Page 5 of Juliet's Touch

“Is Auntie in her chamber?” Eric asked.

“Aye, she is,” Flynn said.

Thank the lord because Eric avoided the main parlor as if his life depended on it. There was no way he could watch depraved blokes paw at girls he considered to be family.

He patted Flynn’s shoulder, then hurried down the hall. He was almost to his destination when a door flew open, almost smacking his nose.

Wearing a purple gown that was so low-cut that most of her bosom spilled out over the top of the lace trim, Abigail peered around the door. “Oh, Eric. I’m sorry.”

She stepped into the hallway, pulling the door behind her almost closed.

Eric lifted his gaze from her décolletage to look into her blue eyes. As usual, he detected a warmth he could not encourage.

“No need to fret,” he said. However, her door had almost knocked him out more than once, and he was beginning to suspect that she listened for him.

Her lashes fluttering wildly, she whispered, “Would you care to visit me tonight?”

“I’m busy,” he said. Even if he had free time, which he didn’t, he would not tup Abigail no matter how pretty she was or how many times she invited him into her room.

“You don’t gotta pay,” she said.

Eric shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t know what else to say. The truth was, he would not bed her or any of Auntie's girls, and it was not because he looked down on them. Hell, he knew damn well if he had been born female, he’d be spreading his legs for food and shelter. But when one’s late mother was a prostitute and one grew up in a brothel, a man had totryto abstain... Not that Eric knew any other bloke in his circumstances to inquire about such things.

Still, his heart bled every time one of the ladies offered to share her bed with him. He couldn’t blame them. Most of the men these women serviced were reprobates.

Abigail’s smile faded. “If you fancy Kitty, mayhap she can join us?”

Two women at once? Heat spread through his veins, but he shook his head hard. He would not bed any of Auntie’s girls. He should tell Abigail that she was lovely, and that she deserved more than this demeaning life. And yet, what else could a girl of great beauty and low status do? Work in a factory twelve hours a day until she died from lung disease? Marry an arse who kept her barefoot and pregnant? At least here with Auntie, Abigail had fashionable dresses, a lovely bedchamber, decadent lotions and perfumes, paste jewels, and a competent cook.

“Get in here,” an aristocratic-sounding male called from her chamber. “I am not paying you to stand in the hallway.”

A red-hot burst of anger shot through Eric. He clenched and unclenched his fists. These ratfuck wealthy bastards who frequented The Pink Petal were just as rotten as the scum who prowled about Whitechapel.

“Auntie created an oasis in the middle of the filth,” Flynn once told him. “Aye, she’s a good woman, that one. Works herself to the bone trying to provide some beauty for women who’d otherwise be lifting their skirts in dirty alleys just to stay alive. Paupers to princes, they all love The Pink Petal.”

If Eric were inclined to do so, he would argue that the rich blokes were more entitled and bigger arses. But what was the point? Flynn and Auntie would point out that at least they paid more, which was true.

Unshed tears glistened in Abigail’s eyes. “I had better see to Lord Riley,” she whispered. “Even if he hurts me, at least he is comely and he pays well.” She backed into her chamber, closing the door behind her.

Life wasn’t fair. No woman should be saddled with that deplorable, volatile beast who liked to exert control over his victims. Not for all the gold in the world. If only Eric could save her. Protect them all. Rid the world of cruel men.

A hollow helplessness nipped at his soul as he continued down the hall to Auntie’s chamber. He placed his knuckles on the door and hesitated. She rarely ever saw to the patron’s desires herself these days, and yet on the odd occasion she did, it humiliated Eric to disturb her.

Perhaps he was worrying needlessly. He had been chased across the city by this Fletcher chap. An unknown person tracking you would unnerve the most stalwart of men. Besides, if Auntie were entertaining a gentleman, Flynn would have alerted him that she was “indisposed.”

A moment after he knocked, Auntie swung the door wide and tugged him into her chamber. Tonight, powder concealed the lines around her eyes. She cradled his cheeks and looked him over. “Good. No bruises. I fret so when you fight.”

Eric dropped his bag onto her velvet settee and rooted around, pushing a pile of rope to the side to retrieve the pouch holding his winnings. He handed it to her so that she could add it to their savings. If he continued to win, eventually, someday, they would have enough blunt to make their dreams come true.

“Oh, Eric. I hate that you are working so hard,” she said. “Did you take out something for yourself?”

He opened his mouth to assure her he had, but quickly clamped his lips closed. He wasn’t capable of lying to his mother’s best friend, who had raised him as if he were her flesh and blood.

“Oh, Eric. Whatsoever shall I do with you?” She withdrew a couple of coins and pressed them into his palm. “Do you have time for a drink?” She inclined her chin toward the crystal decanter on her side table.

No, he did not, and yet after fighting, running, and demolishing a bowl of stew, he would kill for a drink. “Water, please.”