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The door was unlocked. Of course it was—there was no need to hold her prisoner anymore. Stepping into the deserted passageway, she glanced toward the steps. That man had dragged her up them, and she’d been unable to break free. What would he have done if she’d agreed to go off with him when he’d asked her to? Would she have even made it out of Devonport and the surrounding area of Plymouth alive?
Why would he want to kill her? Affection for his new friend Gwendolyn was logical but far-fetched, and her instincts told her that wasn’t it. He was the one behind her father’s death, she knew it, just as she knew that Luca was innocent. The problem was, she had no idea why and now he was dead, as well as the people he’d hired, and she would never know the truth. Her sisters would be disgusted with her, but at this point she was no longer certain she cared. At least he was at the bottom of the ocean, never to hurt anyone again.
Her legs still felt weak as she pulled herself up the narrow stairs, though whether it was the aftermath of the storm or a night in Luca’s bed was questionable. The day was overcast, and the deck of the ship was empty of everyone except a handful of sailors working on the broken mast. No sign of Luca. No sign even of Billy Quarrells.
She turned to look at the quayside, and blinked. Not at the docks themselves, but the city that stretched beyond them. At the unmistakable tower of the newly constructed clock near the city center. She was in London.
The gangplank was down, and no one cared enough to stop her. She didn’t dawdle—moving down at a quick pace, but the moment she reached land she almost collapsed. Somehow she’d grown used to the relentless motion of the sea, and the sudden stillness of the land was disconcerting. She took a deep breath, trying to center herself, and looked around her. No sign of Luca anywhere. He was gone, vanished. Just as Tarkington had. But this wound was so much deeper, more devastating.
She k
new the docks well, from the days when she used to visit at her father’s side. She racked her brain, trying to think of someone, anyone in the area who didn’t hate her father so much that he would lend her enough money to get back to the comfort and safety of Nanny Gruen’s. She wanted to weep in her nurse’s lap; she wanted to hide somewhere where she could start to heal.
The offices of Russell Shipping were closed and shuttered, and normally that would have made her furious. Not any longer—she had worse disasters on her mind. She turned, almost running into a short, stocky gentleman.
“Excuse me, miss…” he began, and then stopped in shock. “Miss Russell?”
It was Bottingly, one of the men who had worked for her father for almost twenty years, a sweet, well-fed man who always had the patience to explain anything she asked. “Mr. Bottingly,” she said with a forced smile. “How good to see you. You look well.”
And he did. Losing his employment didn’t seem to have harmed him a bit. He flushed, looking almost guilty. “I’ve been working for some of the new owners, Miss Russell. One of your father’s captains has been buying up the ships, and I expect he’ll need help since I can’t see him giving up the sea.”
“Captain Morgan,” she said quietly.
“Yes, miss!” Bottingly beamed at her. “Then you know about that. I wrote you when your father passed away, but I do want to say once more how sorry I am about what happened. I never believed he did anything wrong.”
“Nor did I,” she said, grateful. She was ridiculously close to tears, so she pinched herself, hard, to keep from disgracing herself.
“Miss Russell, is there any way I can be of assistance?” He was looking at her more closely now, and he’d probably realized she was out in public without a companion, a hat, or a reticule. “May I call a hackney for you?”
She shook her head. “No money to pay for it, I’m afraid. And no place to go.”
A frown turned Bottingly’s usually friendly face into one of deep concern. “You come with me, Miss Russell. There’s no way I’ll leave my dear employer’s daughter stranded on the docks of London. I know just the thing.”
She didn’t, couldn’t put up a protest. She had no other place to go. She let dear Mr. Bottingly settle her into his own, serviceable carriage and direct his driver to take her to Berkeley Square. “Don’t you worry, Miss Russell. That’s your sister’s house now, even if she’s not there, and you’ll be welcomed.”
She had her own doubts, as the driver set her down outside an elegant mansion on the square. She walked up the front steps slowly, prepared to be tossed into the street. She could always sleep in an alleyway. She could… she was out of options.
The door opened, revealing a gentleman’s gentleman, perfectly groomed, looking at her blankly. “May I help you, miss?” He had just the touch of an Irish accent, and for some reason she felt oddly comforted.
“I am Madeleine Russell,” she said, and he stared at her blankly. She took a deep breath and continued. “My sister is Bryony Russell, though I suppose she’s…”
“Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Russell!” he cried, clearly distressed. “Come in, please. We’re so used to thinking of the new Lady Kilmartyn as Mrs. Greaves that I forgot her maiden name. We had no word you were coming, but it won’t take but a moment to get a room ready for you. We’ve been waiting for his lordship’s return any day now, but so far we’ve heard nothing.”
She could have collapsed in relief, but she’d done too much collapsing, and the valet or butler or majordomo was smaller than she was. She didn’t want him laboring under her weight. “Thank you, Mr.…?”
“Collins, Miss Russell. I’m Collins.” He ushered her into the house. The place gleamed, spotless and elegant, smelling of beeswax and lemon oil. Her sister had done a better job during her time in service than she had, Maddy thought with a trace of irony. “Would you like me to show you to your room? It’ll be the work of a moment to air the sheets and start a little fire to take the chill off.”
“That would be lovely.”
“And maybe I bring you a tray? A light repast?”
She should have been starving. Indeed, in times of trouble and stress she often turned to food to distract her anxious mind. She should have been longing for a banquet given how bad things were and how long it had been since she’d had a decent meal. The very thought made her nauseated as the worst storm couldn’t.
“Perhaps something later,” she said faintly.
“And do you perhaps have luggage following, Miss Russell?” he said in a solicitous voice. That was the kind of butler to have, she thought blindly. The kind who looked out for you.
“I’m afraid not. My clothes were lost at sea.” True enough, even if it had only been one dress and her undergarments.
