“If you’re not for sale, then I’ll take you for free.” Barton’s breath smelled of cigarettes and gin, an odor foul enough to rival that of the rot beneath her. Fear, disgust, and the stench had bile crawling up the back of Imogen’s throat. She swallowed it and a scream, knowing neither could escape her covered mouth.
She tried to bite him, to rear back so the bin’s edge wouldn’t cut into the tender flesh of her belly, but he jerked her head to the side so roughly that she feared he’d break her neck should he try it again.
“Struggle and I’ll make you regret it. Scream and I’ll knock you unconscious,” he warned, and began to gather her skirts behind her.
If she didn’t fight him, she’d regret it all her life.
Going limp, she once again swallowed her revulsion and reached into the bin, rummaging frantically until she found what she’d been searching for. A shard of the glass he’d broken earlier.
Palming it, she waited for him to shift in order to undo his trousers. When he did, she jerked her body around and struck at him. The glass cut her too, but she knew she’d found her mark when he grunted and released her. The makeshift weapon caught him in the ribs, beneath his arm. Painful, but not fatal.
Not deep enough.
He struck back then, his sharp fist opening a cut on her lip and collapsing her to the dirty stones of the alley. Explosions of darkness in different shades danced in her periphery, and Imogen clung to consciousness as fervently as she clung to the sharp glass in her hand.
“Even the law knows you cannot rape a whore,” he slurred, bending over her, fist cocked to strike again. “When I’m through, you’ll—”
She didn’t allow him to finish his threat. Lunging forward, she slammed the glass into his neck, right above the clavicle. He screamed then and jerked away, leaving the thick shard of glass in her viselike grip.
Warm blood sprayed her from the wound, until he covered it with his hand, stanching the flow.
Terrified, desperate, Imogen surged past him, hoping to escape.
“Wait!” Barton grabbed for her, his meaty hand twining in her shawl. Yanking back as hard as he could, the shawl came away in his hand.
Dropping the shard of glass, Imogen reached for the door, ready to go for help.
“You’ve killed me,” Barton gasped, as he slumped down against the brick wall. Blood ran down his shirt, his vest. So much blood. “You’ve killed me, you devious cunt.” His voice held no fury, only incredulity.
Imogen knew he was right. If he didn’t get help in minutes, he’d bleed out there in the alleyway. But if she went for help and he didn’t survive, she could hang for his death.
The alley door yanked open, and Jeremy’s light eyes widened as he nearly collided with her.
“Ginny? Good God, what’s happened?” His hand closed over her shoulder, his skinny arms long enough to reach the distance.
“Bitch stuck me,” Barton accused weakly. “Fetch the doctor or I’m done for.”
“Yes, go for help,” Ginny said, though her chest was heaving as though she’d run a league. The knowledge that she was as dead as the man who’d attacked her lit a fire beneath her feet. She had to get away. She had to warn her family.
Whirling, she wrenched out of Jeremy’s grasp, gathered her skirts and bolted.
“Ginny, wait!” He grabbed for her shoulder again and came away with her dark wig tangled in his fingers. Imogen only looked back once as she fled. She saw Barton, barely conscious, perched against the brick, and Jeremy, staring at the wig in his hands with horrified aversion, as though he’d pulled a limp dead animal from her head.
He looked up at her, confusion and disbelief mingling in his young eyes, and she knew what he saw. Her hair, gold washed with strawberries, her mother would say, tumbling past her shoulders and darkening with moisture.
“Get help,” she cried again, before plunging into the rain-soaked London night.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Imogen didn’t stop running until her lungs threatened to burst. The streets were sparsely populated due to the time and the weather, but not deserted. Twice she had to turn down dangerous-looking alleys to avoid a foot patrolman on his beat. Luckily for her, the rain kept most people’s gazes directed at the cobblestones from beneath their hats and umbrellas.
She fought for breath as she took refuge beneath a dark overhang across from the train station. Looking down, she gasped at the sight of so much blood on her hands, not all of it hers. She held them out to the rain, watched and trembled as the storm attempted to clean her open palms, turning the crimson wells into a pink watercolor. The gash in her hand was long but not deep, and had begun to throb now that her all-consuming panic had subsided to a bone-rattling anguish.
She let the wall hold her up for a moment so she could think. So she could breathe.
Imogen wanted to run home, to warn her family, but she would frighten them looking like this. Not only half-dressed, but covered in a man’s blood.
A man she’d murdered.
Not only would she upset and shame them, the police would come for her as soon as they were summoned to the Bare Kitten. Del Toro wouldn’t protect her, this she knew.
Should she warn them? Should she wait?
Had she killed him? The answer would mean the difference between a prison cell and a noose.
Imogen’s lip smarted where he’d struck her, and it tasted of rain and copper when she tested it with her tongue. The storm had washed away the spray of Barton’s blood from her bosom, but not the stains on her low-cut bodice. She had no shawl to cover herself, and the cold seeped into her bones. The rain turned her hair into heavy, limp strings, and she didn’t even want to think about what her makeup must look like.
She had nowhere to run. No one to go to. There would be no getting on that train. Someone would surely stop her in this state.
Unless … unless she could change and clean up. She’d left her things at the hospital, hadn’t she? She knew she had a clean black uniform frock in her cupboard and, while she was there, she could doctor her palm and her lip and hopefully formulate a plan. She kept a few halfpennies in her cupboard in case she needed a lunch or to make the train.
Only a handful of night nurses and one doctor on the ground floor would be in residence now. The wings were not overflowing at the moment and stingy Dr. Fowler didn’t like the expense of extra night staff.
Gwen might be on shift, and Imogen was fairly certain she could trust her friend. Besides, she hadn’t been able to say good-bye.
She might have to say good-bye to everyone now.
The grim reality threatened the strength of her knees, and Imogen knew that if she sank to the ground, she’d never rise again. So she summoned what remained of her fortitude, arranged the wet sheets of her hair to conceal what she could of the bloodstains, and plunged back into the storm.
Imogen infiltrated the hospital easily, knowing which doors would be unlocked or unguarded. She navigated the dark halls silent as a specter, though she left trails of rainwater in her wake. Pilfering bandages and supplies, she cleaned and bound the cut on her palm first, so as not to leave blood on anything else.
Her reflection in the mirror brought hot tears to her eyes. They scalded her numb, cold cheeks as they escaped. She hadn’t cried about the man she may have killed. Nor did she weep at the pain of her wounds or the cold of the rain. Surely she’d expected tears to run at the prospect of losing her family, of losing her life, but her eyes were the only parts of her that remained suspiciously dry as she fled through the storm.