Chapter Twenty-two

ITHIN AN HOUR, he had helped Anne disguise herself with a dark wig and a hooded cloak, and they were in his carriage, slowly rattling through the twisting maze of narrow, cobbled lanes off Whitechapel High Street. Anne had her face pressed to the window, and as they wound deeper into the stews, her breathing became swift and uneven.

“What’s wrong, love?” Devon asked gently.

She spun away from the window, her lips trembling, her hands fisted. He’d never seen her like this, not even when he’d chased her down on the docks. She looked ready to break down. He lifted her and planted her on his lap.

“Hundreds of children are kidnapped off the street and forced to work in brothels. I would like to tear down such places with my bare hands. I would like to kill the horrible villains who steal children—” She put her hands to her mouth. “I suppose, if I were to say that on the dock, no one would believe my innocence.”

“Angel, feeling rage at pimps and whoremongers is natural.”

She bit her lip. “The truth is, when I hit Madame with the fireplace poker, I was so furious I wanted to hurt her. I didn’t want to kill her, but I wanted her to feel pain. It was pure luck that kept me from being a murderess in truth.”

“You feel guilty because you had murderous thoughts.”

Anguish showed in her dark-green eyes. “Yes. It makes me no better than she was.”

His sardonic laugh escaped before he could stop it. “You are as different from that witch as an angel is from a demon. As for what you felt when you swung the poker, Anne …” He sighed. In this he had a lot of experience. “Don’t think about it. That’s one thing I learned in war. You take action without doubt or regret and move on afterward.”

“You didn’t learn how to do that. You have nightmares.”

“It’s what a man with sense does. That’s why many men survived war without turning into mad, haunted wrecks.”

“You’re not a mad, haunted wreck.” Her feisty determination was fixed on him. Then her lips parted in shock. “Even though you have your sight back, you are still having nightmares.”

Devon shrugged. “I doubt they will go away. I doubt I’ll ever forget things I saw. Take my advice, love, and don’t torture yourself. You didn’t kill her—likely your good soul took charge and ensured you didn’t hit her that hard.”

Anne wanted to believe him. She was innocent, she hadn’t killed Madame, yet she felt guilty because she’d been willing to kill. She saw how haunted Devon was. Why had she assumed all the horrible memories of war had gone away simply because he had his sight back? “You don’t have nightmares about men shooting at you, do you? You have nightmares about the ways you had to kill other men.” She wasn’t expressing it well, but she understood. “You cannot forget the things you were forced to do, just as I can’t. But, Devon, those soldiers were the enemy. You were expected to shoot at them. You had to—to save the lives of your men, to save England.”

His laugh was harsh, so full of self-recrimination it froze her blood.

“Devon, you would have been shot if you hadn’t fought in battle. For cowardice.”

“Anne, my angel, what bravery is there in shooting a boy who was probably no older than fifteen?”

She stared helplessly, unsure of what to do. What to say. What to feel. “What do you mean? You had to shoot a child?”

“He was a soldier, Anne. As the French lost troops in battle, they became desperate to replenish the ranks. They began to press younger lads into service. Our forces are not much different—boys of twelve go off to serve in the navy—but that knowledge doesn’t change the horror of pointing your weapon at a child’s face, knowing you are supposed to pull the trigger.”

She touched his forearm. It was tense, inflexible as iron. “Is this what has haunted you? That you had to shoot a boy—”

“I didn’t shoot him. And while I hesitated, he shot Captain Tanner. Too late, I tried to tackle the lad, to stop the shot. But someone shot me, hitting my shoulder, and I fell in the mêlée. The boy then tried to drive his bayonet into my skull. I shifted, but he slammed it hard into my head, knocking me out. That’s what blinded me, but I don’t care about that. If I’d taken my shot, Thomas’s father might still be alive.”

It was horrible. He blamed himself for not killing the young soldier, for not saving Thomas Tanner’s father. Yet he knew he would have hated himself for a lifetime if he’d shot the boy.

“I need to save Thomas,” he said quietly.

Now she understood why he was here. To make things right in his soul, he was trying to save the family of the man he hadn’t been able to save. He was trying to forgive himself for having been given a devil of a choice, where every solution left him damned. Impulsively, she kissed his cool, hard lips. They didn’t soften, but she wanted him to know she did not blame him.

“We will save Thomas.” She looked to the window, as a brick wall passed perilously close to the glass. A street flare illuminated a sign on the wall. Blackbird Lane. “It’s here.”

