‘I have no patience for this,’ Farley growled. ‘What now?’
‘She refused a patron.’ The man tossed her a scathing look. ‘She bit him in…a most unfortunate place.’
The girl faced Farley with her chin held high, her face half-covered by a red leather mask. ‘I warned you I would do so.’
Farley shot out of his chair and with a loud clap struck his open hand against her cheek.
‘The devil!’ Devlin sprang from his seat to catch her before she hit the floor. Both her hands clutched her head, and Devlin supported her with an arm around her waist.
‘Farley, I must protest. That was most poorly done.’
‘I’ll thank you to stay out of my business, Steele,’ Farley snarled. ‘You have no say in the matter.’
‘If you strike her in front of me, I claim the right.’ Devlin spoke through clenched teeth. ‘You might hear her out.’
Farley rubbed his face. ‘I have treated her with more consideration than she deserves, and she still defies me. I’m done with her. You found her pleasing once. Take her in lieu of my debt.’
Devlin combed her hair away from her mask with his fingers. He would leave no woman to suffer such treatment. He leaned close to her ear. ‘What say you, Miss England?’
She blinked uncomprehendingly, her eyes unfocused. Suddenly her vision seemed to clear and she stared at him, the bright red imprint of Farley’s hand remaining on her cheek. She smiled faintly and flung her arms around his neck.
He gazed over the top of her head to Farley. ‘Your debt is settled, sir.’
A half-hour later Devlin paced the pavement in front of Farley’s establishment, cursing himself. In the space of a moment, he’d tossed his winnings away and incurred further expense. All for a lightskirt with whom he’d once spent a pleasant interval. He could almost hear the Marquess ring a peal over his head. ‘Brother, how many times must I caution you? Think before you act.’
Ah well, he could not very well leave his Miss England with Farley, could he? Perhaps she had some family. His winnings ought to be sufficient to send her wherever she wished to go.
At least the money bought him a little more time. Only two months left before his brother released his quarterly portion.
Two cloaked and hooded figures hurried from the alley. Devlin instinctively kept a watchful eye on them. In this neighbourhood one could easily be set upon and relieved of one’s winnings. Indeed, Farley might attempt to recoup his losses. The two shadowy figures came to a stop in front of him, one carrying a large portmanteau.
‘We are ready, my lord,’ the other one said, breathing hard.
Devlin peered at her. In the lamplight, her face was all but obscured by the hood, and she was wrapped entirely in her cloak, clutching some bundle beneath its folds. Still, he could not mistake his Miss England.
‘We?’ he asked, one eyebrow arching.
‘Sophie accompanies me. I will not leave her.’ The resolute tilt of the young miss’s head was the same defiant gesture she’d made to Farley. ‘Please, we must hurry.’
‘She is your maid?’ Mentally, Devlin doubled the expense facing him.
‘Yes, but more so she is my friend.’ She glanced about nervously. ‘Truly, haste is in order.’
‘Haste?’
‘We did not secure Lord Farley’s permission for Sophie to accompany me, but I’ll not leave her.’
The other woman was a wisp of a thing almost overwhelmed by the portmanteau. Devlin massaged his brow.
What the deuce. In for a penny, in for a pound. ‘Very well, Miss England.’ Devlin glanced around the street for a hack. ‘Shall I relieve you of your bundle?’
She shrank from him. ‘If you could take the portmanteau from Sophie, sir, I would be most grateful.’
‘Indeed. Sophie, allow me to carry that for you.’
The maid hesitated, backing away as if it were a precious burden unsafe to hand over. He nearly had to wrestle it from her grasp. The portmanteau weighed a ton. Surprising she had strength to lift it off the ground.
‘Where is your carriage, sir?’ Miss England asked.
Devlin laughed. ‘You mistake me for my brother, the Marquess. Perhaps we can find a hack hereabouts.’
‘Please, let us remove ourselves.’
He led the way, and the women fell in step behind him, like sari-clad females of India, keeping a respectful distance.
Perhaps he should have cast his lot with the East India Company. There were fortunes to be made, to be sure, but he had no wish for foreign shores. Not after Spain and Belgium—truth was, he had no idea what to do with his life.
Devlin glanced behind him, checking on his two shadows. The memory of his Miss England’s soft lips and bold tongue drifted into his mind.
A hack ambled to a stop at the end of the street, and Devlin quickened his step to arrange its hire. He assisted the women into the conveyance, and the driver stowed the portmanteau.
Devlin sat opposite his cloaked companions. ‘Where shall I instruct the driver to deliver you?’
The little maid huddled against Miss England’s shoulder. Miss England faced him, but he could barely make out her features. ‘We have nowhere to go,’ she murmured.
He rubbed his hands. ‘Is there no relation who might be persuaded to take you in?’ The coil he’d gotten himself into had just developed more tangles.
‘There is no one.’ She turned her head, but held it erect. ‘Leave us where you wish.’
Indeed, drop them into the street? They would be gobbled up in a trice. How long could he afford to put them up at some inn?
At that moment, the bundle in Miss England’s arms emitted a squeak. Two small arms poked out of the wrapping and wound themselves around her neck.
‘Deuce,’ Devlin said.
The cloak opened to reveal an equally small head with a mop of hair as dark as her own. The child cuddled against her chest, fast asleep.
‘This is my daughter, Lieutenant.’ Miss England faced him again and spoke in a trembling voice, both wary and defiant. ‘Linette…England.’
‘Good God.’
Miss England spoke again. ‘I do wish you would order the hackney somewhere away from this place. I care not where.’ She grasped the child more firmly. ‘Lord Farley might have a change of mind.’
Devlin instructed the driver to take them to his address. Where else could he take two women and a child when his brain was foggy with brandy and fatigue?
The passengers lapsed into silence. Miss England pointedly avoided conversation, and Devlin, angry at himself for his rash behaviour, clamped his mouth shut.
The thin light of dawn seeped through the London mist as the hack pulled up to a plain, unadorned building near St James’s Street. His rooms were at the edge of the unfashionable district where the rent was cheaper. It was an area best known for housing Cyprians of the ton and, therefore, acceptable for a gentleman.
His entourage spilled out into the street, the little maid grabbing the portmanteau before Devlin could reach it. He began to chuckle.