimidating as the rest of him. But it was the single eye that was revealed that caused her to become speechless. It was bright blue.

"Drake." He clapped Mr. Porter on the shoulder in a friendly fashion, for which she was grateful. However, it was the name he uttered that caught her attention. Was that Mr. Porter's given name?

Drake . She sounded it out in her mind and tried to decide if it suited him.

"Amos."

She tilted her head slightly to the side, attempting to picture the other man in the same fashion.

They bent their heads together and spoke too quietly for her to hear so Fleur decided that she would inspect the rest of the room.

Finally, their conversation appeared to conclude. At the same time, a great roar of applause and equal amount of upset, came from the direction of the pit and the fight that had recently concluded.

To her surprise, Mr. Porter handed her his dagger. "In case things don't go the way they should."

After that, he began to remove his jacket and shirt and she realized what he was about to do. Before he could remove the fine lawn shirt, she grasped his arm. "Please tell me you aren't going in that… that…"

"Pit?" he finished for her since she seemed incapable of uttering the word. "I am."

"Why?"

"I have my reasons."

She exhaled sharply. "That you want to limp out of here? I'm not sure I approve."

He snorted. "You don't have a choice. You are beholden to me. It's not the other way around."

"But what if?—"

He reached out and grasped her chin through the shroud. Even through the concealing fabric, she was able to see clearly and his eyes were like twin daggers shining out of his face. "If that occurs, Amos will lead you to safety. From there you can return to your brother. But I can assure you that won't be necessary. This is not my first fight in the pit."

Fleur released her grip out of shock more than anything else. "You have?"

Instead of replying, he removed his shirt and handed it to Amos.

That's when she saw the scars.