Much love to my beta, Kim, for helping me with the Cockney in this chapter, and for putting up with my slackassness, and for being my awesome grammar fairy. And for making me laugh by unintentionally waging war on my email inbox for several days. :D
And a huge thank you to all of you awesome readers who have reviewed, messaged me, and/or favorited my story. You have been wonderfully patient while I packed up my life, moved 300 miles, and then turned around and moved right back a few months later. My mind has been horribly disorganized and uncreative. I'm not making any promises, of course. I don't make promises I can't keep. But I will try to keep a good pace going with this story and, for God's sake, give Samson and Lena a little time together soon.
Also, and I'll have you know I squealed like a little girl when I found this, if you want to know how I picture Samson in my mind and story, Google "Peter Steele." Oh, man. I get all fangirly. Just add the scars to him in your head. And undress him. Seriously, that picture of him shirtless? Mmmf.
Anyway, I hope y'all enjoy a chapter full of plotty things that are sadly lacking in romance. I'll get to it as soon as I can.
HELENA
"It's going to rain," Abby said with grave certainty as she stared up at the dark, heavy clouds that blanketed the sky.
Lena handed the last of their packages to Jacques, one of her footmen, so that he could load them into the carriage. Then she turned to her cousin.
"It's London," she said with a shrug. She knew what was coming. Abby never missed an opportunity to be dramatic.
"Two weeks," Abby stated. "Two weeks you've kept me locked in that house like a prisoner, and the one day you bring me outside, it's going to rain."
"I did not keep you locked in my house, Abigail," Lena replied with a laugh. She linked her arm in Abby's and pulled her along to the next block of shops. Jacques followed several steps behind them, and it comforted Lena to know that he was nearby. He was one of Margot's favorites, which was as much a curse as it was a blessing, considering Margot's penchant for terrorizing the household, and as such, had quickly become one of Lena's favorites as well. Margot seemed to have an eye for good men. Lena couldn't help but hope that this skill would not deteriorate by the time Margot was of marriageable age.
"Well, perhaps not locked, but as good as. England has made you cruel, Helena."
Lena grinned. It had been two weeks since she had last set foot outside of her house. It had taken her two weeks of careful discipline before she had trusted herself enough to reenter the beau monde. A time during which Abby had nearly gone insane from boredom.
At Lena's request, Abby and Margot now spent most of their time trying to infuriate her. Deliberately. Even Greg had pitched in a few times. All so that Lena could learn how to control her temper, which had apparently become quite volatile.
Or perhaps it had always been volatile, and she'd just never known it.
"Perhaps, but England has also made me generous to my cousin, who has not had a new dress in ages, and who has not seen a fashion plate fresh off the press since time immemorial."
Abby's dark look disappeared, replaced by a cheeky grin.
"Mais, oui. The Frenchwoman in me is so ashamed." She paused, and then her eyes widened slightly. Lena followed her gaze to find the Earl of Montford striding towards them. "Qui est-ce, Lena?" Her voice lost all traces of amusement.
"That is Jasper, the Earl of Montford. A friend of Greg's, I believe, though I have only met him once."
Abby's grip tightened on Lena's arm. "Il est tres beau."
Lena laughed. Monty came to a stop in front of them and doffed his hat. "Lady Dubois, it is a pleasure." His warm, friendly gaze never wavered from Lena's. She gave him credit for that.
"Good morning, my lord. I do not believe you have met my cousin, Miss Abigail De Lacey." She turned to Abby, who seemed to be trying very hard not to stare at the earl. "Abby, may I present the Earl of Montford."
Monty's attention turned and focused directly on Abby, and for a moment the look on his face was so intense Lena felt the urge to step back. Then his eyes lit up, his charming smile returned, and he took Abby's gloved hand and lifted it to his lips.
"Please, call me Jasper," the earl said, his voice warm.
Lena raised an eyebrow. Then she smiled. "Abby, I do believe I've changed my mind about that bonnet I saw in Rivette's. I'll go get it. You stay right here. I'll be back in a moment."
Abby didn't respond. Monty nodded to her and sent her a sly smile.
