nothing she could do to change it. Ruth had not argued over the matter. She rarely did – it wouldn’t be proper. Even so, her gloved hands were tight upon her lap and her lips were pressed together, thin and bloodless.
A creak, a rustle and Mr Griswell’s muttered words soon found her ear, an uncomfortable, ticklish hiss against her neck.
“I recommend a walk, Miss Osbourne,” he said quietly. “Rather than risk losing your temper like the other night.”
Ruth quickly sought out Albert, who was engrossed in a conversation with some retired colonel, their large stomachs heaving with laughter.
“He told you?” Although she had snapped at him while at Lady Winston’s ball, she had thought little of it, had never anticipated he would latch on to the comment or repeat it to another.
“And how is your brother, Miss Osbourne?”
“I don’t have a…” Ruth trailed off. Brother. That man Isaac Roscoe had told Lady Winston they were siblings. Had the news spread so quickly? What must Albert think? If Griswell knew, then this surely spelt trouble, for the man was hardly a gossip – as self-absorbed in his own doings as his daughter.
“Yes, I – I should think a walk would…yes,” announced Ruth, shaking her head when Lottie looked set to go with her. “I – I shan’t be long.”
The musty hallway was scattered with idle bodies filtering from the coffee room. Ruth steadied herself against a panelled wall, her fingers lined up against her collarbone, as though she could press all the disjointed pieces of herself back together. There were too many people packed into the corridor, passing by, talking loudly. Though not a single one glanced her way, she found no solace, no quiet. A woman tried to push a half-dead flower into her hands in exchange for money and Ruth could only shake her head, stomach churning with all the fears and concerns she wrestled with. It felt as though she had been bottling herself up for years, burying shards of worry – and now she was fit to bursting.
“Come on, love, in here,” said a soft voice, a hand in hers.
The pressure on her fingers was gentle, yet firm, guiding her into an empty opera box. God, she was a fool, making an idiot of herself again. There was no way she could survive here, with its viper-quick tongues, conversations that moved too fast for her to understand – all packed together with Albert’s constant whiny and belittling remarks. They would be married soon and this would be her life and there was nothing and no one who could ever save her from it.
I can’t do this.
She wanted to turn back time and go back to the academy. She wanted her cold, barren room, her books and the faces she knew, the girlish chatter that was easy to follow. Real people, who held real concerns, who did not feed on gossip and other people’s misery.
She missed the country, the clean soot-free air, the sun. When had she last glimpsed the sun between those tall, blackened buildings?
God, she hated London. And it surely hated her.
“It will be all right, Miss Osbourne.”
“No, it won’t.”
There was a hand on her back, soothing, as she struggled to calm herself. Whenever she tried to push back the tide of emotions, the foam slipped over her fingers, across her arms, dragging her under. It was humiliating, ridiculous – she was ridiculous – for it was as though her body had forgotten how to breathe and no inhalation was ever enough.
“Stay with me, that’s it, I’ve got you.”
Ruth knew that voice.
At last, when she was able, she looked through her damp eyelashes to the individual sat beside her.
Isaac Roscoe.
“You,” she croaked. “I can’t be here with you.”
Isaac
She wasn’t meant to cry. Griswell had given him instructions, hired a private box at the opera, told him to get the girl alone and do what must be done. But Isaac hadn’t anticipated this.
“What happened?”
“I shouldn’t be here.” Her face was blotchy, hands shaky, eyes puffy. Every breath seemed to escape her and panic her more. Isaac had seen men fall into the same state when overwhelmed by the sea, their vicious commanders, or the horrors that came with war. If he had a stiff drink, he’d have given it to her. It helped, he’d found. And if anything, he could use a drink.
It had never been like this before.
The women he’d brought down had always been spoilt, ambitious, money-grabbing creatures whose virtue needed testing. Or they were idiotic, simple-minded girls who needed crossing in love. (It helped to build character.) They all fell to him, forgot their better instincts, ruined themselves. Isaac merely provided the opportunity and he enjoyed it. The game, the chase, the danger.
When it came to Ruth Osbourne, the situation was not to his liking. She was a good person. He wasn’t used to those. He hadn’t even been sure they existed. It didn’t change anything. He couldn’t let it. He needed the money.
And she would recover, surely? It wasn’t as though she was ugly, aside from her ridiculous clothes. In some lights, she was rather pleasing to the eye. Yes, she had few connections and her uncle was an odd, unattached fellow, but someone else would intervene on her behalf. Soon she’d be someone else’s problem, not his.
“It will pass. Steady your breathing,” said Isaac gently, a hand on her shoulder, thumb moving in gentle circles. “You do not want anyone to see you like this, trust me.”
At last she stilled, chin against her chest.
“It seems you are fated to be here whenever I am at my worst,” she croaked. “And I fear I’ve been terribly rude to you, when all you’ve ever done is help me.”
Ruth tried to meet his gaze and he avoided it, staring out across the audience members below, lined up in the cheaper seats, engrossed in their own conversations.
“Forgive me,” said Ruth, her knee resting against his, and he wanted to get up, to put a distance between them and warn her against him. “I have been caught up in this horrible city, its talk, the rumours.” She shook her head, wisps of her hair falling down from their fixings, framing her face, inviting him to brush them back, to touch her. “I almost forgot myself.”
“An easy thing to do in these parts,” said Isaac listlessly. He’d never felt more like a wolf, a predator, a monster. What was it about her that made him want to be a better man? A man he’d left behind long ago.
“It will all get better. I shall get better at it, after I am married,” she continued, rationalising with herself. “I know I can make myself happy, if I try hard enough.”
Isaac released an amused grunt, though he held no good humour. “You cannot truly believe that?”
“I have to,” she told him, “otherwise I’d never go through with it.”
Christ.
This was his way in, a chance to give her another option, to pretend he was the answer to her prayers, here to vanquish her troubles and remind her of what true chivalry was.
But, as before, the words wouldn’t come.
And she beat him to it.
“You’re a good man, Mr Roscoe.”
Her gloved hand rested atop his, a contact he instantly drew away from, finally catching her eye.
“I cannot do this,” he said, half to himself, half to her. “We need to get you away from here, back to your friends.”
Away from me, before I do something