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“How do you know the Tramp?” That was hardly the most pressing question, yet it was the first one out of his mouth when the carriage finally moved, and he could be sure the driver was not paying attention to them.
Sitting across from him on her own bench, Miss Stuart yawned, placing a delicate hand over her mouth. In the dim light filtering through the window, she appeared very tired. He would be far more sympathetic if she hadn’t snuck out to the Tramp’s Den on her own, putting herself in danger—no matter that the Tramp seemed to know her and would have protected her.
And that she could have protected herself, nitwit.
Anyone could be surprised or overpowered, and Mitchell could have easily recognized her.
There was a long pause as if she was debating whether to answer his question. For a moment, he thought she would not, but then she spoke, her voice softer than usual and far away, as though she was lost in the memory.
“When my parents died, I ran away. The woman who was supposed to be watching me until my uncle could retrieve me… she was foul. I am not sure I would have survived until my uncle arrived if I’d remained in her care. At the time, the streets of London were the better option.” Evie fell silent again for a moment.
“Henry was quite a bit older than me and was not… kind, exactly, but he kept an eye out for those of us who were children, as much as he could. He was the first to teach me to fight, and when he discovered I was a girl, he did not sell me out… he helped me maintain my disguise.”
Others would not have.
Those were the words she did not say, but Anthony knew them to be true. Miss Stuart was beautiful. The Tramp had helped her maintain her appearance rather than making money by selling her to a brothel or worse… Now he understood the trust she seemed to hold for him.
Miss Stuart leaned her head back against the seat, closing her eyes for a long moment, her expression more vulnerable than he’d ever seen. He realized she must not share that information with many people. She could not. It would ruin both her and her family socially if anyone knew she had been running on the streets of London, no matter that she was a child at the time.
She was trusting him.
Again.
The realization humbled him.
“I looked for you in France.”
Miss Stuart’s eyes opened, one delicate brow arching in question.
It was awkward to admit, the words making him feel far more vulnerable than he was comfortable with. The confession was nowhere near the same level as hers, but it was what he could offer to her. He had no deep dark secrets, nothing that would ruin him in the eyes of Society were it to come to light, but admitting his feelings for her was difficult for him in its own way.
He was admitting the power she had over him.
Anthony cleared his throat, directing his gaze out the window. It was hard enough to speak about it, but feeling her eyes on him only increased the difficulty.
“Also, after I found you acting as a maid in Lady Greywood’s household.”
She had disappeared into the night, and he had not known what had happened to her until the day Mitchell’s minions had carried out a coordinated attack. Thankfully, Camden had been the only one injured, though the lack of other casualties had been pure luck more than anything else. When he arrived after his own attack, Miss Stuart had been there—still dressed as a maid—holding her unconscious uncle.
He had not blurted out any of their past before discovering who she truly was. He was not sure which would have been more likely—her cousins murdering him the moment the words left his mouth or dragging them to the altar.
Marrying Miss Stuart would be a fate worse than death.
It should have been. That was how he should have felt. Instead, he almost wished it had happened that way.
It would have been far easier than admitting his feelings.
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