I Saved A Dying Lord From The Gutter — His Ruthless Son Kidnapped Me For It
Part 1
Rain in the slums didn’t wash away the filth, it just made it slippery.
I only wanted a dry corner to eat a stolen heel of bread.
Instead, I found him.
A heap of fine velvet and failing lungs choking on the cobblestones.
Most people in my neighborhood would have slid his purse from his pocket and left him to the rats.
I reached for the heavy leather purse, too.
The old man grabbed my wrist.
His eyes were clear and utterly terrified.
That single moment of weakness cost me everything.
Cold seeped through the frayed soles of my boots.
The fog rolling off the river tasted of raw sewage and cheap gin.
I kept my head down.
My chin remained tucked into the scratchy wool of a shawl I hadn’t washed in months.
My foot struck something soft in the narrow passage of my favorite alley.
I froze.
It was a man lying on his side against the brick wall.
He was half submerged in the running gutter.
I let out a slow exhale and nudged his leg with my boot.
He didn’t twitch.
I knelt down in the damp muck.
My hands moved expertly over his coat.
The velvet was heavy, plush, and completely unmarred by the usual grime of the city.
Beneath the stench of the alley, I caught a whiff of lavender soap and fine tobacco.
A heavy lump rested in his inner pocket.
With whatever was in that purse, I could buy a room with a lock.
I gripped the leather pouch.
A hand clamped down on my wrist with surprising strength.
I gasped.
The old man had rolled onto his back.
His pale blue eyes fixed on me with absolute terror.
His breathing was a horrific, rattling wheeze that seemed to tear at his throat.
I yanked my wrist free and scrambled back against the opposite wall.
I stared at the purse halfway out of his pocket.
His eyes rolled back.
His jaw went slack.
A violent, agonizing cough shook his entire fragile frame.
I swore loudly at the wet bricks.
I hated the soft part of my brain that remembered my grandfather dying on a straw mattress.
Shoving my bread into my pocket, I grabbed the old man by the lapels of his ruined coat.
He weighed a ton.
I gritted my teeth and dragged him toward my alcove.
His heavy leather boots scraped against the cobblestones.
I shoved him through the gap in the iron grate.
I collapsed beside him on the filthy blankets.
He was burning up with a fever.
I spent the night coaxing a tiny fire with my last three lumps of coal.
I dipped a torn strip of my skirt into heated water and pressed it to his forehead.
He thrashed around, muttering deliriously about hounds and someone ruining everything.
Dawn broke with a bruised gray light filtering through the grate.
The old man opened his eyes.
The glassy terror was gone.
He took in my soot-stained face and the ragged shawl.
He tried to sit up but collapsed back with a sharp intake of breath.
I tossed his heavy leather purse onto his chest.
I told him I had taken two shillings for the coal and the water.
He actually managed a faint smile.
He introduced himself as Robert Harrington.
He wrote a note on a scrap of paper with a silver pencil.
He handed it to me along with a gold sovereign.
He commanded me to give it to a runner and send it to the Duke of Blackwood.
Two hours later, the footsteps in the alley were heavy and deliberate.
A man rounded the corner wearing a sharply tailored black wool greatcoat and pristine boots.
He carried himself like a predator walking through a pen of sleeping sheep.
His slate-gray eyes locked onto me.
He asked for his father with a voice that was low and dangerously quiet.
I pointed toward the grate.
Craig Harrington didn’t crouch.
He kicked the iron grate open with the toe of his boot.
He looked down at his father in the filth.
He pulled out a crisp banknote and held it out to me.
The sneer on his face made my stomach churn.
He expected me to grovel.
I stepped closer to him and refused his money.
I told him we were square and ordered him out of my alley.
Craig stared at me in genuine shock.
He dropped the pristine note into a muddy puddle.
His footmen dragged his father out of the alcove.
Craig turned his back on me without a second glance.
Hunger forced my hand three days later.
I pawned the gold sovereign for a fraction of its worth.
I bought a hot mutton pie from a street vendor.
I only managed three bites before two massive men grabbed me.
They shoved a foul-smelling rag into my mouth.
They tossed me into a black carriage like a sack of coal.
The iron-rimmed wheels clattered furiously over the stones.
I lunged for the door handle.
Craig uncrossed his long legs in the gloom.
He looked entirely out of place in the dark cabin.
His tailoring was impeccable.
He warned me that his men would tie me to the rear axle if I screamed.
I pressed my back against the door.
My heart was beating so fast it bruised my ribs.
He demanded the key.
I stared at him in genuine bewilderment.
He pinched the bridge of his nose like he was dealing with a slow child.
He explained the key unlocked a ledger filled with dangerous secrets.
I realized he saw me as nothing more than a common opportunist.
I told him everyone in the slums was a thief, but I hadn’t taken his key.
He promised me a slow death in New Gate Prison.
A cold sweat broke out on my forehead.
I knew exactly what happened to young women in that place.
My defiance bled out into raw desperation.
I begged him to search me.
He watched the tremor in my hands and the tears shining in my eyes.
For a fraction of a second, something shifted in his cold expression.
They brought me to his massive estate.
Servants in stark black and white livery flattened themselves against the walls as we passed.
No one looked at me.
They hauled me down a long corridor.
I stumbled onto a thick woven Persian rug.
Craig commanded his men to leave us.
The heavy double doors clicked shut with terrifying finality.
Robert looked worse than he had in the alley.
His face was the color of old parchment.
Craig slowly removed his leather gloves.
He dropped them onto the desk with a soft thud.
He told his father he was retrieving his stolen property.
Robert insisted his mind was perfectly clear and he had simply lost the key.
Craig turned slowly to face me.
His slate eyes swept over my dirt-stained skirt and tangled hair.
He called me filth and demanded I leave.
I wanted to run out of that pristine cage.
I wanted to scream that I would rather starve than stay.
But Robert spoke up again.
He declared I had grit and didn’t cower.
He officially hired me to spite his son.
Craig stiffened with pure outrage.
I looked at Craig’s furious expression and felt a dark seed of defiance take root.
I accepted the position.
Craig leaned down until his lips were inches from my ear.
He promised to handle me himself if I stole a single spoon.
I stood in the center of the Duke’s study, a street rat wearing rags, and I had just declared war on the most dangerous man in the city.
