The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,38
lip, warring with her indecision. The cowardly part of her said to forget this visit. The other part called her out for being not only a coward but also a privileged woman at that, who’d balk at visiting anyplace outside Mayfair.
In the end, those latter sentiments won out.
Heather groaned. “Oh, missss,” she moaned, recognizing what Emma intended even before she confirmed it.
“I’ll just be a short while,” Emma promised, drawing up her hood.
“I’m accompanying you.”
“No,” Emma insisted. “It will be fine. How dangerous could it”—something struck one of the carriage windows, knocking the glass loudly, and they both jumped—“be?” she finished with a smile.
And before the girl took it in her head to follow, Emma let herself out.
Tensly was there immediately with a hand up to help her. Calling her thanks, Emma started across the street, zigzagging around passersby and people moving livestock along. Her feet dragged through the thick mud coating the earth, and yet . . . the scent of dung filled the sky, competing with the smoke and soot for supremacy. And when collectively roiled together, the people who visited these parts, who lived here, were left with an ungodly stench thick enough to suffocate a person.
Shamefully, it had never occurred to her how people outside of Polite Society lived. In this case, even people who found themselves counted among the ranks of the ton, as Cressida and her brother now did, found their lives . . . a struggle. And Emma was struck by the depth of her own narrow-mindedness of the world around her and the economic plight of so many.
Where Mayfair sipped tea at this hour, it would appear Central London bustled with workers. Emma skimmed the rows of townhouses, a mix of new, bright, freshly painted stucco and sorry, crumbling structures, searching for the markings. Anything to set the dilapidated structures apart and highlight the place she’d come in search of. Regent Street was, in short, an area in transition, on their way to becoming a fashionable, safe, inhabitable place, but still on a long path to that point.
Emma searched the townhouses, looking for the number of Cressida Alby’s residence. She squinted . . .
And her heart fell.
Sandwiched between two gleaming white structures, Cressida’s home boasted broken windows and rotted wood, with holes enough to let the elements sail through. The modest but fine garments she’d donned, however, had revealed no hint as to how she’d truly been living.
Catching her hem, Emma held the already grime-stained article aloft and dashed across the street. The moment she reached the door, she lifted the knocker, letting it fall several times.
And standing back, she waited, staring up at the run-down stucco unit belonging to Cressida’s family.
From within, there came the shuffle of feet and the annoyed mutterings of a person on the other side.
The panel opened. An aging apron-clad servant with straggly, stringy grey hair gave Emma’s garments a harsh once-over. “What ya want?”
Emma donned a smile. After all, Lila’s household, run entirely by former street fighters and their families, had familiarized her all too well with the unconventional servant. “My name is Miss Gately.” She procured a card from the reticule hanging on her wrist, and held it over. “I’m here to see Miss Alby.”
The old woman looked her up and down. “Wot ya want with the miss?” she demanded, making no move to take the ivory scrap from Emma’s fingers.
“Uh . . . yes,” she said, stuffing the article back inside her reticule and closing the latch. All the while, she studied this gatekeeper to the latest member snatched from the folds of the Mismatch; the woman’s sallow face proved an unreadable mask. Whether she was friend or gaoler to the young lady here in this household, Emma knew not. In the end, she opted for the truth. “I am a friend to Miss Alby.”
“Miss Alby ain’t got herself any friends,” the servant said bluntly, and made to shut the door.
Emma shot up a hand, inserting her fingers in the opening to keep from letting that panel slam on her.
Or to get your fingers severed, a voice taunted.
She spoke on a rush. “I assure you, I am very much her friend. I’m one of the founders of a society of young women, which Cressida once joined. She is my friend, and I have come to pay a visit,” she ended with a greater firmness. She’d not only come to visit, but more importantly, to ensure her friend was safe and well . . .