From the outside, the brothel looked like so many of the other buildings—quiet and still. Shutters covered the windows. A single lamp burned, but it was situated away from the door, so anyone who entered did so in shadow. It was disgusting: No one cared what terror the young ones had to endure, but great care was taken so the gentlemen’s reputations would not be tainted.

As though he knew she wanted to rush out of the carriage and batter down the door, Devon put a hand on her arm. “We have to plan this carefully,” he said. “We can’t barge in and demand the child. I need to get in without raising suspicion. You are to stay here.”

“I am going with you.”

“Angel, I can see, so there’s no need. And gentlemen don’t escort ladies to brothels like this.”

He had called her a lady, this time without even thinking. “Please let me help you.”

He frowned, then sighed. “I think it best if we don’t go through the front door. We’ll break in the back.”

From the shadows of a smelly alley, Anne watched Devon approach the rear door, walking with ease through the dark. A man leaned against the wall. He must be a guard, to provide a warning if Bow Street Runners raided the place. Devon made no sound as he closed in on the man, and she realized now that Devon was dressed entirely in black—black shirt and trousers and coat, with no cravat. He almost dissolved into the shadows.

Breathless, she watched him slip into the gloom near the brothel, then toss something past the man’s head. It clattered on the ground in the dark.

The man twisted at once in that direction, away from Devon. “Who’s there?” he shouted.

Devon moved with such speed, the guard was slumped unconscious in his arms before Anne could really understand what he’d done. He lowered the limp body to the ground with surprising care, and she hurried to him on the rear step. The back door proved to be unlocked. “For the gentlemen to escape swiftly, in case of a raid by the law,” Devon explained quietly.

He clasped her hand and led her through dimly lit corridors. “How will we find Thomas?” she asked. Would it have been better to have gone to the front door and played the part of a couple looking for a sexual diversion?

“We’ll have to search.” He opened a door in the paneling at the end of the hall. It opened to a dim, narrow stair—the servants’ stairwell. Fortunately, there was no one in it, and they used it to climb to the second floor, where the bedrooms must be. Anne wanted to hurry out before someone entered the stair below and they were caught, but Devon took the time to survey the corridor.

He drew her across the gloomy hall to a room with an open door. It was an unused bedroom. They waited until another door swung open. A man slipped out and hurried down the hall.

“You wait here,” Devon whispered, “but take this.” He drew a pistol from his pocket.

“Is it loaded?”

“It wouldn’t protect you if it wasn’t.” On that, he left her, moving stealthily across the corridor. She heard a faint cry, then silence, and a door was shut. A moment later, Devon returned. “I questioned the young boy in there. There is a lad in the house who matches Thomas’s description. He’s locked up in an upstairs bedroom—the one farthest from the stair.”

Anne’s heart dropped to her stomach. Thomas was a prisoner, just as she once had been, but he was so much younger. The poor child.

Devon’s fury burned hotter with every stair he climbed. Anne followed. The upper floor was lit only by slanting moonlight that fell in through half-covered windows, but he felt at home in the dark. Just as that thought raced through his head, he heard a boyish howl of terror, followed by a sharp curse spat by an older man.

Blindly driven by rage, by the desperate need to take action, he charged forward. Anne’s hand fell away from his forearm. He ran down the corridor and drew out his second pistol. One kick smashed in the door.

A large man jumped back from a bed. Recognition clicked: Orston, a fat, half-naked earl. A thin young boy was tied hand and foot to a disordered bed.

This was the right bedroom, and the lad must be Thomas. It was as though Devon went blind again—all he could see was a red haze. He had been forced to watch this child’s father die because he had been unable to shoot a boy soldier. Orston was going to violate the lad for a fleeting moment of pleasure.

Devon was going to kill Orston. Grab him by his shoulders, pound his head into the floorboards until he was senseless, then rip his heart out of his chest.

He rushed in. Orston gave a girlish shriek of fear, scrambled off the bed, and ran like a frightened hare toward the door in the other wall. Devon lunged toward the bound boy, but Anne was already there. “Are you Thomas Tanner?” she whispered. The boy did not answer, but he jerked back in surprised recognition at the name. Anne drew a dagger from a sheath in her bodice and began to saw at the ropes, telling Thomas he was now safe.

Devon jumped over the bed. He grasped Orston by the shoulder and shoved him chest-first into the wall. The earl cried out in pain, but this was nothing compared to what Devon intended to do.

