Imogen. She held him quite transfixed. Be she a sphinx, a siren, or a snake charmer, he decided it was time he found out more about his bewitching neighbor.
For her own good, if nothing else.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I really think he’s going to kill me this time.” Heather’s frantic wail barely registered against the vicious clamor at the door to the Anstruther mansion. “I couldn’t stay with him. I couldn’t do the things he wanted me to, not anymore.”
Imogen held the buxom woman against her shoulder, wondering if it was the blood from the prostitute’s nose or the woman’s tears that soaked her bodice. It had only been a day since the incident at Hyde Park, and her nerves didn’t seem sufficiently fortified for another dangerous crisis.
“How many men are out there?” Cheever demanded, holding himself against the door.
“I don’t know!” Heather sobbed. “I counted maybe three or four when I was running, but O’Toole called for more of his men to join the chase. And it was getting dark.”
Imogen held her former adversary from the Bare Kitten closer, marveling at the strange and frightening turns life sometimes made.
“I know I was ghastly to ye, Ginny, and I don’t deserve yer protection, but please help me. I had nowhere else to turn.” The desperate woman clung to her, and Imogen forgave her immediately.
“You will address the countess as my lady when in this household, madam,” Cheever admonished with a sniff.
“I’m sorry, my lady.” Heather nodded, sufficiently chastised, and the fact that the old Celtic fire that used to blaze from her eyes had been extinguished caused Imogen no small amount of concern.
“There’s no need for that, Cheever, I’m sure—”
Another pounding knock was followed by a door-rattling crash, as though someone had hurled themselves against it.
“And I’m sorry I brought this to yer doorstep.” Heather sniffed, only just seeming to notice the blood running from her swelling nose down her mouth and chin. She swiped at it with a soiled-gloved hand, but only managed to smear it. “But when I heard ye was taking in whores like me, I thought ye might forgive what’s past between us.”
Another rattle shook the rafters of the giant sturdy house. “Return what’s mine!” screamed a harsh Irish voice from the other side. “That crafty trollop needs to face the consequences due a thieving whore!”
“Begone, sir!” Imogen called back. “Or I’ll be forced to send for the police.”
A bark of cruel male laughter from several men met her threat. “You’ll have to go through us to get to them, darlin’. And I don’t see that ending well for you.”
“Not a copper for miles,” another scoffed.
Imogen cringed as they called her bluff. Of all the days for something like this to happen. A riot of dockworkers had erupted in Southwark and threatened to spill over the bridge into Westminster. Morley and Argent had called Rathbone and O’Mara away. Violent deaths had already been reported, fires started, and all of Scotland Yard rushed to contain the chaos before the pavement of industry ran red with the blood of hundreds.
They had left not only Imogen unprotected, but also the rest of the city. If ever there was an opportune moment to commit a crime, it was today.
“His name’s Johnny O’Toole,” Heather said. “He’s been terrorizing Piccadilly, beating us girls when we don’t give him what he thinks he’s due. Bringing us rough men and taking the extra he charges for the deviant things they do to us. The bastard calls it protection.” She spat. “He found out that I put his new girl, Tess, on a train back to Brighton. She was twelve. She didn’t want this life. Not after what he did to her.”
“Is that why he broke your nose?” Imogen asked.
“Aye. And he meant to do worse had I not walloped him one with my shoe and fled.” She lifted her skirts to show Imogen a grimy foot with ripped stockings, and Cheever couldn’t contain his gasp of distress at the improper sight of her ankle.
Imogen handed Heather off to Gwen, who’d recently joined her in her charitable ventures, as she’d tired of working for the odious Dr. Fowler at St. Margaret’s. This hadn’t been the first time Imogen’s work had called for the care of a nurse, and with two more buildings already purchased, she’d begun to hire more staff.
“Take her upstairs to one of the back washrooms,” she said gently, then turned back to the door, summoning all the resolve and courage she possibly could.
“Don’t go out there!” Heather surged forward, flattening herself against the seam of the two solid grand doors.
“Open up, or we’ll break it down!” The warning burst against the entry right before another heavy blow tested the strength of the frame.
“I’m getting the hunting rifle,” Cheever threatened
“You think we don’t have a gun?” O’Toole volleyed back. “You’d better be a good shot, old man.”
“They have more weapons than just that. Knives, clubs, knuckles. Don’t ye have footmen?” Heather cast her gaze around for someone else. “Someone who can help?”
Imogen puffed out her cheeks on a beleaguered breath. “Usually … yes. But it’s Sunday. Most the staff has today as a half-day and, since it was quiet, I let them have it all off.” That had been before O’Mara and Rathbone had been called away. She dearly regretted the decision now. “The majority went to church with my mother and sister, I think, this afternoon. And then off to call on friends and family.”
Impeccable timing, she reprimanded herself, as per usual.
Bugger. What am I to do now? How could she keep everyone safe?
She peeled Heather from the door just as a shot rang out, then another, splintering through the wood and miraculously missing them.
“Everyone, upstairs,” she ordered over the screams, once again shoving Heather toward Gwen. “Now.”
The window next to the entry broke, glass erupting like sparks in the light of the gas lamps. Imogen screamed and covered her hair as some of the shards rained down on her.
As the women retreated up the grand staircase, Imogen fled to the left, toward the solarium and the doors to the back garden. She might not be able to run for the police, but she now knew that she happened to have one of the empire’s most dangerous men as a neighbor. She realized this would greatly help his case against her, but she saw no choice but to seek his protection.
“Cheever, go with them!” she cried as the old man puffed along next to her, his fine shoes sliding on the marble floors.
“If you think I’m leaving you to these brigands, my lady, you’re mad.”
There wasn’t a word in the world to describe her relief.
Until she heard the screams.
A second volley of gunshots had Imogen pressing herself against the hallway wall for whatever cover it could provide. She listened in frozen terror to wet and concussive sounds echoing from beyond the broken window.
No one breached it to invade her home, as was surely their purpose in breaking it.
She crept closer, glass crunching beneath her boots.
A masculine scream, cut abruptly short, preceded the shocking appearance of a body flying past the window next to the entry. Imogen could have been mistaken, but it appeared that his neck hung completely limp from his shoulders. As though his spine no longer held it aloft.