Sacrifice (Fashionably Impure Book 3) (24 page)

It is how they would deal with this obviously
touched gentleman. As though her stays had suddenly shrunk, her chest
constricted. No, no, it wasn’t her place to step out of her way to aid this
gentleman. He wasn’t her responsibility. She owed him nothing. Her breathing
came shorter, faster. It wasn’t safe to stick one’s neck out. And yet the words
rose. She tried to hold them back but they burst out, “There‘s no need for a
doctor.”

Mrs. Cook frowned deeper. “But he called you
Thérèse. That’s a French girl’s name, not yours.”

“He is calling me by my middle name.” Jeanne
held her breath and waited to see if this lie would be accepted.

Mrs. Cook blinked several times. “You have a
French middle name?”

“Yes. My mother’s mother was French.” Another
lie.

The matron’s eyes narrowed. “Just how does this
gentleman know you? He seems very well off to be on familiar terms with a
decent girl from around here.”

Jeanne caught herself biting her lip. She
quickly released it and gave the first answer that came to mind. “He’s my
cousin, on my mother’s side, twice removed.”

Again, Mrs. Cook blinked a few times then her
mouth twisted until she looked like she’d just tasted a particularly sour
lemon.

“My cousin is not well.”

“Apparently. More likely drunk as a lord.” Mrs.
Cook’s tone became sourer than her expression. “I don’t like this.”

“Pardon me?” Jeanne tried for genteel outrage.

Mrs. Cook’s tone became sharper. “I have known
you since you started coming here on Saturdays with your Papa. I always thought
you were such a dedicated daughter. A good girl. But I don’t like having fancy
pieces courting trade in my shop.”

“Mrs. Cook, this man is my cousin.”

“A wealthy relation who didn’t help you when
your dear Papa was ill?”

“My cousin was out of the country at that
time—he was in India, making his fortune.”

Mrs. Cook looked from Jeanne to the gentleman
and back. Several times. “I don’t see any family resemblance.”

Jeanne swallowed against a tightening throat.
Could everyone hear the pounding of her heart? “I favor my father’s side. He—he
is my cousin.”

Her voice came out so strained that she cringed
internally.

The matron’s expression hardened. “I think you
met this gentleman under less than respectable conditions. Perhaps in a place where
you’re known by a false name, a fancy French name to make yourself sound more
interesting to wealthy gentlemen.”

Jeanne’s mouth dried and anxiety twisted her
insides. “That’s not how it happened.”

“I’d appreciate if you took your
cousin
and left. I’d also appreciate if you never came back. I run a decent shop here,
not a place of disorderly assignation.”

Jeanne sucked in a deep breath. That had hurt.
More than she wished to admit. This was her place of comfort and respite when
her isolation became too much. And she was a horrible liar. But what else could
she have done? Consigned this poor soul to Bedlam? Oh God. She’d known he was
dangerous. Why hadn’t she listened to that inner voice?

She glanced up at the gentleman. He was gazing
at her with an odd, confused expression. Might he be ill, instead of insane?
Surely, if he were that ill, he’d be in bed.

She reached a hand to him. “Let’s leave.”

The gentleman released the chair then took her
hand and laced his fingers with hers as naturally as though he’d always done
so. “Come, Thérèse.”

They walked sedately out of the coffee shop,
just like that, with their hands intertwined.

The rain had let up yet the wind still gusted.
With her free hand, she readjusted her scarf. His hold remained firm on her
hand until they had traveled a block away. The strength of his grip sent
prickles of fear darting into her. He could easily overpower her, if his insane
whim so dictated.

He stopped just as they were about to turn the
corner, and he looked down at her. A slight smile softened his mouth. “My
darling.”

Dear heavens, he was such a gorgeous man. But
he was still a madman. Dangerous, utterly dangerous. Any sensible person knew
well to be frightened of the insane, she more than anyone. She returned his
smile but only to placate him.

“Are we headed in the proper direction for the
mews?” he asked.

“Yes, we are. They are just down this street
and to the right.”

“Esau has the carriage there.”

Well, there it was. She’d done her part keeping
him out of the clutches of an overzealous doctor. God and this Esau fellow
would have to watch over him now. She wasn’t about to get anywhere near his
carriage and risk him shoving her bodily into it.