He spun Orston around and drove his fist into the flabby stomach. Then sent an uppercut to the man’s jaw that slammed his head against the wall, denting plaster. Orston began to slide down, but Devon propped him up. “You bastard,” he growled. “He’s a child. And unwilling.”

“Didn’t know … unwilling …”

“You didn’t know? Christ Jesus, didn’t the white face, the tears on the cheeks, the ropes, give you a bloody clue?”

“Not your business, March.”

He wrapped his hands around Orston’s throat and pressed his thumbs into the man’s windpipe. In war, he’d had to kill. He hungered to do it now. So easy … just a bit more pressure …

“Devon, don’t!” Anne cried. “Don’t kill him!” She tried to pull him away.

“Get back,” he barked. “Let me do this.”

But she pushed her way between Orston and him, her eyes enormous with horror. “You must stop! You could hang for this, even though you’re a duke. You would hate yourself. Meet him at dawn. Drag him to Bow Street. Anything but this.”

Panting, he bowed his head. He had to force his hands to loosen their grip. The bulky earl slid down the wall, whimpering, blubbering.

Devon stepped back. Anne murmured soothing things, as though he was a mad, wounded animal she was trying to tame.

She had stilled Devon’s fists; now she must go back to Thomas. The poor lad was bound hand and foot to the bedposts. Anne had already cut through the ropes that tied his right hand. Thomas had watched her, his gaze darting like an animal seeking escape. As she’d freed his hand, she told him in gentle tones that he would be safe, that they were going to take him away. Her words hadn’t seemed to ease his fear one bit. Once, when her hand had strayed near his mouth, he’d snapped at her with his teeth.

She hurried back to him to finish. She wanted to be quick, so she did not bother to speak. She set down the pistol, drew out the dagger she’d brought in her bodice, and got to work. Thomas was a beautiful boy, small for twelve years of age, with golden curls. He shied away as she cut his left hand free. Then she set to work on his feet. She was aware of his small chest rising and falling as she sawed at the last rope.

Across the room, the client was spilling his tale to Devon in the hopes of striking a bargain. Devon was watching her with Thomas. He was trying, as quickly as he could, to learn from the man the identity of the blackguards who had taken Thomas. His eyes still gleamed with murderous intent, which made her nervous.

From the corner of her eye Anne saw something move, and she jerked away from the rope as it broke. A pillow slammed into the side of her face, knocking her over. She heard Devon shout, but something grasped her wrist and wrenched it hard.

Thomas. She shoved the pillow from her face. The lad was crouched at her side, his hand gripped around the knife. He held it to her throat. Anne winced as sharp steel bit into her flesh. “Thomas, don’t,” she whispered. “We want … to … help.”

Devon’s heart pounded wildly. The lad was so terrified, he was lashing out at anyone. Devon had seen men do it in battle—lose their wits in fright and shoot at anyone near them. Thomas held the dagger at Anne’s throat. One slice and he could kill her.

Devon had to stop the boy, get the knife from him. He tried to assess every move, every approach, but his brain fixed on one horrific image: Thomas’s fear-driven hand moving the knife, then Anne’s slow slump to the floor. Raw panic gripped him, and he couldn’t fight it. If he waited, as he’d done in battle, Anne would die. He began to move toward the boy.

“Keep back,” Thomas cried. “Keep away from me.”

“Thomas.” Despite having a knife at her throat, Anne’s voice was soft, melodic, sweet. “This is the Duke of March. You can trust him.”

“Anne, don’t speak,” Devon warned. The knife made a small cut in her skin. Blood welled.

She ignored him. “Thomas, the duke fought with your father in battle. At Waterloo.”

Of course, she said that to Thomas hoping to win his trust. But though the boy didn’t know it, it was the reason for Thomas to hate him. Warily, Thomas flicked his gaze from Anne to Devon, and the distraction caused his hand to move. Fortunately, he didn’t cut her, but her eyes were huge, and Devon could see her fighting for calm.

“Thomas, let her go. We’ve come to help you.” Devon took another step forward.

“That’s what they said. They were going to give me money to help me mum. When I said I wouldn’t go, they told me I had to or they’d hurt her.”

Footsteps pounded across the floor, and Orston ran out, face white, gasping for breath. The sudden movement startled Thomas and sent his hand slicing in front of Anne’s neck. Devon’s knees almost collapsed under him. Anne closed her eyes, but she didn’t scream. She had managed to jerk so the knife had not cut her. But Thomas pressed it against her flesh again.

