Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

BENEDICT

F ires rage in the streets, licking up the sides of the buildings as they climb to the sky. Another bawdy house laid low. Until now, the only issue has been squabbles in the streets and protesters decrying the ancient art of love. Thankfully, The Rose and Thorne remains unscathed. At least for now.

I slink into the shadows as I watch the women on their knees, sobbing as their livelihood goes up in smoke. Tears roll down their cheeks as they wail to the heavens, the horrid sound cutting me to the quick. It's like glass shattering and spilling out over the streets. The stench of their agony mixes into the smoke, turning it into acrid despair rolling down the streets to coat my skin.

As much as I will bathe when I get home, I worry I'll never truly be free of it. If only I could help them. If only I could grant them either coin or lodging… but then, the activities they conduct, the services they provide, none of them are entirely legal. It matters not that many in my station and higher partake in the lusts of the flesh. But to be open about it… That's another matter entirely.

Several others gather around, their gazes fixated on the ruination before them. Many are probably curious bystanders, but others are no doubt memorizing every detail so they can present it to a local newspaper. Still others, based on the gleam in their eyes, celebrate the fall of yet another den of iniquity.

It never ceases to surprise me just how evil people can be, especially when their brand of morals and justice are threatened. Shaking my head, I lean against the brick behind me and take in everything I can. Parliament will want a report, and I wish to leave nothing out.

Though I cannot begrudge them their honeymoons, it still galls me that Foxford, Birchleigh, and Blackport are not in attendance. Though there are others of peerage who can bring in a report or two, I trust only my close friends to not put some political slant to it. Besides, as ones who all enjoy the fruits of labor at the local whipping house, it is in our best interest not to rile everyone else up.

Though those three no longer need the establishment, we do. So many others find relief and release at places like The Rose and Thorne and other such illicit abodes. Try as they might, it's almost impossible to govern morality. Many of those who reside on glass thrones will find their place amongst the people easier to shatter.

The fire brigade rush in, their faces gaunt as they take in the destruction. I feel it too. Though I don't normally frequent the houses in Covent Garden, I know many who do. And this is a blow to both them and the women who ply their trade. If only people were reasonable and thought of others instead of basing their actions on their own moral compass.

Many whisper about, wondering if the flames were by accident or on purpose. Though it's impossible to tell without expert investigation, I'd bet all my coin it was arson. The ways in which the windows lie shattered speak more to combustible bottles being thrown in as opposed to being blown out.

Yet another tidbit to bring to counsel. They thought the bawdy riots were over, but I worry they were wrong. I can only wonder as to what Madame Douleur has planned to keep The Rose and Thorne safe. She has more than enough money to employ guards stationed at every door and window, but how long can she stay vigilant?

A weary sigh passes through my lips as I turn to leave, gathering as much information as I can without drawing extra attention to myself. Tipping my hat down low, I only manage a few steps when strident voices shout out. The thunder of feet trampling through vibrates my core, sending a shaft of fury through me.

Anger. It's hot and thick, rolling off the massive crowd. Intermingled are courtesans and men, all of them at odds with each other. Some of the males are there as protectors, but others are there as protesters. Slinking back into the shadows, I keep my eye on the fray, my eyes peeling for the moment it might explode into something other than angry words and obscene gestures.

My gut clenches as the roars flood the air, deafening in their wake. Thankfully, the Alphas seem to be absent. No doubt many of them are in their homes watching what little glimpses they can. Others are probably in parliament, taking their protests there instead.

Betas fill the space, screaming profanities and chucking any available thing they can get their hands on. They do their best to imitate an Alpha's roar, doing their best to intimidate the whores taking to the streets. To their credit, the women hold their heads high, chanting to the skies about how their treatment must change. I don't disagree.

Amongst those protesting are ladybirds I know well from The Rose and Thorne. They stand out painfully in the midst of their others. It's quite obvious who they belong to. Even the girls I haven't pleasure, I know belong to her.

Their skin has a healthy glow. Their clothes fit to perfection. Hell, even their hair is coiffed and styled. If I didn't know any better, I'd think they were ladies heading off to court. In contrast, the other women look worn down and haggard. Their clothes are ill-fitting, and their hair is matted.

Where Madame Douleur's girls fairly shine from the inside out, the others look dull and ill-used. Even someone with my tastes and desire to use willing women can see and tell the difference. Glancing over the crowd, I lock eyes with the madam and nod.

I'm not here to interfere or intervene. My only purpose is to watch, listen, and record. She knows I stand with her even if I do not join in. Besides, the last thing I need is to visibly align myself with such a trade when many already call for our heads in court.

My fingers clench into fists as wrathful, impotent men scream into their faces. I want to thrash each and every one of them. I want to drag them through the street by their entrails. Cowards, one and all.