Lena shot Jacques a pointed look, and he nodded as well. He would remain with the couple, as they required some form of supervision, while she walked the short distance back to the hat shop alone.
She hadn't made it thirty paces before she heard a sound that stopped her short. She wasn't sure what it was, but months of listening for the smallest hints of her companion's presence had sharpened her hearing exponentially. And this sound, whatever it was, made her skin crawl.
She backed up a few steps, and glanced down a side street. Merchants lined the walls selling cheap trinkets and pies. Lena started down the street, oblivious to the vendors who called out to her, hawking their wares. Her hands had balled into fists at her sides, but she did not notice. She could feel a dark, tight feeling in the pit of her stomach, and it refused to ease.
She walked faster, following her ears as much as her instinct, ignoring the eyes of strangers, ignoring the catcalls and the increasingly disreputable look of the streets she traversed. It was only a few turns from Bankton Street, where she had left Abby and the earl, but the streets had instantly grown narrower and dirtier. Pools of filthy water lined uneven cobblestones, and the buildings grew dark, stained by centuries of mold and mildew.
And then she turned into an alley, barely the width of her outstretched hands, and she found the source of the noise that had brought her running like a siren's call.
Three boys were gathered at the end of the alley, talking quietly amongst themselves. They were not terribly dirty, but their clothes showed wear and their shoes had holes.
But their status was of no interest to Lena.
Because they were crouched around something.
And that something was whimpering.
She walked towards them, and it struck her as odd that they did not notice her presence until she was nearly upon them. She cleared her throat. As one, they leapt to their feet and turned to face her, eyes wide and guilty.
"What are you doing?" Lena asked. She barely recognized her own voice. It was low, toneless, and threatening.
All three of them remained silent. Lena crouched down in front of them like she did when she was explaining something important to Margot. She looked each of them in the eye.
"Answer me," she commanded in that flat, hard voice.
"Tis a mongrel, lady," one of the boys said suddenly, his voice loud and defensive and almost incomprehensibly Cockney. He was the oldest of the three. Lena turned to him, fixed her gaze on him, and he shrank back. "Tis jus' a mongrel. It were eatin' a rat, an' it smelt Mickey's pie, an' it came affer us, it did!" He gestured to the youngest of the three, holding the remains of a small pie that had probably been a very special treat at one point. The boy looked about to cry.
Lena stood, oblivious to the stains on her gown, and motioned for the boys to step aside.
They hesitated at first, but then slowly each filed around to the side.
Lena's heart twisted with pain at the sight before her. Curled up in a ball, pressed tight inside the remains of a small wooden box, was a small dog. Its short, dark fur was matted and greasy. She could see the outline of its spine along its back.
Lena dropped to her knees. "Oh, vous pouvre, je suis tres, tres désolé." I'm so sorry.
She reached out and touched the dog gently on its paw, and it lifted its head wearily to stare at her. It bared its teeth, but did not seem to have the energy to do more than that. Running from three angry boys had taken a great toll on a creature that was starving to death. But other than malnutrition, the dog seemed unharmed.
Lena reached down and picked the dog up out of the wooden box. It did not fight, it simply curled up in her arms. It was about the size of a young foxhound, with stockier limbs, but it was terribly light for its size.
She turned around and found the boys still standing there, watching her in silence.
"Did you kick him?" Lena asked softly.
The youngest shook his head, staring mournfully at the remains of his food "I jus' wanted me pie back is all."
"You call 'er 'lady,' Mickey, as what she is," the oldest said quickly. " 'E ran off wif the pie an' we just chased him down here to get it back."
"You didn't harm him at all?" Something in her voice made all three of them flinch.
"I just smacked him once, across his nose, so he'd let go, is all. An' Jack poked at him wif a stick so's he wouldn't bite at us." He indicated the middle child, who stared back at Lena with a dark frown on his face.
"That thing stole my brover's pie, it did," the young Jack said stubbornly. "Mickey's never 'ad a beef pie before."
The dog was trembling in her arms. It needed warmth and food and rest. And quickly.