“Thomas,” Devon pleaded. “Let her go. I’ll let you hold the knife to my throat in her place. You have nothing to fear from me.” He had a second pistol in his back waistband, but he didn’t dare take it out and threaten Thomas into panic. Hell, would he have to use it on a child?

“The duke was your father’s commanding officer,” Anne whispered. “He saw how brave your father was. He came to help you, because he respected your father so much.”

No, Anne, don’t speak of it.

“Me da died at Waterloo.” Tears welled in the boy’s eyes. His hand shook.

Yet Anne still found the strength to say calmly, “He did, Thomas. He died bravely in action and saved many men’s lives.”

What if the boy asked exactly what had happened? What would he do if he learned Devon had not saved his father when he had the chance?

“Me dad’s death broke me mum’s heart. The men said I had to come or she would be hurt.”

“Your mother is safe,” Devon said. “I have my men watching over her now, to protect her. Put down the knife and I’ll take you to her.”

“I can’t go.” The boy’s voice shook.

“You did nothing wrong, Thomas,” Anne said, so firmly no one would ever doubt her word. “If any of those men touched you, it was not your fault. Your mother will not be angry. Nor would your father. Your parents would only be happy you were safe. They would want you to let me go and let the duke help you.”

As though mesmerized by her voice, Thomas let the knife fall a few inches from her throat. In an instant, Devon had the boy by the arms, the knife lay on the carpet, and Anne was safe.

“You have nothing to fear, Thomas,” he said gruffly. “We are going to take you home to your mother. I will help her. Your father was a noble soldier—your mother deserves far better than to live in poverty. I will take care of both of you.”

Thomas stared at him, fear and suspicion in his young eyes. What had the boy experienced to make him afraid of everyone, including those who would help him? Devon looked to Anne. If she had not known the boy needed reassurance, he might have had to make the choice again between saving a life and hurting a child.

“What in ’ell is going on in ’ere?”

Devon leveled his second pistol at the well-dressed man who stalked into the doorway. Thin, about thirty, with a ferret’s eyes, the man held a cane, lifted as though ready to use it in a beating. At the sight of the pistol, he stood still. “Stop or I’ll put a ball in you,” Devon roared. “Drop your weapon and get down on your knees.”

“That’s one of them,” Thomas cried. “One of the men who kidnapped me.”

The man dropped the cane and immediately went to his knees, his gaze locked on the gun’s muzzle. “Don’t shoot me! It weren’t me. I had to do it! It was Semple. I only work for him.” The man spilled information so quickly, Devon had to fight to keep track of it. His name was Arthur Bevis, and the man who stole boys and ran the brothel was named Semple.

“If you want to escape the noose, Bevis,” Devon snapped, “give me Semple.”

“All right.” Bevis led them through a hidden passageway to a large office. At the sight of the pistol, Semple pulled out one of his own. Devon shot it out of his hand. Within minutes, he had both men captured and bound—just as they had done to poor Thomas.

Anne was draping a blanket around a trembling Thomas. Quietly, Devon told her, “I’m going to leave my footmen to guard these two. I’m going to Bow Street and will have them send Runners to make the arrest and get the boys out. I will take Thomas with me, then bring him to his mother. I’m going to take you to your house, and I want you to stay there, in hiding.”

She looked nervously from Thomas to him. “I want to look after him.”

Did she fear he was capable of hurting a defenseless boy because his head was so tormented with guilt and battle memories? “I would never hurt him,” he said bitterly. “Not even over what he could have done to you.”

Her green eyes went wide. “I did not think you would! But I understand a little of the experience Thomas has been through. I was taken prisoner, as he was.” Suddenly she touched his arm. “Devon, are you all right?”

His hands were shaking, and she said softly, “I know you went through hell. You were confronted with the same horrible choice you faced in battle.”

He couldn’t stop the bloody trembling. “I didn’t know what to do. I prayed only that I could save you both. If I’d had to make the choice … I wouldn’t have let you die. Even if it haunted me forever, I couldn’t have let that happen.”

“Devon, Thomas is safe; I’m safe. This time it ended happily.”

Her words went to his soul, but he knew she wasn’t yet safe.

“Devon, I would like to go directly to the boy’s mother and let her know Thomas is safe and that you will bring him from Bow Street. I can take a hackney.”

