The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,79
up here in Seven Dials. Daughter of a duke with no way out but death.”
“I’m so sorry.” Her eyes shone with the glimmer of tears, the scent of honeysuckle curling into his nose and chasing away the ripe stench of the vicinity. “I didn’t know you owned a shelter.”
“No one does. Besides Westmore.”
Winter frowned at the accumulating crowd. He was dressed in a pair of nondescript brown breeches and unassuming coat, while she still wore an obviously well-tailored and costly blue silk and muslin day dress. From the avid looks she was getting, it wouldn’t take much for a mob to gather or for the pickpockets to make quick work of any loose buttons, coin or other easily removable possessions. While he could handle himself, he didn’t want her in harm’s way.
He had no idea how she’d come to be here and whether she’d followed him, but this wasn’t the place to discuss it. “Did you come by carriage?” he asked.
She blinked as though coming out of a trance. “Yes, it’s just over there,” she replied automatically, but when he took her arm and attempted to escort her toward it, she shook off his grasp. “No, I’m not going anywhere with you. Even if this establishment is for your sister, I’m not blind, Roth. I saw you go in with Contessa James.” Her voice faltered. “You fought a duel for her, if you recall.”
Isobel wouldn’t believe him, but he was never involved with Contessa James. She’d wanted to get away from her current protector—a viscount who treated her abominably and had bruised her throat so badly weeks ago that she couldn’t perform on stage. When he’d threatened to cut out her tongue so she could never sing again, she’d come to Winter.
It was why she’d been temporarily staying at the shelter, until she could find new accommodations. The viscount had thrown her out on her ear after Winter and Westmore had paid the man a sinister visit, letting him know in no uncertain terms what would happen if he ever laid a finger on the contessa again. That was the purported duel that had made the papers. But this wasn’t the place to clarify that.
“It’s not like that,” he said again. “I will explain, but it’s not safe here, Isobel. Will you please let me get you home?”
She stared at him, and then her glance slipped to the side as if only just taking stock of the infringing throng. “Take me inside.”
God, she was a stubborn thing.
“Very well, but it’s not what you’re accustomed to, and you may see things that might harm your sensibilities.”
She firmed her jaw. “You might be surprised, Lord Roth, at what I’ve seen. I’m not a wilting daisy who swoons at the slightest provocation.”
Looking at her, all arctic rage and a spine of pure iron, he could believe it. There were things he was learning about his wife that made him question whether anything he knew about her was accurate. He wanted to discover everything about her. And that was a dangerous want. Lusting after her body was one thing; being seduced by her courage or compassion or intelligence was a slippery slope he had no intention of nearing.
With a nod, he took her elbow and unlocked the door, ushering her into the spare but clean foyer of the building. An enormous man limped toward them, and Winter felt Isobel tense at his hulking appearance. Creighton was a pugilist who had had his jaw broken outside of the ring in an attempt to rig a prize fight, and beaten to within an inch of his life.
Astoundingly, Winter had found him alive in a pool of his own blood, left to die. He’d saved the man’s life, and Creighton had been loyal ever since. As porter, he was the only man allowed on the premises, tasked with the responsibility of protecting the vulnerable inhabitants from any forced entry.
“Forgot something, milord?”
Winter shook his head. “No, Creighton. This is…Lady Roth.”
The man’s eyes popped wide, his huge body forming a clumsy bow. “Milady.”
“He’s the overseer,” Winter explained. “Keeps the riffraff out.”
He led her down the corridor to a large staircase. It was a far cry from the dirty streets outside, and instead of rot and unwashed bodies, smelled faintly of antiseptic and clean linen. The soft murmur of voices wafted down the white-painted hallway from the rooms upstairs.
“Is this a hospital?” she asked, her eyes darting into some of the well-lit, clinical-looking rooms off the main hallway.