Several.
Willard had brokenseveralyoung women. Could Mrs. Cartwright have been one of them?
Blood thudded in Neville’s ears. Then, like a team of carriage horses freed from their traces by a crash-cracked carriage tongue, his mind bucked in multiple directions, panicked and wild.
Millicent, he was ever aware, was behind him.
And, worse, in a true demon’s care.
He’d only caught a brief glimpse of Millie’s uncharacteristically pale features, but every detail—from her dark hair to her planed cheeks, to the tight bud of her pinched lips—burned behind his lids. His body urged him to leap up right now and call out her name, but he fought it down. One wrong move on his part could damn her to hell, the next in the demon’s trail of victims.
This theater held over two thousand. So long as Willard and Millie were prominently on display, every set of eyes became a primed weapon.
All Willard need do was lift Millie’s hand, hold her gaze, and place a lingering kiss on the inside of her glove. A trifle. A nothing. A mere breath’s work. And people would believe she was Willard’s. And after such a public claim of possession, her fate would lie entirely in his hands.
Millie would be bound to the blackguard then in a manner of his choosing, either as his future wife—or his… Neville shivered, not even wanting to think the word for what she could be forced to become.
And Millie wasn’t the only one in his life who Willard was trying to ruin. In his mind, he saw his brother hovered anxiously over a weeping girl on that very first, fateful meeting with Temperence Wilson last summer in Brighton. Willard would have chosen just the right spot, picturesque, secluded, intimate—a pleasance beneath a flowing bower, perhaps.
Now, he understood why John had been unable to resist lending help.
John, sensitive John, with his heart of untested honor, would have perceived evil all around, no matter what story Miss Wilson had told. With innocence and beauty hanging in the balance, what was a young man of his tender sensibility to do?
Why, ignore his own peril, and chart a plan of rescue, of course.
And John would have had no idea both he and the girl were both already hopelessly ensnared…
Neville tumbled further back in time, all the way back to a dormitory privy. Somehow, the door’s cold metal handle was still in his grip, its wood panels still vibrating from being forced open.
Wine-dark blood spilled from Willard’s nose, staining his white shirt. Willard’s slackened face bore purpling welts beneath his eyes.
And Asquith—Willard’ssimple Simon, his favorite toy—with limp, wet hands red with blood. Droplets pattered from each of his fingers, straight down to his left pinky, which dangled, limp and useless.
Neville remembered placing his hand on Asquith’s warm shoulder, and heard his own voice repeatingSimon James Landon, over and over and over, until Asquith finally blinked up at him, remembering his own Christian name.
Heaven help them all. A privy was so mundane. And yet, the stench from that night had carried on, right to this very moment.
Heavy pressure against his shoulder nudged Neville back to the present. He shivered, suddenly aware he was staring down into a tight twist of blonde curls.
“You didn’t think Miss Wilson the only one, did you?”
He heard bitterness beneath Mrs. Cartwright’s whispered words. Bitterness he hadn’t noticed in her before. As had happened the night he’d battered his way into that privy, his mind whirred with crystalline clarity, sending him directives as if by supernatural force.
Get Cartwright home. Steal Millie away. Protect the innocent. Then deal with Willard.
He didn’t have time to find someone he trusted to watch over Mrs. Cartwright, but he would do what he could to make sure someone—perhaps the theater manager—checked with her before the night was through. In the meantime, he would, at least, make sure she had escort.
He placed his hand on Mrs. Cartwright’s head, holding her cheek gently against his chest. As he did so, he brushed the arm of the man with whom he’d exchanged words earlier, purposefully catching his attention.
The man scowled, annoyed to have his enjoyment of the play interrupted again. His companion leaned forward and caught Neville’s gaze.
Neville glanced pointedly down. He mouthed, “Take care of her.”
The man’s frown deepened, and he pursed his lips. However, the woman with him nodded.
“Please. I must go.” Neville’s words remained soundless, but urgent.
The man studied Mrs. Cartwright, raised his brows. Finally, he shrugged, then nodded, too.