Page 97 of When We Touch

Mireau couldn’t see her, but he could well imagine Maggie. She must have been standing there, straight as a ramrod, furious, and yet, at a loss. Then she spoke again, quickly. “All right, Lord James, Viscount Langdon. I will get back in my cab, and return to the house, and stay there.”

“No. You’ll come with me. I’ll see that you’re out of here.”

Apparently, she chose not to mention that Mireau remained in the cab. From his place deep against the seat, Mireau saw as she turned and stared at him, and now there was naked pleading in the depths of her cobalt eyes. Get her safely away. Let no one know. For the love of God, help me in this, Mireau!

“Maggie, I mean it!” Jamie continued harshly. “I want you out of here, with me, now!”

“As you command, my lord!” she responded. “Go on, cabbie!” she cried to the hackney driver, and he saw that she was stepping forward, paying him.

She gazed in at Mireau, pleadingly, one last time.

Then she was gone.

“What in God’s name do I do now?” Mireau said, staring at the baby as the carriage jolted back into action.

She waved a tiny hand below his nose, eyes staring gravely into his. And he sighed, because he would do something, rack his brain, come up with an idea . . . he had to. He had fallen a little bit in love.

* * *

Jamie was evidently furious with her, and she couldn’t quite understand why. He knew that she came down here.

Maybe she wasn’t properly mourning.

Or maybe he did blame her for Charles’s death, despite his words to her to get over her self-pity.

He “helped” her into his carriage with such a firm hand she nearly collided with the door on the opposite side. When he crawled in, he didn’t look at her, but out the windows. His jaw was set in such a lock she was surprised that it didn’t snap. His hands, so large, capable . . . were knotted into fists in his lap.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” he demanded suddenly and harshly, staring at her, fire in the gray smoke of his gaze.

“What the hell is the matter with you? You know that I come down here!”

“Not now! There is a murderer on the loose.”

She sat back, staring out the window. “There’s often a murderer on the loose in Whitechapel. People have just noticed for a change.”

“All right, Maggie, let me rephrase. There’s an exceptionally heinous madman on the loose down here, and if a recent letter is to be accepted as from the real fellow, he’s calling himself Jack the Ripper. And he claims that he’s ready to strike again, eager to strike again!”

“I’m not a prostitute,” Maggie said, and winced inwardly, thinking that, like these women, in actuality, she had been sold. Her price had simply been much higher.

“And do you think that if you wind up in this madman’s path, it will be any different?”

She sighed. “Jamie, I’m not your concern.”

“But you are.”

“How is that?”

“You were charged with looking after Arianna. I was charged with looking after you.”

“Charles is gone. Sadly, we are left with the truth of our lives. I will probably never have any influence over Arianna. And you have none with me.”

“Then you’ll listen to me because I’m threatening you.”

She felt her fingers curl into fists. He was taking her back to Moorhaven, she was certain. And he would remain, trying to make sure that she didn’t leave the house. Well and fine. She could play that game—he couldn’t stay forever.

But Mireau had the baby!

“I stand duly threatened,” she said. Then she leaned forward, ready to plead. “Listen, Jamie, I’ll stay out of Whitechapel for a while, I promise. But I can’t abide being at Moorhaven.”