Page 105 of Immortal Rose

Hugh subtly shifted himself to ease the discomfort of his breeches, clearing his throat.

This had to end—whatever this was, which, exasperating and infuriating in turn, refused to be defined.

He’d find the nectar, she’d finish the damned perfume, and there would be no more distractions. No more small hands covering his, no more cracks in his resolve that let the past and old pain bleed out, no more curls claiming freedom from the hideous mobcap she’d been clever enough to don.

No more.

So, then, why was he barely resisting the temptation to let his leg drift right, to press against hers, if only to see if he could bring back that dark look in her eyes? The want—it had been, hadn’t it? He hadn’t imagined it. That expression had set his body ablaze with the possibility.

Look at me.

But Viola’s face was fixed determinedly ahead, silently absorbing the scowling faces of lodgings and shops lining the outer, worn edge of the rookery. She’d been uneasy when they’d arrived at the wharves, and it had needled him to not know why. She’d grown up in Riverside, yes, and her father had died there, but what about the interceding years had brought about the gray cast to her face?

Her unease had returned now that they’d arrived at Crescent Street, but this was a different shade of it. She’d been afraid at the dockyards, but if the way she shifted was any indication, she was merely nervous now.

Crescent was a quiet avenue, and quieter still at this late hour. It hid an assortment of devilry and mischief behind the backs of the buildings that served as an entrance to the rookery, where the heart of the Brickbats throbbed and bled out with crime.

The carriage came to a stop outside a wisteria-draped boardinghouse. Number eighteen. It suited her, he thought. A little touch of loveliness at the edge of survival.

“If you’re willing to wait, I’ll double your fee,” Hugh told the coachman as he climbed down. Turning back, he offered a hand to Viola. She hesitated, her fingers lightly curling around his in a touch that he felt like a shot to the heart.

“And how long do you expect your business to take?” the coachman asked derisively, giving Hugh a dubious once-over. “Three, maybe four minutes?”

Hugh’s voice was so dry it could have been smoked in a pipe. “A man can only dream of five.”

The coachman had spent much of the drive lecturing them on the best way to make quick coins (investing in brothels, sheep, foreign mines, and forged death certificates, in that order) and now had the audacity to look sanctimonious and disapproving, the prig.

Hugh had been poised for Viola to unleash her claws for the crude assumption, but he wasn’t sure she’d heard the exchange at all.

Her attention was on two distant figures standing on the opposite street corner. The gray cast had returned to her face. Hugh stilled, his mind spinning out a hundred possible options, if it was Glenmoor’s police watching her residence or simply more Sloggers looking for easy prey.

The figures hurried toward them. A moment later, Hugh recognized their gaits and the hard clench of his heart relaxed. They were dressed in simple dark clothing, their greatcoats hiding the pistols and blades Hugh knew to be strapped to their person.

He placed a reassuring hand at Viola’s back before he could think to stop himself, guiding her toward the dark stoop of her boardinghouse. Her body was rigid beneath his touch, priming itself, he knew, to fight or flee the approaching trouble.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Hugh said, stepping into the lantern light to sign the words. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Thought that was you and Miss Lockwood,” came Willie’s voice, “though I couldn’t begin to imagine what you’d be doing here, and at this hour.”

“I could ask the same of you,” Viola answered. The tightness between her shoulders eased. She craned her head up to look at Hugh, no doubt with a silent question in her eyes. He couldn’t meet her gaze, not just then.

“Any trouble?” Hugh murmured, signing the question.

“Quiet night,” Tommy said.

“Thought we might have caught ourselves a bit of mischief a few streets back,” Willie said, “but it was only some poor sod having his blunt lifted by a doxy and some terrified, whey-faced policeman intervening. No snatchers, though.”

Viola took a step back at that. Hugh barely resisted a sigh.

“Oh!” Willie straightened. “We did hear something interesting from an old friend. Said the last snatch was over a year ago, but that most of the children vanishing now are turning up at one of Glenmoor’s new orphanages. As you can imagine, the rest have gone to ground.”

Now it was Hugh’s turn to be taken aback. Glenmoor had raised the funds for the two recently completed orphanages, but he had nothing to do with them other than claiming credit for them. “Why would they hide from a decent bed and food?”

“Because the children have learned they can only trust and rely on one another,” Viola said. “They’ve grown up in a world where adults only hurt and neglect them.”

Hugh felt unbelievably foolish. “I see.”

“An orphanage isn’t always a better end,” Willie concurred. “Some of the old ones are more workhouses than anything. We steered well clear of them ourselves.”