Lady in Red, Eliza Knight [have you read this book TXT] 📗

in here on my way home from the park. What did you do with her?”

Markum. Linden’s—Elizabeth’s—surname. Bitter envy scorched its way up to his throat.

“I did nothing with her. Mistaken identity, ’tis all. She went on her way. You’ve nothing to worry about on my account.”

Ainsley wagged his finger and narrowed his bushy brows. “Your man accosted her. I know what I saw.”

“I do not doubt you believe what you saw, Ainsley. But I assure you, there’s been no accosting of anyone. Now, if you please.” Terrence waved toward the door, rejecting the man. He had some drinking to do. He picked up the tumbler, feeling the effects of the whisky and wanting to drown in it.

“Are you dismissing me, sir?” Ainsley asked, clearly exasperated. The older man’s ruddy face grew three shades darker and spittle flew from his lips. Quite disgusting.

“Indeed, Ainsley. It’s been a pleasure getting to know you this morning, and if I should happen to see your maid, I will be certain to send her to her post and also be certain she does not feel she was accosted.”

Maid—his wife, a servant.

Not his wife, a fact Terrence needed to come to terms with.

When she’d leapt in front of his horse—her cheeks rosy against the cream of her skin, her blue eyes wide and frightened, her flowing hair silky and shiny—she had—mesmerized him. He’d yanked on the reins, terrified as his horse reared, front paws clawing at the air only inches from her face. Her voice had been soft music to his ears, and, despite her ratty clothes and the trouncing society would give them, he’d known then that she was the one for him.

Terrence had never been one to follow society's edicts. He only occasionally went to his gentleman’s clubs. He did his duties for the House of Lords, maintained his properties as he should, but his true passion lay in his business: ship building. Not just any old ships, though. Terrence built luxury ships. And it was a very lucrative business, one he’d constructed from the ground up. And he loved every aspect of it, making sure he was involved in all parts, involved with his men.

Not involved enough.

At the dock that cold wintry morning three years earlier, when snow had fallen, and the men’s breath looked like the smoke coming from the ship’s pipes, Terrence had spotted Linden stacking crates. The man was diligent, productive. And despite the chill of the morning, he labored as though it were a pleasant spring day, his eyes filled with determination. Terrence offered him a job on the spot. He needed someone like Linden Markum to work for him, to put that fiery spirit inside his other employees.

Terrence clearly hadn’t known the darker side of Linden—or that the man would swindle him. How was he supposed to know? He’d seemed perfectly respectable. A good, hard worker. Was Terrence supposed to question everyone's morals—judging them guilty before really finding out if they were?

Worst still, he hadn’t known the man to be so devious that he’d involve his wife in the con. Whatever the extent of the scheme was.

More fool, Terrence.

Forgetting Elizabeth would be difficult but necessary. And he couldn’t wait to put this nasty business behind him. The Runners should have more information soon—and now that he knew where Elizabeth worked, he would make sure the Runners were there every day, following her.

6

The stairs to the little tenement in Charing Cross, which Elizabeth had rented for her and Sarah with the last coins to her name, smelled of overcooked cabbage and spilled gin—along with other unmentionable odors.

She climbed up the four flights, feet crying out for relief, her head heavy and her eyes still stinging with the tears that hadn’t ceased since she’d seen Terrence the day before. Her fingers were clutched by her young daughter, who’d spent the day helping the building owner and his wife maintain the building. It wasn’t at all what a five-year-old child should be doing, but it was necessary to get by. And little Sarah wouldn’t have been the first child to do it, either. There was a gaggle of them.

The thing that scared Elizabeth the most was that Mrs. Crum had started to hint that Sarah was becoming old enough to start working with the other chimney sweeps. If her child were forced to work in the cramped, soot-laden chimneys, it would condemn her to an early death. Perhaps it was time she thought about moving back to Scotland. Not that life there would be any better. Her parents barely had enough to eat when she’d left them years ago—Elizabeth didn’t even know if they were still alive.

“Mummy, I’m hungry,” Sarah murmured, her voice tired as she wiped her nose on her sleeve.

“I’ll fix ye supper, then we both need to go to bed.”

Sarah nodded, stifling a too large yawn. Since when did her daughter agree to go to bed early? The poor girl had probably been worked to the point of exhaustion.

“I’ll tell ye a story, too, if ye eat all your supper.”

“Yes, please do, Mummy.” A little spark of light came into her sweet eyes then.

“How was your visit with Mr. and Mrs. Crum today?”

Sarah shrugged, about all the answer she usually got, unless her daughter had been asked to do something different—like the chimneys. So the shrug today was a good sign.

They reached the door, and just as Elizabeth inserted the key, someone spoke from behind her in a deep voice. “Mrs. Markum.”

Elizabeth jumped, dropping her key, and Sarah cried out in surprise. Terrence’s valet, James, lurked in the shadowy corner several feet from her doorway. No wonder she hadn’t seen him.

“What do ye want?” she asked, holding tighter to Sarah, who sank closer to her mother’s hip, folding her body in the safety of Elizabeth’s skirts.

“Lord Shaftesbury sent me out to find Mr. Markum. My findings led me here to you. Would you kindly let me speak with him?” James’s words were soft, even polite, but the