Chapter Twenty

S he was pale. That was the first thing Joss noticed about her. The second thing he noted was the tension in her shoulders. And it wasn't simply being faced with his presence which made her tense. Hettie was struggling. The weight of the worries presently deposited on her slim shoulders was staggering. And for two months, she had been facing everything completely alone, including his rejection of her. Whatever his reasons or his honorable intentions, he had hurt her, and that thought pricked at him like shards of broken glass.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Whatever for?"

"That you were abducted. That you were used as a pawn by others. That you've had to face things completely alone because every man you've ever known—myself included—has proven a disappointment."

There was only silence for the longest time as she stared at him, her head cocked slightly to one side as she considered not only his words, but the whole of him. It was like she could see straight through to the soul he thought had once been sacrificed entirely. It took everything in him not to squirm beneath that steady regard, like a misbehaving child called onto the carpet.

Finally, she spoke. "You owe me nothing. Not an apology, certainly. I knew the risks that night in the Mint. I knew them fully. And I cannot say that I would alter anything about it even if it were possible to do so. I've asked for your aid, and you are providing it. That is more than enough," she said, as if it were that simple.

"Well, it's not good enough for me," he said, shaking his head. "But you've had enough of men telling you what to do in your life. I'm not that sort. But that is my child, and I mean to know it and for it to know me. What's between the two of us... well, we'll just have to figure that out as we go along."

"There is no us. We had one night together... one night with consequences. And just because we can't seem to keep our hands off one another, that doesn't signify that there is anything there beyond basic attraction. I will endeavor to curb my inappropriate behavior and you should, as well."

"Inappropriate? Hettie... I have never met a woman—not in all my life—that burrowed under my skin as you have. We spent one night together, and it has haunted me every moment of every day since. I regret my coldness to you that morning. I regret the impersonal way I left you with Mrs. Blaylock—Mrs. Carrow, now. God above, it's all cocked up. I told myself I was doing what was best for you, but I'm not a selfless man. Never have been. Never will. I want you. And nothing will stop me from trying to win you."

She shook her head, and her expression had shifted into one of sadness. "I'm not a prize to be won. If you want me, I don't need to be wooed. I need to know that I am valued and respected. I need to know that any partnership we have going forward will be just that—a true partnership and not one of us shouting orders or making unilateral decisions for the other. You called me a pawn. And it's an accurate description. For the entirety of my life, I've been naught but a commodity to be traded upon, first for my father and then for Arthur and ultimately for my abductors. I won't be that for you. Not now. Not when I have a choice."

If she only knew that he did already value and respect her. But actions always spoke louder than words. Thus far, actions had only shown that he was a selfish ass led about by his prick.

"There is a chance then," he mused, "that you would consider marriage to such a lowborn person as myself?"

She leveled that same assessing, squirm-inducing gaze upon him once more. When she spoke, her voice was low and soft, but held complete conviction. "If I were ever to marry again, the man would be judged only on how he treated me and how he made me feel. On his true worth and his own merit. I care nothing for birth or station. In truth, I never have. That was my father's obsession—that was what saw Honoria and myself married to men who were little better than monsters."

"I'm not a monster, though I have done monstrous things... I've done things that I'd never dare even whisper. But I'll never hurt you."

"You will," she murmured softly. "You likely will not mean to, but you will. And it's just as likely that, should we pursue the madness of trying to have a life together, I will hurt you, as well. It's simply part of it, I think. But those hurts should never be intentional, and they most certainly must generate remorse on the part of the offender. To say we'd never hurt one another means we'd achieve a state of perfection. And I've no interest in being perfect. Not anymore. It is a very lonely way to live."

"You are perfect," he insisted. "Perfectly imperfect. I would change nothing about you, Hettie. Not a single hair nor a thought in your head."

"That you know of. But we do not know one another, Joss. Not in the way we should if we are to build a life together."

"What would you know of me? I'll tell you anything you wish to know."

Her eyebrows arched upward. "Anything?"

"Yes," he agreed, "Anything."

"How is it you came to be in the employ of the Hound of Whitehall?"

Joss ducked his head. He'd expected that question. "When I was naught but a lad, and he wasn't much more than one himself, I tried to pick his pocket. Well, not tried. I did, in fact, pick his pocket. I just didn't escape successfully. He caught me a few streets over, and that was the end of it."

"Why would you try to pick his pocket?"

Joss shrugged. This was the ugly part of his life, the part he preferred to tell no one of. But she was entitled to hear it if anyone was. "The workhouse is no place for a child, even a sizable one as I was. I was eleven or twelve—I'm not really sure. Regardless, in a place such as that you either need to be able to fight for your share or pay for it. I wasn't much of a fighter back then. I stole his purse to pay for food."