“A hackney?” he exploded. “You would be unprotected.”

“Devon, I lived here for years without protection. I know how to survive.”

It was a stark reminder of what she’d been through. He looked at Thomas, who was terrified beyond belief, and he realized how very strong Anne had been.

It was so wonderful to be able to introduce Devon to Mrs. Tanner when he arrived with Thomas. Anne’s heart swelled with joy as Thomas’s mother gave a sobbing cry of joy, rushed to her son, and fell to her knees in front of him. Anne looked to Devon and smiled. This had been worth a few small nicks to her neck. Devon had fussed over her, but she was quite all right.

But she noticed how stiffly Thomas stood in his mother’s hug. He didn’t wrap his arms around her neck, press to her bosom, or cuddle against her. Perhaps it was only because, at twelve, he felt he should behave in a more grown-up way, but it worried Anne.

Through tear-blurred eyes, Mrs. Tanner gazed up at Devon. As she had embraced her child, the woman seemed to grow years younger. She had been pale, but now color bloomed in her cheeks. “Your Grace … I don’t know how … how can I ever thank you?” Mrs. Tanner bent to press her cheek to her son’s curls. Poor Thomas kept his head bent as though he did not want to look at his mother. She whispered, “I feared I had lost my boy as I lost my husband.”

Devon ran his finger around his collar as if it choked him. “Mrs. Tanner, there is something I must tell you,” he said gruffly. “Once you know of this, you may not feel such gratitude.”

Confusion passed over the woman’s face. Anne whispered, “No. There’s no point in this.”

“I have to,” he whispered back. “If I’m to be condemned, I’d rather face it honestly.”

“There’s nothing to be gained,” she persisted. “It will only hurt you both.”

He leaned close to her, as Mrs. Tanner stared down at her son, and murmured, “Perhaps, for Mrs. Tanner, having a villain to hate will help.”

Anne was about to protest—this was madness—but Devon bent to Thomas and ruffled his hair. “This lad should go to his bed. After he is settled, madam, we must speak.”

Anne argued desperately as Mrs. Tanner led her son to his bed. “You saved Thomas. You have given her happiness. Haven’t you eased your guilt? Don’t—” She had to stop. Mrs. Tanner stood in the doorway, wringing her hands.

“Your Grace, what did you want to tell me?”

“Mrs. Tanner, please sit down.” Devon waited until the woman lowered shakily. Then he told his tale: of Tanner’s bravery and nobility in battle, of what an admired soldier Tanner had been, then finally of his horrible choice. He paced, his face anguished. “I hesitated. There is no way I can explain that to you, but I paused, unable to shoot down a young lad. In that moment, the boy took his shot on Tanner.”

“Your Grace, I don’t understand—”

“Allow me to speak bluntly, madam. Captain Tanner was shot because I could not kill the French boy, though it was my duty to do so.”

Mrs. Tanner simply dropped her face into her hands and sobbed.

Anne saw Devon’s face go gray and his expression harden into one of cold self-recrimination. It was as if he were turning to stone in front of her.

“You must forgive His Grace,” she said. “He would have saved your husband if he could. He had a terrible choice. Your husband’s death was the fault of the French, not of His Grace.”

Mrs. Tanner wiped her tears. “I understand that my husband went through the most horrible of experiences. I can understand why you couldn’t shoot. I have a son. How could a man be asked to shoot any woman’s son? I believe … I believe I would have done the same, if I were you.”

Devon looked as he had when he’d first regained consciousness after falling in the stream—stunned. Thank heaven the woman was obviously one with great sense and a good heart.

“You are a very gracious woman, Mrs. Tanner,” he said slowly. “Allow me to help you and your family. I owe your husband a great debt, and it is my duty to support you all.”

Mrs. Tanner straightened her shoulders. “I do not need charity, Your Grace. I thank you with all my heart for rescuing Thomas, but now that he is home, we will be fine.”

Devon tried to insist, but even a duke was no match for a proud and stubborn woman. Anne knew she must act. Devon needed this. Grasping Mrs. Tanner’s hands, Anne faced her squarely. “I have been in the same position as you—my mother was forced to leave our home and we ended up living in lodging houses. My mother refused charity out of pride and worked herself to death. Your health and security, and Thomas’s, are far more important than your pride. His Grace believes it is his duty to make amends for your husband’s death. This is not charity—it is to repay Captain Tanner for his sacrifice.”

“We have always worked for what we’ve gotten,” Mrs. Tanner insisted.

