Passion Wears Pearls (5 page)

She fumbled with the bolt lock, blinded by unshed tears, but was rewarded at last. When it gave way, she wanted to crow in victory at the sight of a slice of gray sky and narrow alley, the cool air on her cheeks promising sanctuary. It never occurred to her that the alley didn’t signify freedom or an end to his assault.

At least, until he was at her back, and this time pushing her down the steps and propelling her down the alley toward the street and his waiting carriage.

“You wouldn’t want to make a scene on the street, would you?” he growled in her ear. “You’re a good girl, Miss Beckett. So let’s not have any more trouble, agreed?”

For a single footstep, she quieted, her brain marveling that this monster knew her so well, knew she hated to draw attention to herself, and knew she wanted nothing in the world more than to be a good girl.

But that step was followed by another and her outrage returned in full force.

“No! No! No!” Eleanor kicked out and then relaxed her legs, becoming an impossible ungainly weight for him to maneuver. Mr. Perring growled in frustration but fought back, pinning her arms against her sides and gathering the leverage he needed to carry her down the alley.

She began to scream, wordless and mindless, like a terrified animal, and the sound of it frightened her more than anything else. Because Miss Eleanor Beckett, formerly of the Orchard Street Becketts, was not the kind of woman who faced rapists or lost her mind with panic.

And she was losing this fight.

The day was bitterly cold, but Josiah ignored it and tried to savor the energy of the market streets. Since he’d revealed his secret to Rowan, he’d been more restless than usual and anxious—as if speaking of a thing aloud made it more real.
Hell, I’m not any more blind today than I was yesterday! And there’s still not a single smudge on that damn canvas. …

But there was the fear.

The thought of childishly smearing paint on a canvas and playing “artist” made him shudder. Pride made him long to see one last creation of his own hands come together—but not just any creation. It would have to be the best painting he’d ever done. The culmination of years and one last painting to defy the gods and give him a final assurance that he hadn’t wasted his life in the pursuit of beauty.

He’d sacrificed so much to have the chance to hone his talents and find his own path. He’d rebelliously refused to study the masters abroad, stubbornly sure that an Englishman could learn to paint just as well anywhere he wished—even if that meant staying in Devonshire.

Not that the decision wasn’t motivated at the time by my empty purse and a—

A scream captured his attention, and he wheeled in the direction of the sound. A young woman was kicking out so violently there was a flash of white from her petticoats that even he couldn’t miss in his fog. A man was gripping her from behind and now, with one arm around her rib cage and the other covering her mouth, he was struggling to haul her from the alley.

Clearly, the lady had other places she would rather go.

He didn’t hesitate. The assessment was lightning fast.

Woman in trouble. Stop the bastard.

He ran forward, rage building in him with each step.
How dare you treat someone like that! She isn’t cattle and I’m not the man to turn a blind eye to whatever shit you’re trying to pull!

“This is none of your concer—” The man started to try to ward him off with an explanation, but Josiah didn’t allow him to finish. Josiah’s fist connected in a quick, firm strike, relying on the sound of the man’s voice and a moment of visual clarity to guarantee that he hit his target.

Josiah stepped back, instinctively angling himself in a boxer’s stance to make it harder for his opponent to attack him in return. Rutherford’s training kicked in seamlessly, and he kept his fist out of the man’s line of sight to give him the element of surprise if he needed to hit him again. “Unhand her.”

But the poor man already had, pain and shock working magic as he relinquished the woman so that he could cradle his face in his hands. “You bathard! You bwoke my nobe!”

“Did I?” Josiah smiled as if they’d just exchanged pleasantries. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d prefer a broken nose over a shattered kneecap. It would have been my first choice to incapacitate you, but I didn’t want to risk muddying the lady’s skirts.”

“You are inthane! Do you know herh?”

“No. Do you?” Josiah’s humor was bleeding away. One look at the pale and terrified face of his victim and the urge to punch the man again was almost overwhelming. “Go, sir, and mind that the next woman you touch gives you permission to do so.”

“Bathard!” The man spit out one last curse but gathered himself to stumble as quickly as he could to his waiting carriage. The nearness of it made Josiah’s heart race as he noted just how close the lady had come to disappearing into her attacker’s clutches.

“You … struck him.” It was less of an accusation than a statement, and he turned back to her—and London fell away.

Because there was no gray. In a world of fog and fleeting shadows that haunted his vision, she was color. A living, breathing pillar of all that his senses had longed for—a muse of beauty that defied science and logic. Her hair was copper bright, with thick, luxurious corkscrew curls. She
blinked back tears, and he knew he’d found the inspiration that had eluded him. She was a flash of fire and color that had him hypnotized. Large eyes a shade of green that defied description made his knees feel weak.

“I did. I thought it prudent to strike first and apologize later if necessary.” Josiah did his best to keep his voice level, aware that the lady might bolt like a frightened sprite at any sudden movement or noise. She was vibrating in a delayed reaction to the trauma of nearly being kidnapped, and the last thing he wanted was to add to her difficulties. “Was he an acquaintance?”

