Seductive Deception

Chapter 28

Morgan, Strickland, and Tess made their way down the dank and dirty alleyways in Somers Town. They reached the shanty village on the outskirts of town right before the sunset, combing through the streets as the stench of rot and stale ale hung heavy in the air. The pub on the corner emitted a bevy of ruckus— muffled clashes, clangs, brawls, and screams that carried like riotous, arrhythmic music through the alleyways and streets. The songs of an Italian opera singer rang out through the din on occasion, and the rushing sound of trains as they made their way through Euston and King's Cross.

Strickland winked at a disheveled woman with a dirty face and a toothless smile as she leaned against a door frame, her battered skirts pulled up to show an ankle.

Tess rolled her eyes. "Are you always so charming?" she provoked as she made a show of watching him.

"Depends," he mused, "I must be inspired first."

"Are you sure this is it?" Tess asked, ignoring Strickland.

"Certain," Morgan replied, maneuvering out of the way of a shop keep as they rolled a barrel down the alleyway, the clang of the metal against the bricks resounding and adding to the raucous noise.

"How certain?" Strickland challenged, eyes squinting at the surroundings, stepping over a puddle of lord only knows what.

Morgan reread the address on the card.

"Certain, unless there is another 29 Johnson St. Somers Town?"

On each side, narrow and haphazard apartments created a prison of poverty with doors left open exposing the miserable life inside— dirty children hung near doorways as their mothers hunched over articles of clothing—tattered rags—as they attempted to mend them for what looked to be the hundredth time, some ran down the corridors chasing one another, their faces unwashed, feet bare. Men, some reeking of alcohol, stumbled to and from the houses or lay in heaps on the ground in the filth.

They laced through the dismal abyss, finally reaching the address scribbled on the paper. The dilapidated home sat between many homes of the same, rows and rows of endless poverty.

Morgan had seen poverty before, and he hadn't grown up in the lap of luxury, but knowing now the person he loved most in the world lived among this level of filth and poverty made his heart wrench.

"I cannot believe anyone would live like this," Strickland refuted, narrowing his eyes at something he'd stepped in.

"I'm certain," Tess asserted, "no one chooses to live like this, Strickland."

"Don't say it," Morgan warned. Knowing Strickland was about to counter Tess with the title he'd want her to tack on the front.

Tess smirked; she'd gotten a jab that Strickland couldn't retaliate against.

But they'd taken precautions to dress down to avoid violence or pickpockets and didn't need Strickland calling Tess out for her lack of formalities. The last thing they needed was to be shanked because of Strickland's vanity.

"I fear it's in vain anyway, Whit, as anyone from these parts can spot a dandy from a mile away."

Strickland glared at her. Morgan was thankful he didn't bring the cane.

They stopped at a squatty loft apartment with a dilapidated roof and a window with a crack resembling a lightning bolt across the length of it.

"This is it," Tess murmured, looking up and down, taking in the building. There wasn't much to it, not that he expected there would be. It was spartan—with a tattered rug on the floor, a spindly wooden chair, a rocking chair, and a desk that had been the height of fashion during his grandparent's days. Yet, for as minimal as it was, every attempt was made to keep it as clean as possible—the floor; swept, the rugs; beat, the chimney; neat as a pin.