Page 90 of Seducing the Knave

Chapter Twenty-five

For the next few days, whenever Max left the house, Elle continued to take frequent walks with Langworth. Each time venturing farther along the twisting lanes as she insisted on discovering all she could about the community surrounding her.

She also spent a great deal of her free time downstairs. Once she understood the movements of the household—Langworth and the guards, in particular—and how best to traverse through the converted warehouse, she had no trouble avoiding detection by anyone who might report her activities back to Max.

And she found that she quite enjoyed her time with the other women of the house. They were a unique and lively group and Elle quickly adapted to their blunt speech and more earthy manners. It was refreshing to spend time amongst women who didn’t bother to put on unnecessary airs or feign false modesties. It allowed her to more accurately assess her own social sensibilities, which had been ingrained in her from an early age, to determine what truly served her current situation.

Very few did. And it was shockingly easy to shed those that didn’t.

There was a liberation in being freer in her speech—in using words and phrases that would have been forbidden to her as a gentlewoman of polite society. She decided she rather liked employing curse words, when appropriate, to emphasize a thought or emotion. And as the women started to open up to her more—sharing their stories of violence and rape and desperation—she had to acknowledge the power in being able to name things what they were, to describe their trauma with words of blunt, unashamed, and unshaded truth. To call out the injustices in stark terms and force them to be viewed in all their awful ugliness. And to show the honest emotion that formed out of these experiences so that the pain could be soothed, the fear could be faced, and the anger could be embraced within the safe and supported company of those who understood.

It was both heartbreaking and inspiring to see how the women rallied for each other. How they held each other up or simply just held each other when nothing else would do. There was so much strength and beauty that shone through in spite of everything these women had endured. Elle felt intrinsically changed by it all.

In addition to learning more about the women of the house, Elle continued to discover more about Max.

She learned that throughout the rookeries of London, the Griffin was synonymous with safety and protection. He was well and widely known for being extremely ruthless and unpredictably dangerous—even amongst the most violent of criminals—but his wrath was only ever directed toward those who would abuse and exploit the more vulnerable members of their community.

Apparently, he ran a significant network that spiderwebbed across the city, providing resources and safe houses for women and children in need. According to the women, he had a near army of loyal men and women scattered throughout London keeping watch for injustices and threats. People he could call on day or night to accomplish whatever task he deemed necessary.

And yet...despite heading up such an impressive and noble organization, he remained staunchly solitary. He never allowed anyone to get too close. The women of his house seemed to know a great deal about what he did in St. Giles and the rookeries of the East End but very little about the man himself. The Griffin was a powerful figurehead who inspired intense fear or everlasting loyalty, depending on who you were.

But Max Owen was nothing but a mystery.

Now knowing what she did about him, Elle had an even more difficult time understanding why he insisted upon keeping such things concealed from her. It was unbelievably frustrating. And not a little bit heartbreaking.

As much as her long days while Max was gone had fallen into something of a routine, so had the hours she spent with him in the bedroom.

They bathed together each morning, and when he returned in the evening, they dined at the small table before settling on the sofa or in bed, where they took turns reading from one of the many books scattered about the place.

And each night, Elle had the luxury and pleasure of being in Max’s arms. Before they’d drift to sleep, warm and languid, she’d ask him to tell her about his life.

Sometimes he laughed off her stubborn curiosity. Other times, he’d growl in frustration though the contention between them wouldn’t last long as raised tempers tended to slide rather easily into heated passions. Once, however, he got annoyed enough to rise from the bed and leave the room for nearly fifteen minutes before returning to her side. Despite the tension in his jaw, he’d still pulled her into the curve of her his body to hold her tight.

Then, in low muttered words, he asked, “Why do ye want to know so bad?”

Elle sighed and whispered, “I just want to understand a little of what made you the man you are.”

“It ain’t pretty.”

“I don’t expect it to be.”

He was quiet for several long breaths, then his voice began to flow through the night in a heavy, halting whisper.

“Me mum was a Whitechapel prostitute. Very young, as I understand it, and so ill and weakened from a lack of proper food and warmth that she barely lived through me birth.” He paused and his arms tightened before he continued. “The records at the orphanage said she died of disease when I’s still a wailing infant, but I later learned from a woman who’d known her well that she’d been beaten to death by some fucking bastard who didn’t want to pay fer her services.”

Elle sucked in a harsh breath, hurting for the young woman who’d lost her life and for the pain she heard in Max’s voice though it was mired in anger. But before she could offer even a murmur of sympathy, he continued.

“The orphanages were shite. The babes were mostly neglected or were handed off to the older children to manage. The rest were treated little better than prisoners, as if they somehow chose to be burdens to arseholes with no compassion.”

With her heart aching, she noticed how he said they instead of we, as though he had to claim a separation from his experiences as a young orphan in order to talk about them.

“I left as soon as I was big enough to climb over the wall.”

“How old were you?”

“Around eleven or so. A mate and I ran together, joined a gang of pickpockets and thieves. It wasn’t easy, but I learned to take care of meself and look out fer me mates and I finally got a taste of how fucking good it felt to take control of me own bloody life. But it wasn’t enough.” His voice roughened. Hardened. “It was never fucking enough.”

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