“And jewelry, of course...” Ana reminded her, dangling the gleaming chain from her fingers. Miss Flanagan, sipping port with one hand, reached the other bony wrist out for Ana to fasten the clasp, then brought it to her painted mouth. She bit the chain.
“Real gold. But thin-like. Won’t fetch much at t’ pawnshop.”
“Enough to buy me another week.” Ana let herself ease toward the exit and was halfway through the doorframe, her freedom in sight, when a loud knock sounded at the front door of the house.
Miss Flanagan startled, her hand flying to smooth her hair. “Who can that be? Martha,” she bellowed. “The door!”
There was no response. Her maid-of-all-work, a timid, overworked girl with a lean, hungry look in her eyes, was often too busy scrubbing grates and washing the laundry to answer the door.
“Useless girl,” Miss Flanagan grumbled.
More pounding on the door.
“That’ll be the butcher or the greengrocer, after me again. I’m not here.” She shrank into the sofa. “Go and tell ’em I’m not here.”
Ana sighed and turned back toward the entrance. She’d wanted to be in her garret room by now. She had half a novel to pluck out of thin air, after all.
Dex rapped on the boarding house door again. Still no answer. He stepped back to observe the tall facade of the house. Tattered curtains were pulled shut except on the highest level where a round window winked out at the rooftops. The stone was soot-stained and streaked with pigeon droppings, giving the house a derelict air. Could Lieutenant John Crewe’s daughter really be living in a place like this?
He tried the door but it was locked. He knocked again, louder this time.
A maid finally answered the door. “Good day, sir. How may I help you?”
She was a tiny thing, reaching only to his collar. Her cultured accent didn’t fit with her station. Pale red hair tied back in a bun with tendrils escaping framed an oval face. Brilliant green eyes stared at him suspiciously. Could it be...?
“Sir?” she asked again. “May I help you?”
“Can it be you?” he marveled.
“I’m sorry, sir?”
“Itisyou. Good God.” Crewe’s daughter reduced to accepting employment as a serving maid in a down-at-the-heels boarding house. His stomach churned. “Miss Analise Crewe.”
She regarded him warily. “And who might you be?”
“Warburton, at your service.” He inclined his head. “I’ve had a devil of a time finding you, Miss Crewe,” he growled.Soften your tones.She’s a young lady. Easily frightened.
It was dusk and he wore a tall hat and a high collar, shieldingsome of his scars from her gaze. “I’m your guardian,” he said more gently. He wouldn’t attempt to smile. That never went well. His scars prevented one side of his mouth from lifting properly and the effect was more grimace than smile.
She gazed at his scarred face and her expression flashed from wariness to terror.
He was that hideous. One young lady had fainted upon the sight of his scars at a ball. The last ball he’d ever attended. His friends had told him that her corset strings must have been laced too tight and his visage wasn’t enough to make a woman swoon with fright... but this woman, the one he’d been searching for these long years had the same horrified look on her face.
“I won’t be any man’s property,” she said defiantly.
She attempted to close the door in his face. He stuck out his foot and blocked it from closing. He pried the door from her grasp and flung it wide. “You’re coming home with me. I made your father a—”
She wasn’t listening. With horror in her eyes and fear stamped across her face, she gathered up her skirts and rushed down the steps past him, making a mad dash into the street, narrowly avoiding being hit by a passing carriage.
Dex stood, nonplussed, watching her flee. What the devil? “Miss Crewe,” he called after her. “Come back!”
She’d taken one look at his face and bolted like a frightened deer fleeing from a wolf.
She wasn’t going to evade him again. Not this time.
He tossed his hat to the steps and set off after her, chasing coppery red curls and a slight figure down the darkening London street.
Chapter Three