Page 14 of An Extraordinary Lord

“Nothing,ifyou’re trying to resemble a priest.” She cast a dubious eye over him, taking in the solid black that allowed him to fade into the night but wouldn’t do at all for where she planned on taking him. “Believe me when I tell you that the men I’m going to introduce you to would as likely shoot you dead for being a priest as a barrister.”

“Well then,” he drawled. “Let’s definitely find new clothes.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll make you blend in.” She patted his shoulder as she walked past him toward the door and flashed the taunting smile of a crocodile. Right before it snapped its jaws on its prey. “Trust me.”

Four

Merritt glanced up at the derelict warehouse in Saffron Hill that Veronica had brought him to. Three stories tall, the brick and stone building had been exposed to the soot of London coal fires for so long that its façade was dulled beneath a layer of permanent gray. It sat back from the street just far enough to reveal the old loading ramps where wagons had once waited to move goods, its wide loading bay doors now chained and padlocked. Tall, mostly broken windows fronted the building, and splintered boards that had been nailed to the main door to bar unwanted trespassers had been pried off and tossed aside.

“Where the hell have you brought me?” he muttered and readjusted on his shoulder the sacks of apples, oranges, and root vegetables she’d made him purchase at the market.

“Exactly.” Veronica started forward into the building. She unbuttoned the greatcoat he’d given her to wear, letting it fall open now that there was no reason to hide her clothes. “Hell.”

With a grimace, he followed after her through the doors and into another world.

Inside, the warehouse had been scrubbed clean and whitewashed. The sunlight that slanted down from the brief parting of clouds and through the rows of windows brightly lit the place. The open floors that had once been used as storage space for barrels and crates had been broken up into room-like spaces by sheets of old sailcloth hanging from ropes strung between the building’s giant supporting posts. A breeze blew through the missing window glass, and the sheets billowed into motion like a marching army of white ghosts. A strong gust blew the sailcloth up far enough to reveal pallet beds laid out upon the old plank floor, pairs of shoes and boots…a doll.

He caught up with her and stopped her with a touch to her elbow from behind. “People live here?”

“Ilive here.” She didn’t attempt to hide her indignation at his thoughtless question.

Damnation.He’d assumed she was bringing him to nothing more than a warehouse for stolen goods or a storefront for thieves and criminals. He hadn’t expected this.

His chest clenched at this glimpse of life in a rookery, and one of the worst in London, too. He’d often prowled its streets during his nighttime patrols, knew the struggles of the people who had no place else to call home. Yet seeing it in broad daylight and being forced to acknowledge the children and elderly who lived here was a completely different experience.

Once more, frustration ate at him that he couldn’t do more to help. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.” She shot him a reproachful glance, then slumped her shoulders as she acquiesced. “But you’re not wrong. I wouldn’t wish this existence on my worst enemy.”

She turned away from him then and walked on, and wordlessly, he followed her deeper into the warehouse.

“We call this place the Court of Miracles, after the slum in Paris,” she told him as she stopped and reached to take the sacks he carried. She set them on the floor at their feet. “There, the name came from all the beggars who would pretend to use braces and crutches to make people feel sorry enough for them to give them money when they begged. When they returned home at the end of the day, they’d put down their crutches and walk.” She drawled mockingly as she opened the burlap sacks, “Miraculously healed.”

“Why do you use the same name here, then?” He hadn’t seen evidence of that kind of begging ruse being perpetrated here. “What miracles does this place claim?”

She answered quietly, not looking at him, “The simple miracle that any of us have found our way to the safety of this place.”

She cupped her hand to her mouth and sent up a call.

People emerged from behind the sailcloth walls around them; others hurried down the wide steps from the floors above. Old men, women of all ages, children…all of them in dirty clothing that was haphazardly mended, some in stocking feet, some truly missing arms and legs. The children, especially, crowded around Veronica, with the smallest urged on by the elderly. She reached into the sack of oranges, and beaming a smile, she handed them out to the children one at a time as each came forward and mumbled their thanks.

She gestured for one of the old men to hand out the apples for her. Then she called one of the women to her and gave her the sack of root vegetables. “Dorothy, make a big pot of stew out of these for dinner for the Court.” She slipped the woman a sovereign coin and lowered her voice, but Merritt overheard. “Take this to the market and buy as much meat and bread as you can to add to the stew, all right?”

With her eyes glistening with gratitude, the woman nodded and carried away the sack toward what Merritt assumed was the building’s makeshift kitchen somewhere at the back of the lot.

He stared at Veronica as she continued to hand out the fruit, struck by her sympathy and kindness. It wasn’t only a pretense for him either, as none of the people seemed surprised by the act, which meant she distributed food like this regularly.

Grudgingly, he was beginning to think perhaps Clayton might be right about her. Not about her innocence—he’d yet to see anything that contradicted what he knew about that—but about her good character. He knew a lot of good people who had been forced into breaking the law. Perhaps she was one.

Yet he was still a long way from trusting her.

A boy who couldn’t have been more than three or four was urged forward by his mother. “Go on,” the woman ordered. “Go thank Miss Roni.”

His round face turned red as he shyly mumbled, “Thank you, Miss, for the new coat.”

Veronica knelt down in front of him to bring her eyes to his level. She gave him a bright smile as she fussed with the lapels of the too-large wool coat that draped over his small frame like a tent. “You are very welcome, William.”

“And for the boots and gloves, too,” his mother reminded him.