The night before she walked into his study and broke him, they had shared a bed. She had held him in the dark, her face buried in his chest. It was his. The child she was carrying in the freezing mud, wearing rags, buying garbage to eat, it was his heir, his blood, his child. A wave of nausea hit him so hard he swayed.
At that exact moment, as if sensing the absolute collapse of the man standing 20 yards away, Josephine looked up. Her gaze swept over the crowd and landed on him. Time stopped. For a full, agonizing second, they simply looked at each other across the divide of the market. Theo saw her eyes widen.
He saw the flash of shock, the immediate, instinctive flinch. Her hand flew to her stomach, resting protectively on the crest of her unborn child. He expected her to look ashamed. He expected her to weep. He expected her to run.
She did none of those things. The shock left her face, replaced by a cold, hardened mask of absolute defiance. She pulled her shoulders back. She lifted her chin. She looked at his heavy wool coat.
She looked at the diamond pin in his cravat. She looked at Beatrice, clinging to his arm in ivory fox fur. Theo felt a sickening surge of self-loathing. He realized exactly what he looked like, the wealthy, untouched duke parading his pristine new bride, while the woman he had sworn to protect froze in the gutter with his child. He opened his mouth to say what?
He didn't know. Her name? A plea? A command? Josephine didn't wait to find out.
She took her bruised cabbage, dropped it into a cheap wicker basket, turned her back on him, and began to walk away. She moved heavily, her gait altered by the weight of the pregnancy, disappearing into the crush of bodies heading toward the narrow, lightless alleys of the rookeries. "Josie!" he choked out.
The name scraped against his throat. He ripped his arm away from Beatrice. "Theodore!" Beatrice shrieked, finally realizing he was moving towards the filth.
"What are you doing? You cannot leave me here!" "Wait here," he barked, not looking at her. He shoved forward. He hit a costermonger's cart, knocking a pile of turnips into the street. A man yelled.
Theo threw a gold sovereign at him without looking and kept moving. "Josie!" he roared. The crowd was too thick. A herd of sheep being driven to Smithfield Market suddenly clogged the junction, a moving wall of dirty wool and bleating bodies. Theo shoved through them, his bespoke boots sinking into animal muck.
He reached the vegetable stall. He looked down the alley where she had vanished. Empty. Shadows and damp brick. She was gone.
Theo stood at the mouth of the alley. The cold wind howled down the narrow passage, biting at his exposed face. His chest heaved. He dragged a trembling hand over his mouth. He had to find her.
He had to tear these streets apart brick by brick. He took three frantic steps into the gloom before a hand clamped onto the sleeve of his greatcoat. He spun around, ready to strike whoever dared touch him. It was a street urchin, no older than 10. His face smeared with soot.
The boy pointed back towards the square. The fancy lady is having a fit, governor. The boy mumbled, eyeing Theo's gold watch chain. Theo looked back. Beatrice was backed against a brick wall, surrounded by a few curious onlookers, looking as though she was about to faint from the sheer indignity of her surroundings.
She was sobbing. A high, thin sound that grated on Theo's raw nerves. Duty. The heavy, suffocating chain of aristocratic duty. He could not leave a peer's daughter alone in Covent Garden.
It would ruin her. He looked down the empty alley one last time. His jaw locked. His hands curled into fists so tight his knuckles turned white. I am coming.
He muttered. He marched back to Beatrice, grabbed her elbow with more force than necessary, and practically dragged her towards Southampton Street. He found a hackney cab, shoved a fistful of silver at the driver, and put Beatrice inside. Take Lady Beatrice to the Fairfax townhouse. He ordered the driver.
Theo, aren't you coming? Beatrice cried, clutching her fur collar. Her mascara was running. You left me for what? You saw a ghost.
I have business. He said, his voice deadly quiet. "Do not expect me for dinner." He slammed the carriage door.
He didn't wait to watch it pull away. He walked back to the vegetable stall. The vendor, a grizzled old man missing half his teeth, looked up warily. Theo didn't speak. He reached into his pocket, pulled out two gold guineas, and slammed them down on the wooden planks.
The vendor stared at the coins. That was a month's earnings. "The woman who was just here," Theo said.
His voice was no longer flat. It was low, vibrating with a dangerous, desperate intensity. "The pregnant woman in the gray dress—who is she? Where does she live?"
The vendor licked his lips. "She don't talk much, sir. Calls herself Mrs. Miller."
"Miller? Her mother's maiden name. Where?" Theo demanded.
"St. Giles," the vendor said, pocketing the gold with lightning speed. "Seven Dials, top floor of a lodging house above the cooper's shop on Monmouth Street. But I wouldn't go there, sir. Not in that coat. They'll slit your throat for the buttons."
Theo turned on his heel.
St. Giles, the worst slum in London, a labyrinth of disease, violence, and crushing poverty. And she was living there, pregnant. As he walked, his long strides eating up the pavement, the anger began to boil over. But it was not anger at Josephine. It was a vicious, blinding rage directed entirely at himself.
He had let pride dictate his life. When she handed him those annulment papers, he hadn't fought. He had let his wounded ego tell him that if she wanted to leave, he wouldn't beg her to stay. He had retreated into the cold, untouchable fortress of his title. He hadn't asked questions.
He hadn't investigated. Why had she taken no money? Why had she hidden? The memory of his mother's smug face the day Josephine left suddenly flashed in his mind. The Dowager Duchess had been triumphant.