Page 28

“Do you have port?” asked Richard.

Georgia scoffed as she put the final mug on the tray and picked it up. “Ale or gin, love.”

“Georgia brews excellent ale,” said Jane as Georgia took the mugs to one of the tables. “From what I hear, one the best in London. That’s why my brother orders from here. Georgia comes from a long family of ale women. Three hundred years, she told me.”

“But how do you know her?” demanded Richard. He couldn’t imagine Jane drinking beer with these thugs. “Do you come here?”

Jane shrugged. “Thorne took me to all the important places in Whitechapel. Mostly, so that everyone saw me with him and knew not to touch me. But I also brought supper to his men. They’re good men, even though I know sometimes the things they do aren’t entirely legal.”

Richard blinked at her. She couldn’t be prettier, in the jumping light of the candles, her face relaxed and glowing and so full of life. His throat clenched.

Unfortunately, he was not the only one who noticed her. At the nearest table, a man in his forties, dressed better than any of these thugs, eyed her as well, his face red and puffy as he drank his ale. His eyes were hooded, and he swayed slightly in his chair.

“You!” He pointed at Jane and stood up. She turned to him, and her eyes widened in fear. Richard jumped in front of her, shielding her from the man. “You…you asked me to let it go. But someone else picked my pockets yesterday.”

Jane stood up. “I am very sorry, sir, but—”

He marched closer to her, swaying. “Your silly schooling attempts are pointless. Since you compensated me last time, you must compensate me again.”

“What?” Jane demanded. “No.”

“Yes.” He lurched towards her, aiming at her reticule, which hung on her wrist. “Give me my compensation! I did not send this wee shite to the gallows, either.”

But before the man could get to Jane, Richard swung his fist back, and hit the man in the face. Pain burst through his knuckles, familiar from boxing with Spencer. Gasps and excited exclamations sounded from the crowd around them. The man staggered back but, to Richard’s surprise, didn’t fall. However, he grabbed an eating knife from one of the tables and, with a big roar, charged. Richard couldn’t step back as the man would ram Jane, so his only option was to somehow push him back. But he was far too close to Jane, and he didn’t have enough room to swing. As the man reached him, swinging the blade, which glistened dully in the dim candlelight, Richard plunged his fist into the man’s round stomach. There was a sharp blaze of pain across his chest.

The man doubled up, and Jane raised her arms, hitting him over the head with a bottle. He dropped to the floor with a thud. The knife fell with a thunk of metal against wood, and Jane dove to the floor and picked it up.

“You fool,” Georgia said coolly as she passed by the man. “You don’t want to mess with Thorne Blackmore’s sister.”

The man raised his head, his eyes wide, then scrambled to his feet and ran away. The tavern filled with cheerful hoots and chatter.

“Well done, lass!” and “Good swing, Janie! We could use someone like you!” came from around the room.

Laughter. More cheers.

Jane beamed to the people around her.

“Are you all right, Jane?” Richard asked, breathing hard, looking her over. She seemed concerned but unharmed. He realized he’d forgotten to call her Miss Grant, but her name was so pretty and so right on his tongue.

Something burned and ached strongly. He looked down. There was a gash through his coat and his waistcoat. Blood soaked through the edges of his white shirt, and the warm liquid spread down his chest. Pain radiated from the slash, hot and fiery.

“You’re bleeding!” Jane gasped. “Do you have any clean cloth?” she asked Georgia.

“I do, love.” The woman dipped under the bar and emerged with a few clean white linens. Jane pressed the linens hard against his chest, the gesture making him wince.

“I’m fine,” said Richard. “Please, do not fuss. We should wait for Atticus.”

“Out of the question. Come with me. You must be treated.”

12

Twenty minutes later, Richard lay shirtless on the bed in Jane’s room. How luxuriously comfortable her bed was, and how intimate it felt to be in this space that was hers alone—a space where no man was supposed to come.

Jane had given him something to drink for the pain, some sort of bitter alcohol that tasted like herbs. He felt relaxed and warm and slightly light-headed as she kneeled on the floor next to the bed, her small, exquisite hands cleaning the cut on his chest, touching him so lightly they felt like the fluttering of a butterfly.

Her room was so much like her. The wood-paneled walls were painted a pretty dove-egg blue, and botanical illustrations of flowers hung in the middle of the panels: peonies, tulips, hydrangeas, roses. Of course she’d have botanical illustrations; they were the most objective representations of flowers. The room was large, and a plush carpet softened the wooden floor. White window hangings framed two paned windows.

There was a large bookcase full of tomes—which was quite unusual for a bedchamber. A writing desk stood by one of the windows bearing heaps of paper, books, and three jars of ink. Quills lay on the papers, and it all looked quite disorganized…thank heavens. Somehow, the thought of her being imperfect ignited his curiosity even more.