She shook her head, staring at him like an apparition, then managed, “His sister … a customer, he said. But I never … saw him in the shop. I never … met him.”

“It’s no matter.” He looked at her and marveled that such a creature existed in London in the bleakest heart of winter, and he’d had the luck to finally see beauty again. “You’re safe now.”

She nodded, then shook her head. “I don’t—I have to return. Madame Claremont—oh my!”

“Come let me escort you back.” He held out his arm, and she took it as carefully as if he were made of glass. As he walked, he counted his steps and doorways so that he’d be able to find this place again if he needed to. It was a new habit, this counting, but he’d learned the hard way that he couldn’t always look for landmarks to find his way. In this instance, the trick wasn’t necessary. They didn’t go very far, and he realized that she’d come from the back door of the dress shop on the corner.

Her hair had started to fall in a tangled mass down her back, and as they stopped at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the delivery door, she reached her hand up to try to restore her chignon.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly.

“I am … fine. Thank you.”

“Please allow me to—”

“I must return to the shop. I have so much work to do. I’m sure Madame Claremont will wonder what has
happened and …” She took an unsteady step back but waved off his offered hand. “I’m sure she’ll be shocked to hear …”

Without another glance at him, she walked woodenly up the steps and went inside, no doubt composing how best to break the news to Madame Claremont that one of her customer’s brothers was a notorious villain and should be banned from the shop.

Damn. I didn’t even get her name!

Josiah watched her go and shook his head. The man’s carriage had been openly waiting in front of the shop, and he had no illusions about how the drama had been orchestrated.

Which means her day is about to go from bad to worse.

Eleanor felt numb as she walked back into the shop, swallowing a strange hiccup at the surreal turns of her mind.
That handsome man broke Mr. Perring’s nose and I forgot to ask his name. I should have thanked him or said something—but I … He was like a panther striking out of nowhere.

She walked past the workrooms, starting to shiver.

“Eleanor?” Maggie asked from the sewing room door, and began trailing after her. “Are you all right?”

Eleanor ignored her, unable to stop her feet.

“Madame Claremont!” Eleanor rushed to her employer’s side, clutching at the woman’s arm. “You cannot imagine what has happ—”

Madame Claremont slapped her hands away in disgust. “What are you doing in the showroom in such disrepair? Where is Mr. Perring?”

Eleanor shook her head. “I … He … left.”

“He left?” Madame Claremont asked, the alarm in her voice making Eleanor grateful for a fleeting instant before
she realized that the woman had asked for Mr. Perring before the story had been told. And then Madame Claremont continued speaking, and all her illusions of an ally began to melt away. “If he left, it’s because you offended him!”

“I offended
him
? Madame, he tried to—he meant to …” Eleanor choked on the words, tasting bile as the twist in the conversation sank in.
She knew. She’s angry. And not at Mr. Perring, but at me!

“Don’t be stupid! He’s a catch the others would have scratched your face to get their hands on, and when he said he fancied you, I knew even you would see the opportunity of it. Side work is the easiest work there is, girl, so don’t you dare stand there with your eyes agog and pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about!” The woman seized Eleanor’s elbow, her fingers like talons. “Now, what happened?”

It was as if the walls were closing in. “He cornered me in the storeroom. He tried to drag me out of the alley and I … kicked and … he … he broke his nose … but …”

“Out!”

“W-what?” It was a nightmare that had no ending.

“Out with you!” Madame Claremont propelled her back down the hall toward the storeroom and the alley door. “Useless baggage! Too good to spread your legs, are you? Too good to take a simple poke and allow a gentleman to pay for the privilege? You think you can insult me when I provide you the means to a good living? Well, we’ll see how high and mighty you are when your ass lands in the poor house, won’t we?”

She didn’t fight at all, shock and horror helping to speed along her unexpected exit from the shop. It all happened in a fog. Somewhere Maggie was crying and shoving Eleanor’s wool wrap into her unfeeling hands while Madame Claremont’s vulgar screeching went on, and all she could think about was how strange it was to be propelled not once but twice in one day out the same door.

He’d positioned himself to watch the front of the shop, allowing that if she didn’t come out of either the front door or the alley in a few minutes, he would go in and rescue the lady. He was nervous, because he didn’t completely trust his senses and he didn’t want to miss his chance.

His wait was all too brief, and once again, it seemed he could have just used his ears and lucked onto the scene. There was a flurry in the alley, accented by an older woman’s screech of dismissal and the slamming of a door, heralding the inevitable. He jogged back down the alley to find her sitting forlornly on the steps, clutching a wool wrap. He’d have thought her a sad little blackbird, if not for the blaze of her copper hair and the sheen in her emerald green eyes. In a world of gray pigeons, she looked to him like a bird of paradise. Here was a miracle too spectacular to ignore!