Susan Carroll (19 page)

“For the moment.”

“The moment's enough for me. It always has
been.” He gave a fatalistic shrug. “Bloody hell, Sara. I can't run
away from myself. If I don't find trouble here in London, I'll just
find it elsewhere.”

“You are utterly determined to end up in the
dock.”

“And when I do, I hope they don't call you in
for a testimony to my character.”

“I would lie through my teeth for you,” Sara
said bitterly.

“So you would.” Although he leaned forward to
chuck her under the chin, an expression of rare seriousness stole
into Gideon's grey eyes.

“Don't you understand, little sister?” he
asked. “It is you who should run from this place and not come back.
Why do you persist in returning for these visits?”

“What a stupid question! Mum needs me. And
you.”

“Mum can look out for herself and so can I.
And even if it were otherwise, don't you see, Sara? You can't help
us. You are the only one of us who has ever had dreams, wanting and
imagining something much better than all of this.”

A hard smile touched Gideon's lips. “Me and
Mum and Davy don't dream. We just exist and we are content with
that. But you, Sara, you are different, bright, clever, determined.
You'll get what you want someday, but not if you keep coming back
here, getting tangled up with us. We will only drag you down.”

Sara felt a faint flush of shame stain her
cheeks. Gideon was not saying anything that she had not already
thought herself more than once.

Gideon finished by giving her cheek a playful
flick, forcing the lightness back into his tone. “For what it was
worth, that was a piece of free brotherly advice. It is likely the
only thing you will ever get from me.”

Sara shoved back from the table, a hard set
to her jaw. “Thank you, my dear brother. You are quite right, of
course. You are all fools here. I shall not bother with you
again.”

“That's the spirit,” Gideon said, holding her
coat to help her into it.

Sara was just donning her bonnet when
Chastity came rushing back into the flat, bottle in hand. She gave
a crow of dismay to see Sara on the verge of leaving.

“You cannot mean to be going so soon, Sary?
And without a nip of rum to warm you, put some color back into your
cheeks.”

“I feel warm enough, Mum,” Sara said, though
she had never felt so cold in her life. She lied, “I have to get
home to change. A gentleman is taking me to supper tonight.”

“I daresay it will be some elegant affair.”
Chastity sighed. “I knew a young baronet once. A little on the
simple side, but a good-hearted fellow. He took me to an assembly
ball one evening. His mama damn near died of shock.”

Smiling at the remembrance, Chastity rustled
forward to fuss with the strings of Sara's bonnet, tying it for
her. She always could do up the prettiest bows.

“There. Now you look quite the young lady.
When will you be coming back to see your mama again?”

Sara hesitated, thinking of her recent
discussion with Gideon, what she had just decided. She stared at
her mother's face, the age lines feathering eyes that still had the
bright sparkle of a young girl's.

If only her mother had had more intelligence
and ambition, where might the whole Palmer family have been today?
And yet, Chastity had not been such a bad mother, really. Whenever
Sara had been sick, Chastity had always been there, and sober, too.
It had been Chastity who had taught Sara how to read.

And Gideon ... the first time her brother had
ever killed anyone it had been because of Sara and that drunken
dockworker who had tried to rape her. Gideon had been only
fourteen.

Swallowing hard, Sara heard herself saying,
“I will be back again in two weeks, Mum. Like always.”

As Chastity hugged her, Sara met Gideon's
eyes over her mother's shoulder. He arched his brows in a look that
was both mocking and sad. From across the room, he mouthed a single
word.

Fool.

There was only one response to such a thing
in keeping with Sara's dignity. When Chastity was not looking, Sara
thrust her tongue out at her brother.

Kissing her mother farewell, Sara left the
apartment. Feeling equal parts frustrated and resigned, she was
still thinking about all that had taken place in the flat when she
reached the street.

It was a grave mistake to walk along
woolgathering through the lanes of Bethnal Green and Sara knew
better. But before she snapped to her senses, she was roughly
shoved from behind, hands snatching for her reticule.

