Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle: Pickpocket Countess / Grayson Prentiss's Seduction / Notorious Rake, Innocent Lady / Libertine Lord, Pickpocket Miss / The Viscount Claims His Bride. Bronwyn ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.
angry men who lashed out any way they could against life’s injustices. It could have been just another day of the week for this part of town.
She stole a glance at Stockport to see how he was taking their surroundings. His firm jaw was set tightly, causing a tic to jump in his cheek. His eyes peered straight ahead and there was a rigidity to his posture that suggested he was on full alert. As well he should be in these parts, Nora thought.
To his credit, he’d had the foresight to dress in nondescript clothing. His dark riding breeches and greatcoat did nothing to deliberately attract attention, but there was no mistaking the expense of his boots and the care they’d been given.
In a world where greatcoats were a sign of status, often handed down father to son for generations before they finally wore out beyond repair, there was no hiding the fact that the man with her was a gentleman of the highest calibre.
Their first stop was the Hulme neighborhood, once a peaceful area of town, now destroyed by the influx of industry. Bordered on three sides by the Medlock, Irwell and Cornbrook Rivers, Hulme had become a prime location for factories dependent on water for operation. All placidness was gone, giving way to pathetic slums and dense overpopulation.
‘Park the wagon over there.’ Nora gestured to a spot next to an entrance to a tenement. ‘Wait here with the wagon while I go in and let them know we’re here.’
Stockport looked sceptically at the building. ‘Are you sure you’ll be safe alone?’
‘Absolutely. These are The Cat’s people.’ There were those who didn’t like The Cat, but they were outnumbered by those who did. It was an unspoken law of the tenements that any attempt to expose The Cat would be met with ruthless retribution.
‘Ah, the queen and her loyal subjects,’ Stockport remarked as if he’d found a chink in The Cat’s democratic armour. She knew what he thought. He thought this was an egoboost, a thrill of power, that The Cat did this as self-promotion. He couldn’t be more wrong.
‘Oh, I don’t rule them in any way, but I provide for them as best as possible, which is more than I can say for the other monarchs in their lives; their landlords care only for rent, their bosses care only for labour and the King himself cares naught at all about these subjects.’ Nora’s tone was bitter. ‘These people have their own code of loyalty. Don’t forget that today. You will have safe passage because you’re with me and no other reason.’
‘Is that a threat?’ Stockport raised an elegant eyebrow.
‘It’s a reminder. You’re in The Cat’s territory now,’ Nora said sharply and jumped down from the bench. ‘I’ll be right back.’
When all was ready, Nora returned to the wagon with a boy to watch the horses and another boy to help carry baskets. She was almost certain Stockport looked glad to see her. It served him right to be at least a little bit uncomfortable in his surroundings. However, she wasn’t about to mistake uncomfortable with vulnerable. The set of his shoulders indicated he was fully prepared to defend himself if the need arose.
To his credit, Stockport swung off the bench and joined in, loading himself down with the heavier baskets. Well, she’d see how much he was truly willing to participate once they got inside.
Nora led the little group to the first floor and stopped in the dingy hallway. She gave orders regarding the delivery of the baskets and sent them off. She motioned for Stockport to follow her.
They went from door to door, delivering packages from the baskets, sometimes food, sometimes a tiny pouch of coins, sometimes oranges and wooden toys for children. At each stop the cry was the same, ‘God bless The Cat’, or a similar variation of the phrase.
It tore at Nora’s heart. There was so much need and her baskets were empty far too quickly. It was tempting to bring in the other baskets, safely covered up in the wagon, but then there would be nothing left for the other neighbourhoods she must visit.
They didn’t stop at every door and Nora wondered if Stockport would notice the doors without the discreet marker that indicated The Cat was welcome.
Not everyone was receptive to her aid and reciprocally, not everyone was deserving of her efforts. Nora had decided ages ago that there were some who her efforts could not help—drunks and ne’er-do-wells who didn’t lift a finger to help their families or change their lots in life.
Climbing back up on the wagon, amid cries of gratitude and wishes for a Happy Christmas, Nora gave directions and they drove on to repeat the process. The day passed rapidly as they moved from slum to slum, stopping in Chorlton-on-Medlock, and Beswick, the neighborhoods all looking the same with their uniformly terraced workers’ houses.
The last visit was Anacoats, the poorest section of all, where she stopped at Widow Mary Malone’s.
Nora knocked on the door. Excited voices of children whooped and shouted on the other side, followed by a light scolding for manners and a fit of coughing. Her heart sank. Desperation seized Nora and she gathered her strength for what lay beyond the door. If she didn’t think of some way to help the widow recover, the children would be orphans by spring.
‘What is it?’ Stockport asked quietly, coming up beside her, so near she could feel the heat of his body next to her.
‘It doesn’t sound like Mary Malone has got better. She took sick in November and that cough has been lingering.’
‘Has she seen a doctor?’
Nora shot him an incredulous look. ‘If they had that much money, she probably wouldn’t need one in the first place.’ She pushed open the door and entered, leaving Stockport to follow in her wake. No matter what lay ahead, the kids deserved the best Christmas she could manage for them. Originally, she’d felt very good about the entire basket she’d put aside for the Malones. But now, Nora felt like the basket was inadequate. She should have done more.
The moment she entered, children ran to her, dancing around her skirts and begging to be picked up. She picked up the smallest, a blonde-haired girl of three with huge brown eyes that gave her an irresistible doll-like appearance. ‘Anna, have you been a good girl?’
The little girl nodded solemnly, sucking on a dirty thumb. She pointed at Stockport. ‘Who’s dat man?’
‘He’s my special helper today,’ Nora said, setting her basket down on the one table in the room. The two older boys looked at the basket in anticipation and Nora gathered them to her. ‘I’ve brought treats for a Christmas dinner. I’ll need your help getting everything ready. I might even have a few presents.’
She assigned the boys their tasks, set aside her figure-disguising voluminous cloak and veiling and rolled up the sleeves of her dark blouse. She looked around the room for Stockport, amazed to find him deep in conversation with Mary Malone. He’d discarded his greatcoat and had rolled his own shirtsleeves up. He nodded at something Mary said and leaned over to tuck a thin blanket about her knees.
Nora put a kettle on over the fire to warm the hearty soup she’d brought and set to sweeping. Mary did the best she could, but since her illness, she’d been less able to keep the two rooms clean. All her waning energies were spent on providing food and meals for her three children. By now there had to be very little money left from her husband’s death settlement.
Nora worried what Mary would do when the money ran out. She certainly couldn’t work in her condition. Her oldest son, eleven-year-old Michael, was working at the hat factory, but the two shillings and three pence he brought home weekly would barely be enough for bread, let alone rent or other living supplies.
Nora cast a quick look at Mary’s younger son, Robert. He was six and old enough to work as a scavenger, one of the many children who crawled beneath the machinery at the cotton mills to gather up loose cotton. She shuddered at the thought. The little money he would make doing such a perilous job would not be worth the risk. Each year children died, crushed beneath the heavy machinery