Strange, how one's future can hang upon a single moment. One can feel trapped, frozen, while the world spins wildly by. Daphne Westfall was caught in such a moment, unable to move forward now that her life had been turned upon its head. Ever since her father's death, she dwelt in a nightmare that had no visible end.
She shivered on the snowy sidewalk, hand extended toward passersby, praying someone would have mercy on her. They dodged her with lips curled in sneers of disgust. Another gust of wind blew in from the river and whipped her threadbare skirt about her legs. She stamped her feet and then pressed her legs tightly together, hoping to conserve warmth, but she still couldn't feel her toes. Her hands were dry and cracked, her once clean nails layered with the grime of the streets.
Tears stung her eyes. Just a few pennies before nightfall would keep her out of the White House Brothel in Soho. She bit her lip and mentally fled from that option. To go there would finally break her.
Her aching stomach rumbled. But she had to be pragmatic if she hoped to fill her aching stomach, warm her shivering body beside a fire and sleep in a warm bed.
Daphne resisted the urge to touch the secret pocket in her dress, where she'd hidden her mother's pearls. Another woman might have sold the pearls to eat, but Daphne couldn't bring herself to do it. The single, elegant strand was all she had left of her mother, the only thing the courts of England hadn't been able to pry from her fingertips as they carried her father to prison.
When her father had been convicted of counterfeiting, Sir Richard Westfall's estate had been seized by the Crown and his property sold to settle his debts to his victims. Daphne had been cast out into the cold with nothing but a single dress and her mother's pearls tucked away in a hidden pocket.
"Please—please, sir," she whispered to a passerby. "A few pennies…"
The man spat on her open, trembling palm. She shrank back with a wince and hastily wiped his spit off on her gown. More tears escaped as shame threatened to suffocate her.
Sell the pearls and you won't face this anymore… a dark voice whispered in her head. But she couldn't.
A man and a woman paused on the street a few feet away and stared. Hope surged. She knew that woman. Lady Esther Cornelius, a friend, once.
Esther stared hard at her, then whispered something to her companion who, although a good distance away, tossed a small pouch of coins. In the past, she would have hidden from a familiar face, ashamed to be seen in such a state, but right now all she could think about was her hunger. To her shame, she leapt at the pouch, landing hard in the icy puddle along the alley. She caught the pouch and clutched it to her chest. When she looked up, Lady Esther and her companion were walking away.
Daphne sniffed, her nose burning as she tried to keep her tears at bay. How she wished she could curse her father. He loved her, just as she loved him, yet he had destroyed her life, her future…everything.
She wasn't sure how long she sat there, shivering and clutching the small pouch to her chest, before she tucked it safely in her skirts and glanced about. Her attention caught on the figure of a tall, handsome man leaning against the wall of a shop across the street. His exquisite clothes and refined appearance marked him for a gentleman.
Fear crawled up her spine. Why would a gentleman be watching a beggar woman? Perhaps he was not as gentlemanly as he appeared. Would he steal the coins, take her mother's pearls? She wouldn't let him. She pushed to her feet and hurried down the street, fighting the urge to run.
She glanced over her shoulder. He followed on the opposite side of the street. She quickened pace. The man suddenly vanished from view as a crowd of people swept past him. She stopped beside a row of coaches parked along the street close by and scanned the crowd.
"Miss Westfall." She started to turn toward that voice when strong fingers seized her arm.
Her shoulder collided with a hard chest. She cried out. The door of the nearest coach opened and he pulled her inside. She clawed at the masculine arm that held her.
"Do not scream, Miss Westfall. You are in no danger."
Daphne twisted free of his hold and lunged for the door. He yanked her onto the seat opposite him.
"Miss Westfall, please. I am attempting to render aid."
She stilled at his urgency. He was the too—handsome man she had glimpsed across the street. How had he gotten behind her so quickly?
"Render aid?" she demanded, hating how frightened she sounded. "Kidnapping is not the kind of aid I require."
"That's fortunate, for it's not the aid I'm offering." He released her arm and leaned back against the cushion. "My name is Sir Anthony Heathcoat. Some call me The Lord of Arrangements."
"The Lord of Arrangements?" She had never heard of him. "What does this have to do with me?"
He smiled gently. "Everything."
She studied him. His expression lacked pity or lust. Perhaps his aid was nothing more than letting her rest inside a warm coach, away from the icy winds.
"I know about your father," Anthony said.
Daphne tensed. He wasn't the first man to seek vengeance on her because of her father.
"Easy, lass," He lifted a hand. "I've no desire to harm you. Allow me to speak. Afterwards, if you don't wish for my help, I will allow you to return to your position on the street with an extra few pounds for your trouble."
Shame heated her face and she glanced away. Never in her life had she believed she would be sitting in a coach with a man discussing her life as a beggar.
She raised her chin and met his gaze. No threatening shadow darkened his eyes. "Very well. Speak your piece."
"I am aware of your father's crimes," he said. "Counterfeiting is a serious offense. He's lucky they didn't send him to the gallows."
Daphne tried to swallow the sudden lump in her throat.
"I also know that his conviction resulted in his property being used to repay his victims; at least, those who were members of the peerage."
Another painful gulp. She couldn't speak. That had been the worst indignity. Her father had betrayed friends in society, tainting them with his dishonor. She had not been allowed to hear the more gruesome details from her father's solicitor, but she had heard whispers that one man had shot himself after being associated with the scandal.