Sara clung to the thin strap, but events
proceeded too quickly for any further response. A sly-faced boy
with blond hair knocked her off balance, wrenching the purse from
her grasp. Sara cursed as she recognized the taunting grin.

“Damn you, Davy. Give me that back before I
wring your neck.”

“You have to catch me first,” her younger
brother sang out.

Sara lunged for him, only to topple headlong
into the muddy street. By the time she raised up onto her elbow,
David had already darted between two buildings and disappeared.

“You little bastard,” Sara muttered.
Struggling to rise, she felt a hand upon her arm, trying to help
her.

Usually they just stepped over you in Bethnal
Green. Assistance was rare, the sight of the man who was offering
it even rarer.

Sara blinked. She had never seen such a
bright-striped waistcoat before, especially not worn with a
bottle-green frock coat and skin-tight yellow breeches. A
high-crowned beaver was perched upon artlessly combed locks. The
man had a face that was pleasant rather than handsome, and vaguely
familiar to Sara.

But she was too cross to do other than
dismiss him as some dandy who had meandered into the wrong part of
town, a complete idiot.

“Are you all right, miss?” he asked as Sara
steadied herself on her feet.

“Do I look all right?” she snapped. She
attempted to scrub some of the mud from her coat, but her glove was
equally dirty.

“I am sorry about your purse,” the stranger
said. “I could attempt to go after that young villain, but I doubt
I would catch him.”

“I doubt you would either.” Sara was not
about to explain to this fool that the rogue who had snatched her
purse was her own brother. David would return the reticule in his
own sweet time, empty of course. When he holed up somewhere in the
back alleys and corners of Bethnal Green, the canniest Bow Street
Runner could not ferret him out, let alone this toff in the fancy
waistcoat.

Sara was in no humor to render thanks to any
Good Samaritan. She wished the man would have the wit to take
himself off, but he hovered by her side, regarding her gravely.

“I am glad to see you have taken no real
harm, miss.”

No real harm? Her coat was ruined and there
was no Mandell to buy her another.

He continued, “After you have had such a
fright, I hate to scold. But it is obvious that you are a lady of
Quality. It is very reckless of you to be wandering alone in such a
part of town, without even a maid to accompany you. This is no
place for a respectable woman.”

“And what about you? Strutting about Bethnal
Green attired like some Macaroni!”

The man's stern expression lightened. “Very
true,” he said with a twitch of his lips. “But I must point out
that it was not me who just had my purse stolen.”

“Go to—” Sara started to grate out, catching
herself just in time. “Go away and leave me alone.”

“I will be happy to oblige when I am certain
you are no longer in need of my services.” He tipped his hat in a
brief bow. “Though the circumstances are somewhat unusual, allow me
to introduce myself. Nicholas Drummond.”

Sara started at the name. Drummond. Mandell's
cousin. Of course, Mandell had never introduced her. My lord
preferred keeping his mistresses well in the background of his
life, but she had glimpsed the young man in the marquis's company a
time or two.

“And you?” Drummond prompted. “Have I seen
you somewhere before? At the park or the theatre perhaps?”

“I don't go out in society very much. I am
Sara Palmer, Mrs. Sara Palmer lately of Yorkshire.”

“Well, Mrs. Sara Palmer lately of Yorkshire,
your husband should take better care of you.”

“I am a widow,” Sara said, slipping easily
into the familiar lie. “I have only recently come to London for a
change of scene. I have been living here for two months now, taking
in some of the sights in a very quiet way.”

“Then that would explain why you did not know
that Bethnal Green is no place for ladies.”

“I would have to be blind not to realize
that. I am not stupid, sir.”

“No, but you are bleeding.” He frowned,
stepping closer, drawing out a handkerchief. When she started to
shy away, he caught her chin, saying, “Hold still. I am not going
to hurt you. You have scraped your cheek.”

He dabbed the linen carefully against her
skin, his remarkable light grey eyes a study in concentration.

“There. Luckily it is only a scratch. It
would have been a shame if there had been ...” He seemed to lose
the thread of his thoughts, his face very close to hers. He stared
as though seeing her for the first time.