Lena crouched down again, slowly so as not to alarm her new charge, and glanced down at her arm.
"You see my coin purse, there?" she asked the eldest, showing him the small blue purse tied to her wrist. "I want you to take it. Untie the ribbon for me so I won't have to move him."
All three boys stared at her like she'd grown another head. "Are you daft, lady?" the eldest demanded. "I ain't takin' yer purse."
"You will do exactly as I say." Every word was pure British aristocrat. "Take my purse. It has a handkerchief, three shillings and some cards with my name on them inside." She pinned the eldest with her gaze until he reached out and tentatively untied the white ribbon. The purse dropped into his hand and he clutched it to his chest, eyeing her suspiciously. "I want you to buy your brother a new beef pie, and I want you to promise me that you will never harm an animal that is smaller and hungrier than you, ever again. Do you understand?"
"Lady, yer daft," Jack, the middle child, said in a wistful voice. Three shillings was a lot to three boys who couldn't afford beef pies or shoes without holes in them.
Lena nodded. "Probably. But I think that three angry boys could have very easily maimed or killed a small, starving dog, and you did not. Kindness like that should be rewarded. Don't you think?"
The eldest two boys nodded. The youngest, Mickey, smiled. "I get anuver beef pie, Lady?"
Lena nodded. "You do. But first, I would appreciate it if you gentlemen could help me find my way back to Bankton Street."
And so, with three young boys as escorts, Lena walked quickly back to Bankton, just as it started to rain. People stared at her. She ignored them. The three boys walked proudly, and more quietly than she would have expected, and when they reached Bankton Street, they stood to the side to let her pass. She smiled at them. "You are true gentlemen."
"What's yer name, Lady?" the eldest boy asked.
"You can call me Lena," she said, and she dipped her head to them. In unison, all three boys bowed at their waists, then turned around and ran off. They were quickly lost in the crowd. Lena turned and looked up the street. She saw Abby and Monty walking towards her, talking and laughing and completely absorbed in one another.
Jacques appeared at Lena's side. "The carriage is here, my lady," he said quickly. "Shall I take the dog for you?"
"No, Jacques, I can hold him." Jacques nodded and turned to open the carriage door. People were beginning to stop what they were doing and stare at the highborn young woman who sported dark stains all over her fine muslin dress. Lena could not give less of a damn. When Abby and Monty reached her, they did not bat an eye at her state of disarray. In unison, they flanked her, one on each side, and helped her up into the carriage as gently as possible to avoid jostling the dog. Lena settled in her seat with the dignity of the Queen. Abby joined her, and Monty hopped into the carriage and took the seat across from them. The door closed, and there was silence.
For the first time in what seemed like hours, Lena's heartbeat slowed from its rapidfire pace. She took a deep breath.
"I must say, Lady Helena, you are anything but boring," Monty said with a grin. Lena smiled.
"Is that a dog, Lena?" Abby asked softly, reaching over to gently touch the matted ball of dark fur in Lena's arms. Her expression was full of compassion and concern. She, like Lena, had a soft spot for animals.
"I believe so," Lena replied with a grin. "Perhaps a foxhound, but I cannot be sure."
Monty leaned over to get a closer look. At that moment, the dog lifted its head and fixed him with an unflinching stare. Monty leaned back again. "I'm afraid you are incorrect, Lady Helena. That is no foxhound."
Lena tilted her head at Monty. "No?"
Monty laughed. "Oh, no. What you've got there is a very young mastiff. They're used for bear-baiting. Or they were, before baiting was banned by the King a few weeks ago."
Abby frowned. "He cannot possible be young, look at the size of him."
Lena looked down at the little creature in her arms. As if he sensed her gaze, the puppy lifted his head and, without hesitation, licked her nose. She giggled. "I don't care what he is," she said quietly. "I am completely in love with him."
GREGOIRE
The Dubois household was in an uproar.
Well, no, that wasn't quite true.
The Dubois household was in more of an uproar than usual.