She would not be swayed. Anne left the house with Devon, worried about Thomas’s withdrawn behavior and the family’s future. She was staring back at their simple home when Devon slipped his arm around her waist. “Thank you,” he said softly, “for coming to my defense, for helping me to find Thomas. Can you tell me if there is any way I can help them?”

“I don’t know. But I am determined to think of something.”

He lifted her hand and gave a melting kiss to her palm. “Thank you,” he said. “As Mrs. Tanner said to me, I don’t know how to begin to thank you.”

“What of Orston?” she asked. “What will become of him?”

“I will ensure he is too afraid to make use of young boys again.”

She did not doubt Orston would be terrified by the hard determination in Devon’s eyes. Then he took her home in the carriage, and she invited him inside. She stood at the front door, shyly asking, “Would you care to … to spend the rest of the night with me?” Why, when she was behaving as his mistress, did her tongue suddenly get tied? She pushed open the door. “Would you care for a bit of brandy in the parlor? I shall warm some, and then … then, of course, you will have whatever you desire.”

He gave a rumbling laugh. “Forget brandy. What I need now is to make love to you. I keep thinking of what could have happened to Thomas, if you had not known the place to look for him. Rescuing the boy, rescuing the family, should have brought peace, but I don’t feel that way. All I feel is a lot more regret and a lot emptier. I need your touch, love.” He frowned and touched her neck. “But you were wounded—”

“No—it doesn’t hurt, truly. And I want you to come inside.”

Carriages rolled by, but he bent and kissed her. Anyone who saw would know just what she was now. It didn’t matter. Helping Devon mattered. Her heart ached for him. “Come inside. Come inside me,” she whispered. “I want you in my bed.”

Anne woke. She was alone in bed, and guilt crashed in. She’d slept so soundly she hadn’t noticed when Devon left. She pulled on a robe, but she didn’t find him in the adjoining room. He wasn’t in the house. Questioning servants, she discovered he’d left just after dawn.

She returned to her bedroom and summoned maids to dress her. She stared at the disordered bed, two questions hammering through her head. Had he spent the rest of the night with her? And had he slept peacefully, with his demons slain, or had reliving the awful choice he’d faced in battle made his nightmares worse? She wouldn’t know until he returned. To keep her fretting mind busy, she would go to Thomas and his mother.

The boy had been so reticent with his mother, so embarrassed and stiff and awkward, that it worried Anne. It was risky, but she would wear a disguise—one of her maid’s day dresses, her black cloak, and her dark wig. And she wouldn’t go without protection. She didn’t want to carry a bulky pistol, so she tucked her dagger in its sheath, then slid it into her bodice.

But once she reached the Tanners’ home and sat with Thomas alone in the parlor, Anne realized she had no idea where to begin with the boy. He stared blankly ahead. He wore a tattered shirt and trousers. Anne knew why his mother had refused charity—her mother had done the same. But the future of this young boy was at stake. How could pride be worth more than Thomas’s safety and well-being?

“Are you still frightened by what happened to you?” she asked softly.

“I’m not afraid,” he said sullenly.

“You also have no reason to be ashamed of it. None of it was your fault.”

That made him jerk up his head. “I weren’t raped, if that’s what you mean, miss.” He stared defiantly into her eyes. Obviously he planned to shock her, scare her into leaving him alone. But she could not be shocked. At least, not over things that happened in the stews.

“Good. But perhaps other things happened. Things you did not like.” She hoped she was not botching this. Thomas’s chest rose and fell fiercely, but he was listening. “Perhaps the men who took you to the brothel touched you in ways that felt wrong. That is their sin, not yours. You were the victim in this, Thomas.”

A flush washed over his cheeks. “The men said they would hurt me mum if I didn’t go with them, so I was too afraid to run. One of them gave me arse a squeeze. Told me I’d learn to like it. I should’ve fought him. I should’ve kicked him. I should’ve been able to escape—”

Anne wrapped her arm around Thomas’s thin shoulders. He tried to jerk away, but she whispered reassuringly, “You are not to blame. You must not be angry with yourself because you couldn’t escape.” Finally she admitted, “It happened to me. I was taken to work in a brothel against my will. My mother had just died, and I had no money. I was kept like a prisoner. I was seventeen, much older than you, but I couldn’t escape, I couldn’t fight hard enough to rescue myself. For a long time, I was very angry that I couldn’t get away, but then I realized I had to forgive myself. You only wanted to protect your mother, which was a noble thing. From now on, the Duke of March will ensure no one can hurt her. I promise you.” She stroked his hair. “You have nothing to blame yourself for, and I am so proud of you for being so strong.”

