With the drapes drawn against the tempestuous night, the darkness was absolute. Imogen preferred it that way. She’d maneuvered these rooms in the dark for years.
Lord Anstruther’s even, wheezing breaths broke her heart. She inched forward, trembling more from careful strain now than her cold, sodden garments. All the while, prayers for his peace, for his comfort, flowed through her as she used his bedpost as a guide, then slid to the nightstand.
She was better at this than expected, she thought. Made nary a sound as she eased the drawer open and reached her fingertips inside, quickly finding the silk satchel and tracing the rigid outlines of several coins. Now only to lift it without making a—
“If you’re the angel of death come to take me, be quicker about it. One should think you’re on a schedule.” Anstruther’s voice, raspy with sleep, still conveyed his ever-present good humor.
Imogen froze and squeezed her eyes shut, her heart slamming into her throat, and then diving to her stomach.
A match struck and a wick hissed as it caught. In that moment, Imogen knew it was over. All was lost. Anstruther would ring the bell for the nurse, they’d call for Scotland Yard, and men with shackles would come for her. She knew this, because while her will screamed at her to run, her legs hadn’t the strength left to make it very far. She’d reached the limits of her capability.
“Nurse Pritchard? What’s this? What the devil are you doing? What in God’s name are you wearing?” His rapid-fire questions all pierced her as she wordlessly pulled her empty hand from the drawer and shut it with an audible click.
“I was after your coin, Lord Anstruther,” she admitted in a surprisingly even voice.
“Look at me, dear girl.” The earl’s order was quiet, but threaded with that absolute authority that belonged to those born to dictate.
Slowly, Imogen turned to him, every muscle of her features fighting to stay smooth through the quivering tension. She let out an uneven breath as she met his clear, kind eyes. “I’m desperate,” she said tightly, hating the tear that tickled its way down her face. “I’m stupid … and I’m sorry.”
“There’s blood on your dress, if you can call that a dress.” He slid his eyes away, obviously more scandalized at her state of dishabille than shocked at her admission. “Is it yours?”
It took her an absurd moment to consider if he inquired of her ownership of the dress or the blood, but decided to answer about the latter.
“No, my lord, the blood is not mine.”
He took a long moment to observe her, eyes snagging on her matted hair, her split lip, her sodden dress and bandaged hand.
“You may call the authorities, my lord.” She glanced down, unable to stand his regard. “I’ll not stop you.”
“Fetch that lap robe and cover yourself, Nurse Pritchard,” he directed instead. “You’re showing enough flesh to send my feeble heart into conniptions. I’m dying, not dead. Good Lord.”
Hurrying to comply, Imogen huddled into the soft, warm lap robe and clutched it to her.
“Now,” he continued. “I’ll stay my hand with the authorities if you pull that chair close and tell me why you were caught with your hand in my purse, whose blood is on your bodice, who struck you, and why you’re dressed like … well, like you’d charge a penny a dance.”
Perhaps it was because in all her life, she’d been acquainted with many men who’d call themselves gentlemen, but she’d never before met a truly gentle man. Someone who’d have her cover up rather than reveal herself. Who’d use a euphemism before calling her a whore. Surprised and humbled, she did exactly as he’d instructed.
Her story poured from her like a final confession. She told him of her mother and sister, of their two-room flat that smelled of fish and despair. She spoke of her father’s debt and her indentured servitude at the Bare Kitten. Recounting her dismissal from St. Margaret’s, her attack, and the probable dead body they were likely even now taking from the alley.
Anstruther listened without interruption. Only his mustache twitched as he made little tsking sounds of distress from time to time.
Imogen didn’t weep until she reached the part where she’d planned to steal from him. To take his money and meet Isobel on her way to school, slipping her the coin before she disappeared, hoping to find anonymity somewhere. Here the tears flowed freely. Tears of shame, of sorrow, and of helplessness.
He was quiet a moment after she’d finished her tale, and she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Imogen couldn’t say why, exactly, but she’d left Trenwyth out of her story. She said nothing about the night with him. About the connection they’d had before he returned an ill and changed man.
She knew that if she took that regret out to examine it, she’d disgrace herself past all repair.
“What time is it?” Lord Anstruther queried softly.
Imogen blinked up, dashing at her cheeks. “My lord?”
“It’s either very late or very early, which is it?” He gestured to the pocket watch on the bedside table and she handed to him.
“Very early,” he muttered, and then turned to capture her gaze with his. “You listen to me, Miss Pritchard, you have a choice of two kinds.”
Imogen swallowed, but remained silent.
“I will give you that bag with all the money it contains and send you on your way right now, but I warn you that you won’t get very far.”