Gregoire heaved a long-suffering sigh as the sound of female laughter floated down the hallway and into the library, through closed doors. He had risen at dawn, and had so far managed to avoid being hunted down by one of his female relatives and dragged off to Hyde Park or a luncheon or a musical or some other form of civilized torment. And he damn well intended to keep it that way.
Ever since Abigail had arrived, and Lena had... changed... the entire household had come alive with energy and excitement. Lena practically hummed with it. It was hard to avoid, and exhausting for the Dubois men. They were always doing something. Especially Lena. After a few weeks of living like a recluse, she had thrown herself back into the beau monde with determined fervor. It was like she was deliberately keeping herself busy at all times, going on walks, going shopping, visiting museums and riding in the park. She never stood still.
And then there was Zeus. He followed her everywhere, her big, silent, intimidating shadow.
Certainly, there was nothing wrong with having a dog. But normal people had normal-sized dogs. Pugs. Poodles. Dogs that could not be confused with small horses.
Lena was not a normal person. When she got a dog she got a brindle mastiff that already weighed thirty pounds more than it had when she first brought it home, who ate his weight in meat every day and who was already bigger than an adult foxhound.
Oh, but she loved that dog. Abby and Margot were completely smitten as well. In fact, most of the household, with a few exceptions, absolutely doted on the puppy. The Dubois women's laughter would echo throughout the house, followed by Zeus's deep, playful bark. Balls would go skidding across polished wooden floors, followed closely by a skidding, scrabbling mastiff. The housekeeper, Maria, had cursed loudly and violently in Italian when she had first seen the scratch marks.
Greg shook his head and swirled his brandy around in its glass. He had found that it was better not to think about Helena too much. She was even more of a mystery to him than the rest of her species. In less than a fortnight, she had somehow managed to completely alter her personality. She had gone from being soft-spoken, tranquil and demure to being... well, something else entirely. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing; it was just highly unsettling.
She laughed, now. That was the thing that struck him the hardest. The first time she'd laughed, a few weeks ago at dinner, he had felt it like a punch to his sternum, like someone had knocked all the air out of his lungs. Her eyes had sparkled and brightened, and the sound of it had rolled over him like gentle waves. And for some odd and blasted reason, he'd felt tears stinging his eyes.
Him. Of all people.
All he had been able to think was, God, she hasn't laughed like that since she was a child.
Greg shook his head again and lifted the glass to his lips, downing the last of his brandy in one gulp. He was just bored. He was going insane because he had nothing to do, nothing with which to occupy his mind. He was getting sentimental and emotional and over-analyzing everything.
He needed a hobby.
A sharp knock sounded on the library door. Greg closed his eyes.
"Please God, anything but shopping," he muttered as the doors swung open. Heavy footsteps, and the sounds of a quiet but furious struggle.
Greg opened his eyes to find Jasper, Earl of Montford, standing before him, holding a younger version of himself in a death grip. Both of them sported torn shirts and a variety of cuts and bruises.
"Monty," Greg said with a nod, and then fixed his gaze on Jasper's younger half-brother. "Edison."
"Top of the morning, Greg," Monty said in an easy tone. He released Edison and dropped into one of the soft leather armchairs near the fire. Edison stood by the door, edging towards it. "Don't even think about it, Ed. After the trouble you've put me through, I will not hesitate to truss you up like so much cattle."
Edison went still, but his eyes remained shifty.
"I wouldn't, if I were you," Greg stated. Then he heaved himself up out of his chair and walked over to the liquor cabinet to grab two more crystal glasses. "I hope you used the servants' entrance."
Monty grinned. "Of course we did. I even managed not to cross paths with the women. And that's no simple feat. This house is crawling with them, you know."
"Believe me. I know."
"What in the bloody hell are we doing here, Jasper?" Edison demanded from the doorway. Monty sighed, and accepted the glass Greg offered him with a nod of thanks. He downed it in one gulp.
"We're here because Gregoire Dubois is the only thing right now that's standing between you and total exile from polite society, a challenge at dawn, and probably a painful, miserable, and dishonorable death," Monty replied, his voice slightly hoarse from the shot of brandy.
