length of the other shops, hoping to put some distance between her and the rank pile of rubbish outside the butcher’s unpresumptuous shop.
Suddenly something made her pause and take notice. She turned and peered back through the throng of people and horses at a figure that was eerily familiar.
Could it be?
Amelia drew closer to the shoddy brick wall, wishing to be invisible. A quiver tugged her lip. The gait, the build, the mannerisms—she was certain. Edward Littleton was in Liverpool.
She squinted to make him out in greater detail. He stood close to a woman cloaked in black, a dark blue bonnet obscuring her face. They appeared to be arguing. The sounds of the docks and people muted their words, but their tense stances and jerky movements suggested a heated debate.
Amelia lifted her hand to shade her eyes from the sun peering from behind wispy silver clouds. The cut of the woman’s cloak and the color of the bonnet looked familiar. Then the woman pivoted, and even from the distance there could be no mistake. The sun’s golden light fell on none other than Helena Barrett.
Amelia gasped and fell back against the wall, her heart threatening to beat out of her chest. Her first instinct was to run to Helena. Surely she was here to assist in Lucy’s rescue. But more rational thoughts prevailed. Helena was in Edward’s company. And no good could come from Edward Littleton’s presence in Liverpool.
By the time she gathered her wits and pushed away from the bricks, it was too late. Helena noticed her first, and her mouth fell open. Littleton, reacting to Helena’s sudden change in demeanor, followed her gaze. For a moment, nobody moved. Then Helena tried to break free from Edward’s grasp, and he turned and shouted over his shoulder.
Amelia forced foot in front of foot. She needed to reach the butcher’s shop. She had to get Becky Sulter, and they needed to find Graham—now.
Alarm increased her pulse but slowed her steps. Edward. And Helena! She tried to tear her eyes from Edward, but his gaze—his hot, angry stare—locked on hers. He pointed in her direction. Then the two large men who had appeared at his side began crossing the street.
Amelia bolted for the butcher’s door. Why had she left Becky? She hazarded a glance behind her as she ran. The men had disappeared. She slowed. But as she was about to reach the door, a thick arm cinched around her waist and a gloved hand clapped over her mouth. Before she could process what was happening, someone yanked her into the small alley next to the butcher shop.
She kicked, flailed, even tried to bite through the glove, but the arms around her were too strong. She tried to scream but managed only muffled squeaks. She looked around, disoriented. Above her, sky. To her left, bricks. In front of her, the street receded with each step her assailant took. She kicked again, even harder, but the arms lifted her off the ground.
“She’s biting me!”
“Can’t control a woman?”
“Shut up and give me a hand.”
A second pair of hands grabbed her legs, then someone tied a kerchief around her eyes. Its smell was putrid—sweat, tobacco, and gin.
This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not when Lucy needed her the most. Graham flashed in her mind. With a grunt, bulky arms lifted her, and she fell against a hard surface. A hand pushed her down on her stomach. The overwhelming scent of moldy straw nearly gagged her. It pricked her cheek, and something sharp pushed against her side. Hot breath grazed her ear. “If ye know what’s good for ye, pretty lass, you’ll keep yer mouth shut.”
Graham adjusted the pistol at his waist for what felt like the hundredth time. More than an hour had passed, and still no sign of Littleton. “You’re sure this is where you saw him?”
William nodded. “I’m certain of it.” He nodded toward a pub next to the Darndee Inn. “That’s where he and his comrades went last night.”
Graham leaned against the pillar supporting a portico, his eyes fixed on the shabby pub and the dilapidated inn. He gritted his teeth. Now, more than ever, he was certain that Littleton was involved in Lucy’s disappearance.
Another ten minutes whispered past when Graham snapped to attention. “That’s him.” The inn’s door had flung open, and a trio of men emerged. They whispered amongst themselves. One of them shielded his eyes from the sun’s bright glare. Then the two other men broke away from Littleton