Page 29 of Eliza and the Duke
He hadn’t realized that he’d stopped until Eliza’s voicebroke through his thoughts and her hand rested on his shoulder. She followed his gaze to the building and back again. There was no doubt in his mind that she knew what the building was. The wordworkhousewas carved above the door. Whatever mystique she had attributed to him must have been wiped away. He wasn’t the Duke or the boxing champion that Montague Club endorsed. He was Simon, a poor boy with no family who might as well have been born in that workhouse. It was his birthright and the only one he would ever have.
But she didn’t shirk from him. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his and when he walked she fell into step beside him. His feet found their purpose again, which was to get her as far away from this place as possible. He took them out of there as fast as he could. She kept pace beside him and he managed not to look at her again too closely. Simon could feel Brody’s grip and the grasp of that workhouse lessen about his throat with every step. He always breathed easier when he left.
At the first streetlamp outside of Whitechapel he took her hand and drew her beneath its light. “Are you all right?” he asked in the safety of its warm glow.
She smiled up at him and he was nearly overcome by the trust shining out of her eyes. Who was this woman? He expected fear and censure mixed with repulsion. Not this.
“Yes, obviously. You seem to think I’m made of paper and glass.”
He touched her cheek with the pad of his thumb. What had he been thinking? He should have turned her down when she demanded he bring her here. Someone in this girl’s life should keep her under lock and key. She felt delicate. Too soft and fragile for the likes of him.
She wasn’t, though, and that knowledge filled him with something powerful that he was afraid to examine. “Brodyisn’t a nice man. I’m sorry you had to see him. I shouldn’t have taken you there.”
“I’ve seen bad men before, unfortunately.” She cupped the back of his hand with her palm. His gaze was caught by the contrast of her soft hand against the roughness of his own. His were scarred by a lifetime of work and thievery and evil deeds. Hers were pristine. “In fact,” she continued, drawing his eyes back to her pretty face, “my father could likely give your Mr. Brody a run for his money.”
He did not need to know what she meant by that. He wanted to know, but it was none of his concern. One question would lead to others and where would it end? He gave a nod and took her hand, pulling her behind him as he continued in his headlong dash to get her far away from Whitechapel. The streetlamps came with more regularity, though it was so late the streets here were very nearly deserted. He looked for a hansom cab, but there wasn’t one to be found. The area was too residential.
As they walked, his mind churned over what she’d said. She had once told him that she didn’t have a father. He’d taken that to mean that her father had died. How could her father give Brody a run for his money? Was the man not dead? It didn’t matter. He did not need to know more about this woman who was an enigma to him. He didn’t need to understand her.
And yet, the moment they turned a corner and found themselves under a lamp hanging from a storefront, he couldn’t resist the inevitable question. She was fascinating to him. He turned to face her, not too close, but close enough that he could read her expression. “What do you mean by that?”
“By what?” It was a reasonable question. Many minutes had passed since they’d last spoken.
“About your father. I thought he was dead.”
She glanced at the store behind him and he followed suit. The door was closed. Solid black wood scuffed at the bottom from countless boots. Looping white letters identified it as a coffeehouse, though it wasn’t particularly boisterous at this time of night in this slightly more boring neighborhood.
“You want to go in?” he asked.
“Assuming that it’s a true coffeehouse and not a brothel?” She raised her eyebrows in question, and a memory of the night they met came back to him. Mainwaring visiting coffeehouses in Italy. Mainwaring was a bellend. He must be the most stupid man imaginable to go off doing that when he had this enchanting creature waiting for him.
“If we go in you’ll tell me about your father?” he asked.
She nodded. He opened the door and followed her inside.
Sixteen
Eliza had heard that womengenerally weren’t allowed in coffeehouses. That certainly seemed to hold true for this particular house. There was a small group of men in deep discussion at a back table and the man behind the counter. All of them looked up sharply when she and Simon entered. Simon guided her to a corner table near the front window and then went to get them two cups. He put two coins on the bar as he spoke to the man. Whatever he said must have set him at ease, because a few minutes later he poured two cups of coffee from a press machine and pushed them across the counter toward Simon.
“Coffee, milady.” Simon set her cup in front of her and took his seat.
She smiled up at him, catching a shimmer of amusement in his eye. Whatever effect the gin had had on her had worn off in the excitement of meeting Mr. Brody. She was glad for that because she didn’t want to forget a moment of this night with Simon. In the time since they’d left Whitechapel, he’d regainedsome of the carefree attitude he’d had at the music hall. She wondered if this is what he was like most of the time, when he wasn’t worried about gang leaders and brawls and whatever else seemed to constantly plague him.
Bringing the hot drink to her mouth, she blew gently and took a small sip of the bitter liquid. “Ugh.” She tried not to make a face but probably wasn’t very successful given the grin he gave her. “Is there no sugar?” she whispered.
“I fear we’re on thin ice with the proprietor as it is,” he said.
A quick glance at the counter confirmed the man still hadn’t recovered from her presence. He kept sending harsh glances their way.
Simon took a drink of his coffee to no ill effect, so she determined to persevere.
“Now, about your father.”
“I’ll tell you about him if you tell me about Mr. Brody.”
He shook his head, his gaze on the window and the deserted street beyond. “Believe me when I tell you that you don’t want to know any more about him than you have to.”
“But I do,” she insisted. When he glanced at her, she added, “To be fair, it’s you I want to know about. However, I sense that Mr. Brody factors into your past.”