Greg met Edison's eyes as he sat back down in his chair. He arched one blonde eyebrow, the signature Dubois look; expectant, slightly haughty, with a hint of amused. "What in heaven's name did you do, Edison?"
Edison's pale cheeks flushed in embarrassment. He looked away from Greg. Monty answered for him.
"He chased the wrong skirt."
"That so?"
Monty stood up and wandered back to the brandy decanter. "There's more. It's bad."
Greg went quiet for a moment, frowning. There wasn't much he wouldn't do for Monty. They were in the same line of work. And Monty had saved his life on more than one occasion. "If I can help, I will."
Monty sighed. Turned with a full glass in hand and leaned back against the glass cabinet. "Daphne Portsfield."
Greg's heart dropped a little bit. "The Duke of Westchester's illegitimate daughter?" He noted the way Edison's eyes flashed at the mention of Daphne's status. Greg dismissed the boy's anger. He could not care less about the girl's legitimacy. Children did not choose to be mistakes. They should not have to suffer for their parents'.
"The very same," Monty said quietly. "She has been compromised. Thoroughly"
Greg's heart dropped a little further. "You don't mean she's..."
Monty's eyes darkened. "Quite so."
"Mon Dieu, Edison!" Greg cursed, running a hand through his hair, tossing unruly blonde curls into his eyes, and then he jumped up and started pacing He didn't miss the fact that Edison went very, very still the moment he stood.
Greg sighed. Thanks to his mother, he had been sent to English schools as a boy. He had known Monty since Eton. He had been there when Monty's mother had died. He had been there when Monty's father had remarried, and died shortly afterwards in a carriage accident. He had been there when Monty had returned from the war to find that his stepmother, Eliza - Edison's mother - had married a cruel, abusive son of a bitch while Monty was too far away to do anything about it, and that Edison had been the one to bear the brunt of the cruelty and abuse. He went over and dipped his head close to Monty's
"Does Eliza know?"
"I'd sooner kill her than tell her," Monty replied in a low, feral voice.
"Who else knows?"
Monty took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes gingerly. "Her maid. She is loyal. I have two servants in her household keeping an eye on the state of gossip." He winced as he touched the cut on his forehead.
"What the hell happened to you?"
Monty lifted his head and sent his brother a dark look. "He went missing two nights ago. I went looking for him. I found him in a tavern by the docks, stone drunk and in the process of picking a fight with three very large sailors. Afterwards, he told me about Daphne."
Greg frowned, and thought for a moment. "I can't unmake a baby, Monty. I'm good, but I'm not that good."
That, at least, brought a smile to his friend's face. And then it faded.
"Greg, he's just a kid. His bitch mother kept him shut away in the country until I came home and sent him to Eton, and by then he was already mostly grown. He doesn't know anything about the real world, the beau monde. He doesn't even know how to dance."
Greg felt his eyebrows creeping upwards, but he couldn't stop the surprise. "You're asking me to teach Edison to… to be a gentleman?"
Monty shrugged helplessly. "If he can learn to act civilized, he might be able to convince Westchester to accept his offer. He's a good catch, and he's not broke, despite Eliza's greatest attempts."
Greg felt the weight of this task settling on his shoulders before he'd even agreed to it.
"How long do we have?"
"Before she can't hide it anymore? Three to six months, according to the physician I consulted."
Greg couldn't help but grin. Monty's definition of consulting with someone usually involved a surprise visit and a quick, thorough interrogation. And, more often than not, a weapon.
He pitied the poor doctor Monty had "consulted."
"We'll go with caution and say three months. That's about the end of the season, when my mother holds her annual masquerade. We'll shoot for an engagement announcement at La Masque. After that, they can go to the country or tour the continent and wait out the gossip storm after the baby is born three months early. Une minute." Greg turned abruptly and locked his gaze on Edison, who froze like a frightened rabbit. "Edison, do you love Daphne?"
Edison frowned. "O'course I do," he snapped. "She's the best thing what's ever happened to me."
Greg nodded. "And does she feel the same way about you?"
The boy actually blushed. "She says so."
"Excellent."
