Chapter Thirty-Six

J oss found Hettie's room empty. Down the corridor, Vincent appeared at the top of the stairs. He could tell from the set of the other man's shoulders that things were only going to get worse.

"They're gone," Vincent said, and there was a growl in his voice that hinted at just how dangerous he could be when provoked. "And so is the carriage. Meanwhile, the coachman is passed out drunk, having been given the night off. That tells me they're doing something foolish and reckless that they didn't want the servants privy to, lest they warn me and prevent it." He paused again, his jaw clenching and unclenching with barely suppressed fury fueled entirely by fear. "I'll wring her bloody neck for it."

There was a tightness in Joss's gut, a feeling of danger. It was a feeling he'd had more than once. A feeling, he thought, that had saved his arse more than once. "They are. The question is, where have they gone and why?"

Vincent strode past him. "Let's find Stavers. Perhaps they will have sent him word, though if they had he would most certainly have stopped them."

Joss felt a frisson of unease. More than a frisson, really. It rolled through him like waves, each one cresting a bit higher than the last. He wanted to think that Hettie wouldn't be so reckless, but then he recalled the night of their first meeting, watching her leap from that ship into the filthy water. "Assuming that whatever scheme they've cooked up wasn't already in motion by the time such a message was delivered, both of them have the ability to be quite cagey and terrifyingly independent. But isn't that why you're hopelessly in love with her?"

Vincent whirled on him. "What about you? I knew you, Joshua Ettinger, before your ballocks even dropped. I've never seen you so enthralled with a woman as you are with Henrietta. Do you deny that you are in love with her?"

Instantly, the comment had his back up. The denial sprang quickly to his lips, but he couldn't just say no. Even as he wanted to, the word would not pass his lips. So he offered an answer that was not an answer at all. "What the fuck does that even mean? To be in love? People like us, people who come from where we do—such fine feelings aren't for us. I want her. I like her. And I'll do right by her. But I'm not going to pretty it up with sentiment that is nothing more than fodder for novelists and poets."

Vincent shook his head, laughing mirthlessly. "Deny it all you like or call it anything you wish—I know the truth, Joss. Be certain that you do not discover it too late, or you will never be able to salvage even a hope of happiness. These women are maddening... but they're the only thing that makes this life worth living." With that, the Hound of Whitehall turned on his heel and made his way toward the stairs, leaving Joss to follow him or be left behind.

Cursing the man, cursing his wife, and cursing the woman who was proving to be the very devil to him, Joss fell in step and headed for the club and, he hoped, a reasonable answer from Stavers. If it was anything else—well, that didn't bear considering.

It was quicker to walk than to take a carriage. They could cut through the mews and be at the club in a matter of minutes, so that is precisely what they did, dodging piles of dung as they did so. The streets of Mayfair might be swept clean frequently, but the hidden parts of it held the same dirt and shit as every other alley in London.

Entering the club, Stavers raised one eyebrow at their appearance. One was all he could raise. The other one hadn't moved in decades, not since it had been split open in a boxing match. It gave him a fearsome appearance, and the man often used it to his advantage.

"You were not expected tonight, sir," the boxer turned butler said.

"We've had some unexpected alterations of our plans," Vincent said, signaling to a footman to watch the door. "My study. Now."

*

Hettie looked outside, peering through the carriage window. Sally was on the box, dressed in borrowed livery that disguised her as a coachman. There were other women present—friends that Sally had pressed into service. They carried baskets of flowers and meat pies. One was selling oranges. In truth, they were there simply to stand watch. Where they had come by such things was anyone's guess, but they'd given themselves the perfect cover.

"They are remarkably resourceful," Hettie noted.

"They are women... they are women who live in poverty. Resourcefulness is as necessary for them as the air they breathe. Perhaps even more so," Honoria answered sadly.

It was as sad a truth as it was an undeniable one. "If this works as I hope, and if we all come out of this in one piece, I want to change that. However we can. A school to train women for vocations, better housing, food that they need not beg for nor barter their bodies for... and not in the way we have done it. Not piecemeal. I want an organized effort."

"You mean starting our own charitable organization rather than supporting others or simply helping them on an individual basis?"

"Yes. That is precisely what I mean. I know you want to return to the country with Vincent, and you should... but I would hope that you might find it in your heart to offer a bit of aid. At least as I attempt to start such a herculean effort."

"Oh, I will. Of course I will. But there might be someone even more suited to such an endeavor. The Duchess of Clarenden—the founder of the so-called Hellion Club."

"Do you know her?"

Honoria smiled somewhat enigmatically. "I do not. Not personally. But Vincent does... as does your Mr. Ettinger."

Hettie wanted to correct her. Joss Ettinger wasn't hers. He felt obligated to her by honor—something he would deny he even possessed. He would label it too refined for the likes of him, though he was more a gentleman than the majority of nobles she had encountered. Regardless of his reasons for committing himself to her, that didn't make him hers. Not in the ways that really mattered.

Taking a deep and steadying breath, Hettie opened the carriage door and climbed down. She glanced back at Honoria, who remained concealed within the darkened interior. "Be careful."

"You be careful. There is far more at stake for you than for me."

"Then let us hope we both come out of this on the winning end," Hettie stated. Then she closed the carriage door behind her and made her way across the street to the house she had once shared with her husband, the place that held so many sorrows. And she prayed desperately that she would not be adding to that list.