It was clear that wasn’t true, though. And there was something about this man’s voice that was almost…mesmerizing. Something rough and hard, but not unkind.
She looked across at him in the dimness of the carriage. He was cloaked in shadow, but she could still make out the fundamentals of his features. He had dark hair that was a touch too long, streaked with fine lines of gray, mussed like fingers had run through it recently. His own or someone else’s. He had an angular face with a salt-and-pepper beard. Not in fashion, perhaps, but it suited him. It made him all the more handsome and somewhat mysterious, as well.
His low brow furrowed as he withdrew his hand at last and his dark eyes speared her in place. This was not a man to be trifled with, that was immediately clear. He was confident and intense. He likely stole the air and the attention of any space he entered. Including the tight carriage they currently both inhabited.
More to the point, he had to know the command he wielded. He very likely used it to his advantage.
“I-I know your name,” she stammered as she fought to look and sound more composed than she felt. “Fitzhugh’s Club. My…husband was a member.”
His gaze flitted over her face, his lips thinned slightly. “You are married.”
“I was,” she whispered. “To Warren Huxley. Not that I expect you to recall him. Your club is quite popular. It rivals White’s, or so I’ve heard.”
There was a flicker over his face. Almost a smile, but not quite. The comparison pleased him, it seemed. Then he was serious again. “Huxley,” he said. “Third son of the Earl of Briarstone. He died last year.”
Her eyes widened. “You recall that in an instant? Without reference?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I make it my business to know all my members. And so you are Mrs. Huxley.”
“Imogen,” she said, for it seemed almost obscene to go by her married name when this man had found her in the alleyway of a brothel. “My name is Imogen.”
He nodded once and then looked toward the window again. “We are arriving at my home now. You’ll come in and we can discuss this further.”
She should have refused him. Should have asked him, once again, to simply allow her to go home. She wanted so desperately to pretend that what she’d experienced and seen tonight wasn’t real.
But how could she?
Even if he let her go, the image of that body down on the filthy ground was seared in her mind. And now that the shock of what had happened was wearing off, the heartbreak of it became sharper. It sank past her defenses, the ones meant to protect her and keep her running despite the devastation, and her whole body shuddered at the memory.
“Mrs. Huxley,” he said softly as the carriage stopped at last. He reached out as if he would touch her, and she almost wanted him to, just to know that he was real. That she was real. Just to have the comfort of physical contact, even from this stranger who felt dangerous but not sinister.
“I-I—” she stammered, uncertain what she wished to say next.
“Come inside,” he repeated, firm but gentle as he yanked his hand back and offered no comfort.
She nodded as the carriage door opened. He stepped out first, saying something to his driver that she couldn’t hear, and then he turned back. That same powerful hand extended out to help her and she caught it, clinging to him as she staggered down the little set of steps. He cupped her elbow, holding her steady as she swayed.
He was very tall. She hadn’t fully marked it in that terrifying moment when she careened into him. But he was at least a head taller than she was. She looked up and up, into those dark eyes. They bore down into her, almost like he could see into her very soul. A terrifying thought, and she took a long step away and turned her face so she was no longer pinned by his regard.
“Lead the way, Mr. Fitzhugh.”
If only her voice didn’t shake. If only her entire being didn’t shake.
He did as she requested in silence, leading her up a short staircase into the townhouse. The night had a damp chill to it that she hadn’t fully noticed until she moved into the warm, bright foyer. A butler was there, speaking to Fitzhugh already. She blushed as he glanced over his master’s shoulder at her. His gaze flitted over her from head to toe, then he looked away and nodded.
“It shall be done, sir,” he said, and stepped away, leaving them alone again.
Fitzhugh motioned her to follow, and she staggered after him down a long hallway. They entered a parlor with a black leather settee and matching chairs. A bright fire burned in the tall fireplace, and she found herself moving toward it and lowering her suddenly frigid fingers before the flames.
“Brandy?” he asked.
She jolted and looked back at him. He had already poured her a glass and was holding it out. So she took it, for what else could she do?
“Give me a moment,” he said softly. “Make yourself comfortable.”
He left her then, and she sank into the settee before the fire. She noticed now it had gold plated fish as feet and absently wondered how much those must have cost him. Comfortable, he had said. Dear God, how could she be that? Now or perhaps ever again?
Her brain dragged her backward, to earlier in the night. To looking down over the rusty metal railing to see that woman’s broken body. To the cruelty of her killers’ words as they spoke about her. To the horrible moments when Imogen had been forced to run for her own life. With every heavy step, she had believed, utterly and completely, that she would die in a bawdy house and be thrown into the river like trash.
Her hand was wet. She glanced down and saw that she was shaking now. Brandy had sloshed onto her thumb and the top of her hand. She set it down on the table beside the settee and sank her head into her hands.
The collapse happened swiftly as all that had transpired that night washed over her, on a hideous repeat. She shook as hot tears streamed down her face, bitter bile rising to her throat. It was only the sound of another throat clearing that jolted her from the hysteria. She jerked her face toward the door and found Fitzhugh standing there.
He looked uncomfortable, and she rose to her feet as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. “My apologies. It’s been a very long night,” she whispered.
He shook his head. “It’s understandable. I must ask you a question, though.”
She swallowed, trying to gather herself. “What is it?”
“Do they know your name?”
Her brow wrinkled as she stared at him. “My—my name?”
“Yes.” His frown deepened. “Did you give anyone at the Cat’s Companion your real name?”
“I’d given it at a few other brothels in the past,” she said. “So, yes, they…they know my name.”
He bent his head, and she thought he swore beneath his breath. Then he sighed. “Then you cannot go home. You’ll stay here.”
Her mouth dropped open as she stared at him “What? No, please!”
He moved into the room toward her, and she should have backed away, but how could she when he held her in place with one pointed look? “Mrs. Huxley, you have been shocked by your experience and are in no shape to have a discussion with me about what you saw tonight. I can see that now. But I cannot let you go home because if you saw what you think you saw—and judging how those men chased you, I have to believe you did—then they will hunt you. If they know your name, it will be too easy for them to do that at your own home. I might as well have abandoned you in the alley if I’m just going to push you back into their arms.”