And like that, the plan started to click into place. Fragments of thoughts, ideas, snippets of conversation, flickered through Greg's head as he started to outline a rough timetable in his mind. Monty poured a glass of brandy for Edison and took it over to him.
"My little brother. Getting married. A hard thing to swallow, I'd say." The animosity drained out of Edison when he heard the fond tone in his big brother's voice. He grinned.
"Hitched before you, Jas. Who'da thought?"
Greg winced at Edison's street slang. That would be the first thing to go.
"From what I've heard, she is a lovely young woman. I'm sure the two of you will be fine."
He saw Monty's gaze sharpen as a thought crossed through his mind. "Speaking of women. How is it that I have managed to be friends with you for over a decade and you never mentioned that you had a ridiculously beautiful cousin named Abigail?"
Greg reached blindly for the brandy decanter.
This was going to be a very long summer.
SAMSON
Samson sat in the darkness of the kitchen storage room, still and focused, surrounded by shelves full of napkins and tablecloths. With his exceptional hearing, he had picked up the conversation going on in the library, the room directly above him, without difficulty. He would have been able to hear most of it from the attic, had he been able to get to the attic. But early that morning he'd snuck down to the kitchen to grab a loaf of bread and some cheese, and before he could slip away he'd heard Gregoire's footsteps echoing through the house.
Lena's brother had uncannily sharp senses, and he had caught very slight hints of Samson's presence several times before. Samson could not risk being found out, not now. Not when he'd just started experiencing Lena's laughter. And so he had taken refuge in a dark storage room, and had resolved to wait it out.
Thinking of Lena brought a smile to his lips. So did the memories of the past few weeks. She slept without fear, without a single disturbance. She smiled in her sleep, and she reached for him instinctively when he pressed a soft kiss to her lips every morning before he left. But he was always gone before she opened her eyes.
She slept well even when he wasn't there. But she didn't smile as much.
He wasn't sure how he knew that. He just knew.
The sound of footsteps brought him back to the present. Gregoire was completely absorbed in his friend's predicament, so he wouldn't be listening for mysterious sounds, or looking for mysterious shadows.
Samson made his way through the kitchen stealthily. It was mid-morning, and the cooks and maids were busy preparing lunch for the Dubois family and their visitors. They talked and laughed and argued jovially, and they made such a racket that Samson rather thought he could stroll right through the kitchen and not a one of them would notice.
But, of course, he would never do that.
Instead he slipped through the shadows, cloaked in darkness and silence. He was utterly in control of his body. He could move through a forest of dry leaves without making a whisper of sound. When he was concentrating like this, he was as good as invisible.
He almost made it to the attic before he was spotted. He froze as a low, rumbling bark echoed from the servant's hallway behind him.
Samson turned slowly, saw the glint of Zeus's eyes in the dim light, and grinned.
"Hello, my friend," he said, crouching low. Zeus scrabbled forward on the slick wooden floor and ran full tilt into Samson's arms, leaping up to place his big paws on Samson's shoulders. He could barely reach, for he was still nowhere near the size he would be when fully grown. But he licked Samson's face happily, and Samson couldn't resist laughing.
It was amazing, how a dog who had had such a dark, cruel beginning in life could have adjusted to become so good-natured. "Perhaps you could tell me your secret, one day," he said, scratching behind Zeus's ears. The dog's thick tail whumped against the floor.
Lena's voice echoed from downstairs, calling for Zeus. "Go on, your mother is calling you. Take care of her."
Zeus turned obediently and trotted off towards Lena's voice. Samson continued up to the attic without incident.
And there he sat, and stared out of one of the old, warped glass windows, listening to the sounds of the house, of the people that made the house so full of love and life and joy. He listened subconsciously for the sound of Lena's voice. Her laughter. When he heard it, a quiet echo, pleasure flickered through him, and he smiled. One day, he would hear that laugh in person.
Perhaps that day would be coming sooner than he had expected.
It seemed that the fates had thrown him another card. He didn't know where it would lead, or if it would do him any good at all. But it was going to happen.
He was going to learn how to become a gentleman.
And Lena's brother was going to teach him.