As he finished the explanation, he noted her expression. It was sad, certainly, but it wasn't the piteous one he had anticipated, and for that he was grateful.

"I'm sorry. I know they are horrid places. And reform is hard won for such institutions."

"Indeed. Some would say having them razed might be the better solution."

"Do you?" she asked.

He considered his answer carefully. They were a necessary evil because, at present, they were the only option for many—terrible as it was. But recalling his own experiences, the ones that haunted him, he said, "Only one of them... the St. James. That's where I spent most of my time."

She winced. "It is a brutal place. I am so sorry. What happened to your parents?"

"My mother died," he answered. And he said no more on that matter. It was a nagging wound and one, much like his shoulder, that he would never fully recover from. He'd simply learned to get on with life in spite of it. "I never knew my father. It's an old story... anyway, that's when the Hound took me under his wing... for a price. I worked for him. Running errands. As a courier. And he and Stavers taught me to fight. Then I worked for him as muscle. And the whole while, I was being tutored. Taught to read and write. Because he had a plan for me. The best way to avoid trouble from the Runners was to have allies amongst their ranks."

"That couldn't be easy. Serving two masters." She phrased it as a statement, but there was invitation in her tone. Invitation to expand, to explain, to encourage him to share more.

He'd already shared more than he would have with anyone else. He'd assumed that it was simply in his nature to be taciturn. Now he had to wonder if perhaps it wasn't the absence of any desire to talk so much as it had been the absence of someone to talk with.

Deciding that was a topic to dwell on another day, he laughed. "No. No, it was not easy. I'm grateful to him. And I will never be free of him entirely for that reason. But I've made every effort to extricate myself from his enterprises—the illegal variety, at any rate—as much as possible. Which means, I am quite poor. At least for the time being."

"I am quite rich. The money is all mine, you know? Arthur hadn't a tuppence to his name. And my father, for all his many faults, was certain to ensure that my and Honoria's financial futures were maintained. While we were married, Arthur controlled whatever funds the trustees released to us, which was very little, really. Had I left him, he'd have kept the bulk of it. But now that he's gone, it will all revert to me."

It made him twitchy, the idea that she'd have to support him. He wasn't foolish enough to presume that her money would not make their lives easier, but he disliked the idea that others would view him as a fortune hunter. Or that she would.

Somewhat defensively, he responded, "I'm not without prospects. Vincent, who is an altogether different entity than the Hound of Whitehall, despite how it may appear, has offered me an opportunity to become more involved in the legitimate business enterprises that he is involved in. But that would mean the taint of trade and the loss of your social standing... I say that not to dissuade you, but to be entirely forthcoming. Lies have no place between us at this point."

Hettie folded her hands neatly in her lap and stated very matter of factly, "Well, if Inspector Bates has his way, it will not matter. He will have me arrested for Arthur's murder, and any plans for our future, jointly or separately, will be for naught."

"Leave Bates to me. I'll handle him. In the meantime, I don't want you to go anywhere without at least a pair of armed footmen. If Simon is the culprit, which seems the likeliest of explanations, and he is in such dire straits, I fear what he may attempt to do next."

"Will you stay?"

"Here?

"Yes," she said. "Just for a little while... I am very tired of my own company of a sudden."

It was an olive branch, and one he would gladly take. Crossing the room to where she sat, he joined her on the settee. Once there, he pulled her against him, nestled to his side. It wasn't about heat or passion. It was about comfort. Comfort and connection. He supposed that was something neither of them had been blessed with very much in their lives. Both of them had been victims of circumstances—for him it had been poverty that had robbed him of any semblance of affection for most of his childhood, and for Hettie... well, she'd been seen as naught but a commodity to be traded by every man she'd ever known.

Filled with a mix of emotions, not the least of which was sheer terror, Joss remained quiet. The enormity of the decisions made weighed heavily on him for the simple fact that he was afraid to fail. What did he know about being a father? What the hell did he know about being a husband, for that matter? On that score, he supposed he couldn't do worse than her last one, though the thought brought little comfort.

"You are very deep in thought," she observed.

"I suppose I am. The stakes are very high, Hettie. For both of us."

She went quiet again, but only for a moment. Then she lifted her head to look at him. "The fact that we are both aware of that should serve us in good stead. I like that you tell me what is on your mind, that you do not simply dismiss me out of hand. That alone, Joss, is a revelation."

He wanted to tell her everything, to simply pour out every wretched detail of his existence. At the same time, he wished to protect her from that—from the filth and poverty of his youth, to the opium dens that had so recently been his solace. Fear held him back, fear that she would come to her senses and refuse him. Fear that she would find him as unworthy as he felt.

The silence stretched between them, each of them lost in their own thoughts, their own doubts and, perhaps, their own hopes.