She offered another, hopefully warm, smile.

She must have succeeded for he relaxed his grip
on her hand and they resumed walking. As they rounded the corner, she slipped
her hand from his.

And ran.

“Thérèse!”

Her heart pounded and she ran faster.

“Stop, please. For the love of God!” His tone
was hollow with desolation. Her sympathy panged her yet again. Unwittingly, she
glanced over her shoulder.

Wind whipped the gentleman’s dark forelock. He
leaned against a street lamp, one hand holding his side. He appeared to be
panting for breath, his expression a mask of loss and despair.

Just like Papa. She’d seen those emotions on
her father’s face too many times. But the expression appeared so out of place
on such an arrogant, masculine face. Her heart constricted. She turned back to
face the direction she was running and put all her energy into it.

Something came between her foot and the
pavement. She lost her balance and fell forward. As the bricks rose to meet
her, she threw her hands out to brace her fall. She cried out then reeled from
the fall. Her arm began to burn like fire. She knew she wouldn’t be able to run
easily for much longer.

She hauled herself to her feet and scanned the
shop fronts.

Mrs. Mason’s Bakery.

Relief washed over her. Mrs. Mason had always
been friendly. She had even given her day-old bread on days when she couldn’t
pay.

She darted into the shop and the scent of
baking bread and spicy cinnamon and apples comforted her.

“Good day, Miss Darling!” Mrs. Mason sang out.
“What shall it be today?

“I think I’ll have whatever smells of apples
and spice.”

“You sit and I’ll bring it right out.”

Jeanne sank into the nearest chair. Moments
later, Mrs. Mason brought hot tea and apple pie. But Jeanne found the pie
tasted like ashes and could only manage a few tiny bites. Unable to stop
twitching and fidgeting, she kept catching herself glancing back at the window.

She jerked her head away.

No, don’t look. He is not your affair.

She forced herself to focus on Mrs. Mason’s
steady chatter. The wind made a long, low, threatening howling sound. Such a
dreadful day. What about—

No, he isn’t your responsibility.

A loud crash seemed to rumble through her body
and shake her bones and resound in the pit of her stomach.

What happened? An accident? A carriage trying
to avoid a disorientated pedestrian and yet hitting them all the same?

She jumped to her feet and rushed to the
window. Some crates had blown over. Men were shouting and running about. The
sky had grown darker.

Against all her caution, her gaze was drawn
back to the direction whence she had come.

Oh God, there he was, staggering down the street
in a wavering pattern. For such a stalwart-looking man, the gentleman walked so
oddly, so slowly. Had he been in the war perhaps and suffered some irreparable
head injury that had left him this way?

Almost completely in front of the shop, he
glanced up. He had that lost, desolate look.

Her throat burned.

His gaze sharpened. Homed in on her.

Oh, damn. How stupid of her. Of course, he’d
seen her at the window. She stepped back several paces. But it was too late. He
began walking toward the door.

“Isn’t it just awful weather, Miss Darling?”
Mrs. Mason exclaimed. “My Ben can take you home in the gig later, if you like.
Come sit back down and have a chat.”

Jeanne didn’t answer, her gaze was fixed on the
gentleman as he reached for the door. He was coming in. And he looked
absolutely furious, in a cold, controlled way that was all the more
frightening. Her hand flew to her mouth to stop the cry of protest that sprung
from the depths of her and she backed away from the window.

The tiny bell tinkled as he entered, an
incongruously gay herald. His eyes blazed into hers. She gave a little squeak
and took several steps backwards until her bottom hit one of the display cases.

As he approached, he looked down at her arm.
She followed his eyes. Long red scrape marks still oozed a little blood. She
drew it behind her, scratching it along her wool gown and the wounds burned.
She winced.

His expression softened. “My darling, are you
all right?”

“Dearie, is he bothering you?” Mrs. Mason asked
in her grandmotherly tones.

“We have something to discuss,” he answered.

Jeanne inhaled sharply and gave the first
plausible explanation that came to her mind. “My father owed him money. He
thinks I can pay but I don’t have it.”

The gentleman gaped at her, his eyes gone wide
with shock that quickly transformed into raw-edged hurt.