Her bonnet was askew, her face likely dirty,
but Sara knew enough of the power of her own beauty, how it could
stun a man speechless. Yet Mr. Drummond did not look stunned.

He merely looked as though he liked what he
saw, as though he liked it very much indeed.

“What are you doing here in Bethnal Green?”
he asked.

She should have told him to mind his own
damned business, but Sara found herself wanting to offer a
reasonable excuse.

“I was bringing a basket of food and clothing
to some of the poor families hereabouts. And you, Mr.
Drummond?”

“I am a member of the House of Commons,
ma'am. We have formed a committee to investigate some of the
shocking conditions of the poor in these slums."

"Does it not occur to you, sir, that the poor
could use a little less investigating and a little more bread?" The
tart comment startled her as much as him. Had that really come out
of her mouth? She had almost sounded as though she cared, when in
truth the remark had been born more out of bitter memories of some
of the hungry days of her own childhood.

She thought her blunt question would have
insulted him, but he nodded in thoughtful agreement and stared at
her. She was accustomed to men doing so, but something in
Drummond's steady regard unnerved her.

Sara squirmed and said crossly, "What are you
gaping at now? Do I still have dirt upon my nose?"

"No, forgive me. I did not mean to be rude.
But I have never met anyone quite like you. I have known
charitable-minded women before, but they hold teas and collect
funds. I have never known any to actually visit the slums, bringing
comfort themselves."

"I have always been a woman of action, Mr.
Drummond. Now if you will excuse me, it is waxing late and I must
find myself a hackney to—"

Sara broke off, recollecting her stolen
purse. She bit her lip in vexation, realizing she would have to
return to the flat and borrow back some of the money she had given
to Chastity.

Mr. Drummond apparently realized her
predicament at the same moment for he said, "Look, Mrs. Palmer. I
hope you will not think this too forward or misinterpret my offer,
but I have my own carriage near here. I would be only too happy to
escort you home."

Too forward? His offer came as a great
relief. It would save her bothering her mother and get her safely
home. Even if Mr. Drummond's intentions were not what they should
be, Sara would know how to handle that.

But she was a pretty shrewd judge of men, and
as she stared into those steadfast grey eyes, she was fairly
certain that Mr. Drummond was a gentleman. She doubted he had ever
harbored a wicked thought toward any woman in his life. Naive,
idealistic, a dreamer and a fool, he appeared to be exactly the
sort of nobleman that Sara had always told Mandell she meant to
find one day.

Sara caught her breath at the thought.
Mandell's own cousin? No, she would never dare. She should not
consider such a thing, even in passing. Yet she caught herself
looking at Nick Drummond, speculating and trying to remember
anything Mandell had ever let slip about this cousin—the state of
Drummond's fortune, if he stood to inherit a title.

“Now I am beginning to think I am the one
with a smudge on my nose,” Nick complained good-naturedly. At the
same time, he looked endearingly self-conscious.

Sara forced her eyes down, trying to summon a
blush. It came naturally for once. She affected a maidenly
hesitation before saying, “Thank you so much for your chivalrous
offer to take me home, Mr. Drummond. I fear I am obliged to
accept.”

Drummond seemed quite pleased. When he linked
his arm through hers, Sara's heart pounded. She must be quite
mad.

Sara knew full well the marquis's opinion of
any of his noble family marrying the likes of her. If his lordship
ever suspected that she might be courting his cousin ... She
shuddered, being quite familiar with Mandell's icy temper. But she
was only accepting a carriage ride from Drummond. He might prove an
unlikely prospect for her schemes.

As Nick escorted her down the street, she
risked another glance at him. He was definitely not a handsome man.
But when he looked at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners that
way, he possessed a charming smile.

And Sara found herself smiling back.

The devil fly away with Mandell, if he had
not done so already.

CHAPTER NINE

The black cloak pooled like a shadow in the
bottom of Anne's wardrobe. As she bent down, touching the garment,
the folds of silk rustled in her fingers, whispering of night
breezes, the heat of a kiss, a vow made with passionate
desperation.