Lucia’s mind stilled, and her heart faltered, then skipped.
“Thought you might need a hand, old boy.”
But it couldn’t . . .
She opened her eyes and, lowering her arms, saw
Alex gripping one of the chairs. At his feet lay Raspy, a pool of blood spreading on the floor and soiling Alex’s boots.
She whipped her head toward the sound of his voice, was rewarded with a flash of blinding pain, but when she could focus again, she saw Lord Alfred Dewhurst standing at the door in—what else?—full evening dress.
“How?”
Strong arms gripped her, and Alex was lifting her to her feet. “Are you hurt?”
She stared at him, then looked back at Dewhurst. She blinked. Her thoughts diverged in a thousand directions. Why wasn’t Alex dead? Where had Dewhurst come from? Had he been on the ship all along?
“Sweetheart,” Alex said, holding her tighter. “Are you all right?”
There was blood on Alex’s cheek where he’d been cut in the fight with Patch, and she longed to wipe it away, but her hands were still tied. “Alex?” she finally croaked.
He gave her a relieved look. “Are you hurt?” His hands roved over her arms, her shoulders, until he cupped her face. Then she was in his arms, and he was holding her tightly, stroking her hair, and whispering to her. A moment later, the pain in her arms lessened as they were freed, and she was sitting in one of the chairs. Through her haze, she heard Alex talking to Dewhurst. It seemed a long time later that she and Alex were alone, and Alex was kneeling in front of her, his gray eyes searching her face. He was asking her something . . . walking? Could she walk? Hurry. Something about hurrying.
She reached out and put her leaden arms around him. He was alive. He was whole. She could feel him, warm and solid, against her. He hoisted her into his arms, and she buried her face in his neck, the familiar smell of him enveloping her.
She closed her eyes, drifting in a swirl of muted sounds and flashing images. One moment they were in the warehouse, and she was in Alex’s arms. The next, he was pulling her off a horse behind a small white house.
Alex spoke to a stable boy in French, and to Lucia’s dismay the boy seemed to know him well. Alex took her hand but instead of taking the path to the main entrance, he led her toward the servants’ entrance and rapped loudly on the shabby white door. There was movement within, and a large, dark-skinned woman pulled the door wide.
“Mon Dieu!” She put a hand to her heart. “Monsieur Homais. Come in. Come in. Hurry.”
Lucia vaguely remembered that Alex used another name here, but she couldn’t remember what it was. They were ushered into a small kitchen as the woman continued to babble in French. Lucia understood some of it, but the woman’s accent was vastly different from the elevated French of her tutors.
Alex answered the woman readily enough, motioning to the door of the kitchen. The woman made a few additional exclamations and rushed into the main part of the house.
Lucia stared after her, then turned to view her surroundings. “Where are we?”
“Madame Loinger’s. The brothel.”
So this was the kitchen of a brothel. She frowned. It didn’t look very different from any other kitchen. It was hot and cramped, and food was simmering on the stove.
Lucia heard a burst of laughter from outside the door and jumped. Alex tightened his grip on her hand. “It’s nothing. Just customers.”
Customers. Lucia stared at the door harder. Women of ill repute were just on the other side. She strained to hear but could catch only the murmur of voices and an occasional tinkle of laughter. The kitchen door opened, bringing in the scent of cigar smoke and cheap perfume.
Through the smoky haze emerged a woman with bright red hair, bright red lips, and a red dress to match. Lucia balked. The woman’s gown was lowcut and fashionable, but she was holding a cigar between two fingers of one hand. In the other dangled a crystal glass with brown liquid.
“Christophe!” she exclaimed, coming forward and embracing Alex warmly. She kissed both his cheeks, then his lips, then his cheeks again. Lucia’s jaw clenched, not that he noticed. Alex had forgotten her and was embracing the redhead warmly. After another round of kisses, Lucia cleared her throat, and the woman turned her brown eyes, rimmed with kohl, on her.
“And who is this?” she asked Alex, waving a hand at Lucia. “No. We cannot talk here. Come upstairs.”
She took Alex’s arm and led him from the kitchen. He grabbed Lucia’s hand, and she was dragged along. She glared at him, but he was talking to the woman. The woman who still had her hand on his arm.
They followed the redhead to the second floor, and at the top of the landing, she directed them down a hallway wallpapered with a ghastly red and gold print. There were rooms on either side. The doors were closed, but the sounds coming from inside made Lucia blush. She lowered her head and stared pointedly at the garish carpet.
Finally the woman opened a door at the end of the corridor, and Lucia saw immediately that it was a bedroom. A chaise upholstered in red fabric took up one side and a large bed with a red covering dominated the other. Near the door was a small wardrobe, and there was a nightstand next to the bed. The wallpaper was the same red and gold as the hallway and—Lucia stumbled—huge paintings of nude women littered the walls.
She snapped her eyes to the floor again. Alex chuckled and led her to the chaise. “Sit down, sweetheart.”