His pain sliced into her. She began rubbing her
hands together. As though iron bands constricted her, she could barely breathe,
so greatly did sympathy overwhelm her. “Please, sir—”

She couldn’t think of what else to say.

His expression hardened, his eyes frosted.

“That’s just about enough.”

At the sound of Mrs. Mason’s voice, Jeanne
turned to the serving counter. The older woman narrowed her eyes. She reached
behind the counter and pulled out a small pistol.

Every hair on Jeanne’s body stood on end and
she gasped. “Oh, please don’t—”

“Don’t fret, dearie, I’ll take care of this,”
Mrs. Mason said as she leveled it straight and steady at the gentleman.

“Please, Mrs. Mason, put your gun away.” Jeanne
forced the words past her tightening throat muscles. “I can handle him.”

“I know how to deal with these uppity nobs.
They get two pence to rub together in their pockets, some fancy clothes, and
they think they are the lord of the manor.” Mrs. Mason said, keeping her pistol
aimed at the gentleman’s chest. “Mister, I think you better leave.”

He frowned. “Madam, do you have any idea to
whom you are speaking?”

“To whom
am
I speaking?” Mrs. Mason
asked.

The gentleman stared at her blankly. He lost
that arrogant expression. He looked forlorn once more.

Jeanne’s chest tightened again.

“You forget yourself, where you are at. You’re
not among your type here, sir.” Mrs. Mason walked closer to the gentleman. “I
left my home in Pennsylvania over forty years ago when I married. And I have
lived here among the British and made my husband‘s home my own. But I have
never been settled to bow and scrape to your kind.”

“My kind?” The gentleman asked.

Mrs. Mason jabbed the gun into his chest. “I am
sixty-seven years old. I’ll be damned before I cower to one such as you.”

The gentleman held his hands up. “I mean no
trouble.”

“What else could you be about, coming here and
terrorizing a sweet young thing like this?” Mrs. Mason harrumphed.

“I thought we had something to discuss.” He
gave Jeanne a cold, hard glance. It was so full of sadness, bitterness that it
made her heart jump. “Apparently, I was mistaken.”

“Yes, you certainly were,” Mrs. Mason said.

He turned on his heel and left the shop. The
little bell rang in the wake of his departure.

Jeanne returned to the window and watched him
staggering and veering down the street. The wind gusted again. It was such a
cold day. He had no hat. Where would he go? Who would watch out for him?

He wasn’t her responsibility.

It was dangerous to reach out to others.
Someone like him, with a disorder of the mind, would be a bottomless pit of
need. Sucking her dry.

He was turning the corner. She put her hand to
the glass. Her throat began to burn again.

A light touch settled on her shoulders. She
started and twisted around.

Mrs. Mason smiled. “It’s all over, dear.”

It was over. She was safe now. He was gone and
gone in a way that didn’t involve doctors treating him with all sorts of
barbaric, useless torture. She should be relieved. She
was
relieved.

He might still encounter dangers between here
and reaching Esau. But how much was one person required to risk for a stranger?

“Oh, you are shaking.” Mrs. Mason patted her
shoulders. “Now don’t you worry. I know his type, a craven fox preying on the
weak. But he’ll think twice about harassing you, now that he knows you’ve got
some friends in this town.” Mrs. Mason pulled her away from the window.

“I am so tired. I need to go home.”

“No, you must wait. Be sure he is gone. You
should finish your pie and have some more tea.”

“Yes, of course you’re right.” Jeanne followed
her back to the table and chairs. She took some coins out of her reticule and
placed them on the table.

Mrs. Mason shook her head. “My treat today.”

“No, I insist.”

Mrs. Mason waved dismissively. “I have to
attend to the baking but you stay here and rest yourself. Ben will drive you
home later. If that coxcomb comes back, you just call for me.”

Mrs. Mason hurried away to the backroom.

Jeanne stared into the steaming cup.

Tap, tap, tap.

She looked up. Raindrops pattered the window.
No, not rain. Sleet. The drops stuck to the glass, then melted and slid down.

What if the gentleman were truly ill and
delirious with fever? Not insane at all? He had no hat. Was lost. Alone. The
burn in her throat swelled into a sob. She slapped her hand to her mouth and
pressed it back.