I refrain. Adding my violence into the mix won't help. Besides, if things get to be too much, the military will come in and take care of this mess. Hopefully it won't get to that point. They aren't nearly as judicious in who they reprimand. Anyone caught, whether they act as if they're on the side of right or not, will be punished.

Though my gut wants me to stay, to make sure the girls are safe, I know I cannot. The longer I remain here, the more likely I'll get caught in the fray and forced to fight. A ragged growl rumbles in my throat as I push through the people, shoving the men out of my way so I can leave.

As I walk up the side of the street, a flash of silk catches my eyes from across the road. It's an odd frock full of dark colors, as if the wearer is in mourning. She wears a bit of lace in front of her face, obscuring her features. Though I'm not sure why, she calls to me.

It's something in the hesitancy in which she moves. It's as if she doesn't quite belong. But then, why else would she be down here if not to protest?

She shuffles about, moving with a stealth that makes no sense to me. Fascinated, I follow her, pushing through the crowd to get to the other side. Her silhouette calls to me, tickling the back of my skull. Do I know this woman? Transfixed, I watch as she slips into a side nook.

Perhaps it's for the best that I lost her. She's a distraction I don't need at the moment. Just as I turn to leave, she pops back out, a bundle in her arms. She moves toward the fires, her strides purposeful. Does she not know how dangerous this is?

Even now, the men turn her direction, pouring their wrath onto her. Even from my distance, I feel the fear quivering through the air as she turns from them and hurries forward. Snaps and pops erupt from the house, the perilous sounds quieting the outward fray.

All eyes turn toward the wreckage, but mine stay on the woman. She huddles close to the house, her back pressed against the wall. No one seems to care. No one seems to understand the jeopardy she's in. Fiery embers spread from the bawdy house to the one next to it.

The fires rage, nearly out of control. Now, the shouts turn toward terror instead of anger. The protestors and rioters scatter, like bugs under a lit frame. All but the woman next to the new inferno. Tearing down the road, I wrap my arm around her bicep, hauling her into me.

I wrap my arms around her body, covering her as the rotten boards collapse, missing us by mere inches. The strange girl vibrates in my arms as I drag her away. In her shock, she barely moves, forcing me to sweep her up into my arms and walk her far enough away until we're both safe.

Once I set her down, she takes off, her body jolting from me. Snarling, I take after her, easily pinning her against a wall. My cock pulses as her breaths come out in haggard gasps, rubbing her chest against my upper abdomen. It's not a need to possess her flesh that drives me, but a need to reaffirm life, to ensure she is okay.

Gripping the lace, I lift it up, fully expecting a girl from Madame Douleur's or some neighboring house of ill repute. However, the dark blue eyes speckled with light blue that stare up at me are familiar for an altogether different reason. Fear and anger surge through me as I jerk her away from the wall.

"What in god's name are you doing here, Lady Hunt?" I growl out, keeping my voice low enough so others can't hear and compromise her. "And where the devil is your chaperone?"

I don't give two shits what excuse she has to give me. Nothing should have compelled her to come this way, and certainly not without her lady's maid at the very least.

"F- forgive me, Your Grace," she murmurs, casting her gaze to the ground. "My aunt was sick, so my lady's maid and I ventured to the Western Exchange. I don't know how we got separated. And well, I tried to find her."

"Down in Coventry Garden? I doubt that."

"Oh." Her voice takes on a surprised timber. "Is that where I am? I had no clue. I simply followed the crowd, thinking I'd end up somewhere I recognized. If not for you-"

"If not for me then you could have been dead. What possessed you to walk toward the fire, you daft twit?" I hiss, relief and anger colliding into a far more dangerous emotion—erotic, dominating rage.

"I caught sight of a bit of fabric…" she trails off. "I only tried to help."

Pulling back, I rub the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. "Your brother-"

"Is not here," she interrupts, sliding closer to me. "And he need not know of this lapse in judgment. Yes?"

"Miss," I seethe, putting distance between us. "Do you try to entice me with your body to keep me quiet?"

"I- No!" she cries out, garnering a few looks from passersby. Thankfully, she has enough foresight to pull the lace back down, so no one knows who she is. "I wouldn't… I couldn't… I… I… wouldn't even know where to begin," she babbles, her voice going higher and higher with each word. "I'm simply imploring you to keep this a secret between us. Please, Your Grace. It would kill me to know he would worry over me so."

Unfortunately, the chit has a point. With everything he has to accomplish, a dim-witted sister would only cause him to stress more and take his valuable time away from those who need it more.

"I hear your pleas. But they do nothing to soften the righteous ire I have against you. What would happen if he came home and found you dead? Did you think of that?" Before she can answer, I hold up my hand, cutting her off. "Obviously you didn't. Since your brother put me in charge of seeing to your safety, I will ensure you never forget it."

Her hand flutters at her chest as she steps back from me. "What do you plan to do?"

"First, I am going to accompany you home. Then I will deal with you in your brother's study."