The River of No Return by Bee Ridgway (best novels of all time txt) 📕

Guild’s house in Fleet Street and wait. Once I find Julia I shall meet you there.”

“With the girl?”

Nick put his hand on Solvig’s head. “I’ll see you later, in Fleet Street.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

My dear.”

Julia looked up, startled. It seemed like hours since she’d seen those two people shot dead at close range, since she’d lost Jem Jemison in the crowds in Berkeley Square, since she had run blindly into the tangled web of Soho streets, hoping to find Soho Square on her own. At first she had moved with the crowds pouring back into Soho, but they had quickly dispersed to their homes, leaving the streets empty. Now the kindly-looking old man she had been following in hopes that he would lead her somewhere safe had turned and was facing her.

“Sir?” She drew herself up, trying to look self-assured.

He was small and thin and much older than she had thought, his skin wrinkled and his eyes sunken. “Why are you following me? I have walked the same circle through the streets twice, testing you. Do you plan to rob me? I assure you I have no money.” He smiled gently at her.

“Oh, no, sir. I am sorry. I am lost, you see. I was trying to appear confident, so I followed you, thinking no one would trouble me if I looked like I was with you.”

The old man tipped his head back and laughed, a young laugh, at odds with his fragile frame. “That’s rich. As if I could protect a flea. Well, my dear. Where is a well-dressed young lady like you trying to go this late at night? I shall do my best to help you.”

“Soho . . . Soho Square,” Julia stammered.

He regarded her soberly. “Indeed? Well, I shall guide you there. Come, take my arm.”

So they set off through the streets together. As they walked, the old man told her of how the neighborhood had declined across his lifetime. His name was Roland LeCrue, he explained, and yes, his name gave him away—he was of French descent. A century and more ago his Huguenot grandfather had fled Catholic France and come to Protestant England, where he had bought a fine house in Soho, which was a French neighborhood in those days. Monsieur LeCrue could remember when French was the language most spoken in these streets, can you imagine? Now he was the only Frenchman left. The aristocrats who had lived on Soho Square in his childhood had all sold their grand houses and moved elsewhere, and now the neighborhood was squalid, filthy. He poked at a pile of rags with his stick and shook his head. “Times are hard. Now a young girl like you must fear for her life as she walks these streets. Everything changes,” he said, and fell silent.

Julia squeezed his arm. “I never feared for my life,” she assured him. “And you helped me. You are a true Cavalier. I thank you, monsieur. Merci.”

“Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.” He patted Julia’s cheek. “May young ladies like yourself always find the help and respect that they desire. And look. Here we are. Soho Square.” He spread his thin arms. “Voilà.”

Julia turned and held out her hand. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

Monsieur LeCrue took her hand, his eyes quizzical. “Ah, but you do not want me to show you to the door, do you? You do not want me to see which house you enter?” He nodded. “Never mind, my dear. I understand. I do not judge you. God bless you.” He sketched a funny little antique bow, and she turned away.

Julia faced the square. Which house had it been? She looked along the row of mismatched mansions and saw the yellow façade. Yes. There was a big, old-fashioned traveling coach and steaming team of horses stopped in front. Those horses must have made a long, arduous journey. But now they had arrived, and were finally able to rest. She hoped her story had a similarly happy ending.

Julia took a deep breath and prepared to beg her lover’s lover for shelter.

* * *

Nick and Solvig were deep in Soho, and Solvig was dragging him down every tiny street. The dog was on the trail of something, but Nick was beginning to despair of its actually leading to Julia. She could be anywhere. The city, which had looked so small and quaint from Highgate Hill last night, now felt like an endless rabbit warren. Julia could be in any room in any house, down any noisome street. She could be alive, dead, dying—she could be in pain, frightened. . . .

Nick shoved the thoughts away and concentrated on Solvig. Her nose was pushing through the filth, and she was grunting softly, giving herself encouragement. Every once in a while she turned a confident, grinning face back at Nick, then resumed her quest. And yet hadn’t they passed this intersection once already?

“My lord.” A hand touched his shoulder, and Nick wheeled around, pulling Solvig to a reluctant stop.

“Jemison!”

The man looked haggard. “You are seeking Miss Percy,” he said.

“However do you know that?”

Jemison eyed Nick up and down. “How did you vote, my lord?”

“Against.”

“Ah.” He frowned, nodding. “Your sister will be pleased.”

Nick grabbed his arm. “If you bear me any love as a fellow soldier, please—what do you know of Julia?”

“I saw her. In Berkeley Square. She was out in the crowd, in nothing but a flimsy black gown. She told me a tarradiddle about needing to run away. I told her to stay by me and I would help her, but just then the shooting started—”

“Yes, the two dead.”

“Shot dead by men in scarlet,” Jemison said. “After the first shot I stepped in front of Miss Percy and shouted for her to hang on to my belt; the crowd was turning and pushing back against us. Then another shot was fired and I felt the crowd pull us apart. I turned, and I saw that she was running—she could not help but run—pushed away on the