“Proud of me?” he echoed.

“Of course I am. Your mother is too.”

Thomas looked so hopeful. Anne rose, clasped his hand, and took him to the room where his mother worked at the small stove. Very quietly, Anne explained the boy’s fears, while Thomas ate a biscuit at a rickety table. “You must tell him you are proud of him,” Anne whispered. “I think then he will put this behind him.”

Mrs. Tanner nodded, her face pale. “He’s been so surly with me. I thought he blamed me.”

“He blames himself. He needs your love and reassurance.” Anne added, “For Thomas’s sake, you must take help from the Duke of March. What future will he have if you do not?”

The woman blanched more, and Anne felt a tremble rise up her spine. She was shaking, as she used to when she worried about her mother’s health. Why were women so stubborn? What was wrong with a little charity? She had taken coins from the Duke of March years ago, when he’d given them to her so she would not have to sell her body. That had hardly been wrong.

On an impulse, thinking of her mother, Anne asked, “Do you sew well?”

When Mrs. Tanner smiled proudly, Anne asked to see her work and quickly satisfied herself that the woman was an excellent seamstress. The employment was grueling and poorly paid … but did it have to be? What if women such as Mrs. Tanner could own their own shops? They could share ownership and, instead of getting pennies a day, earn enough to survive. Heavens, she could sell the carriage Devon had given her and set up a dozen women in their own shops!

She had her solution for how to help Mrs. Tanner. Instead of giving charity, she would give opportunity. She explained her idea to Mrs. Tanner. “I would invest in your business and earn a profit from it. It would not be charity.”

The woman bit her lip, pushed strands of disheveled curly blond hair from her face, and finally smiled. “I would be very grateful, miss.”

Brimming with relief and hope, Anne left. Filled with purpose, she hurried down the stairs.

A heavy footfall sounded on the steps behind her.

She turned and froze for a precious second, while her eyes took in what she could not believe she was seeing. A bald head. A beak of a nose. Triumphant eyes. Mick.

Anne spun and ran down the stairs. Her feet slid on the steps, and she had to grip the banister to keep from falling. Mick pounded down the stairs behind her. She screamed for help.

But these were the slums, and no one came. No one would come to the aid of a shrieking woman, fearing they would end up in danger.

One more flight of stairs and she could race out the door, run for her carriage. Her feet thundered on the creaking steps. How had Mick found her? He must have followed her. But if he’d found her house, why not attack her there?

Idiot. She’d come here alone, of course, so she wouldn’t frighten Thomas. Mick must have been waiting for her to make such a stupid mistake—

Something slammed into her back. She slid off the step, but a hand grabbed her clothing. Mick wrenched her so hard she fell against his chest. His arm locked around her.

Her dagger. She could slip it out. She had to. It was the only way to save herself. But threatening Mick with it wouldn’t be enough. She would have to stab him. She clutched the neck of her pelisse, praying he would think it was a gesture of fear. She worked her fingers inside and touched the handle of the knife. Once she stabbed at him, she would have to kill him.…

Oh, dear God, she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t take a life. Not even Mick’s.

“Get moving, Annie,” Mick snarled. “The viscount’s waiting.”

He dragged her toward an open door. Her heart sank. He was going to take her out a different way—not through the front door. Her servants would not know she was gone, at least not for several minutes. Long enough for Mick to make her vanish.

She had to at least threaten him.

One hard tug pulled out the dagger. Wincing in horror at what she was going to do, she thrust it at his arm. But she was clumsy. The blade didn’t go in; it slid along his biceps.

Mick roared. “Going to make trouble, are you, Annie? Stupid whore.”

The word bit into her soul as Mick ruthlessly jerked her wrist. She tried to cling to the handle, but her fingers opened against their will. The knife clattered to the floor. Mick shook her with such force that her brain seemed to slosh in her skull. Something white swooped at her face. She tried to rear back, but she only banged into Mick. Wet fabric was slapped to her mouth, and a sugar-sweet, cloying scent twisted her stomach. Anne struggled, aware of her limbs growing numb. Blackness rushed in. From miles away, a laugh of triumph brushed against her ear, then the floor dropped away from her and she fell dizzily into the dark.