The lone figure of a woman stood in the shadows. She leaned against the wall of a crumbling lodging house, her shoulders hunched as if she were ill. Derek Craven’s hard green eyes flickered over her as he came from the back-alley gaming hell. Such a sight wasn’t unusual in the streets of London, especially in the rookery, where human suffering was visible in all its variety. Here, a short but significant distance from the splendor of St. James, the buildings were a crumbling mass of filth. The area was crawling with beggars, prostitutes, swindlers, thieves. His kind of people.
No decent female would be found here, especially after dusk. But if she was a whore, she was dressed strangely for it. Her gray cloak parted in the front to reveal a high-necked gown made of dark cloth. The lock of hair that strayed from beneath her hood was an indistinct brown. It was possible she was waiting for an errant husband, or perhaps she was a shopgirl who had lost her way.
People glanced furtively at the woman, but they passed her without breaking pace. If she remained here much longer, there was no doubt she would be raped or robbed, even beaten and left for dead. The gentlemanly thing to do would be to go to her, inquire about her well-being, express concern for her safety.
But he was no gentleman. Derek turned away, striding along the broken pavement. He had grown up in the streets—born in the gutter, nursed through infancy by a group of ragged prostitutes, and educated in his youth by criminals of every kind. He was familiar with the schemes used to prey upon the unwary, the few efficient moments it took to rob a man and crush his throat. Women were frequently used in such plots as bait or lookouts, or even assailants. A soft feminine hand could do a great deal of damage when it was wrapped around an iron cudgel, or when it clutched a stocking weighted with a pound or two of shot.
Gradually Derek became aware of footsteps close behind him. Something about them caused a warning prickle along his spine. Two sets of heavy footsteps, belonging to men. Deliberately he changed his pace, and they adjusted to match. They were following him. Perhaps they had been sent by his rival Ivo Jenner to cause mischief. Swearing silently, Derek began to round a corner.
As he expected, they made their move. Swiftly he turned and ducked beneath the drive of a clenched fist. Relying on instinct and years of experience, he shifted his weight to one leg and lashed out with his booted foot, striking a blow to the assailant’s stomach. The man gave a muffled gasp of surprise and staggered back. Whipping around, Derek lunged for the second man, but it was too late…He felt the thud of a metal object on his back and a blinding impact on his head. Stunned, he fell heavily to the ground. The two men crawled over his twitching body.
“Do it quick,” one of them said, his voice muffled. Struggling, Derek felt his head pushed back. He struck out with a clenched fist, but his arm was pinned to the ground. There was a slash across his face, a dull roar in his ears, hot wetness flowing in his eyes and mouth…his own blood. He sputtered a groaning protest, writhing to free himself from the searing pain. It was happening too quickly. He couldn’t stop them. He had always been afraid of death, for somehow he had known it would come like this, not in peace, but in pain and violence and darkness.
Sara stopped to read through the information she had gathered so far. Peering through her spectacles, she puzzled over the new cant words she had heard that night. The language of the street changed quickly from year to year, an evolving process that fascinated her. Leaning against a wall for privacy, she pored over the notes she had made and scribbled a few corrections with her pencil. The gamblers had referred to playing cards as “flats” and had cautioned each other to watch out for the “crushers,” which was perhaps intended to describe policemen. One thing she hadn’t figured out yet was the difference between “rampsmen” and “dragsmen,” both words used to refer to street thieves. Well, she would have to find out…it was imperative that she use the correct terms. Her first two novels, Mathilda and The Beggar, had both been praised for their attention to detail. She would not want her third, as yet untitled, to be faulted for inaccuracies.
She wondered if the men coming and going from the gambling hell would be able to answer her questions. Most of them were quite disreputable, with unshaven faces and poor hygiene. Perhaps it would be unwise to ask them anything—they might not welcome an interruption in their evening revels. On the other hand, she needed to talk to them for the sake of her book. And Sara was always careful not to judge people by outward appearances.
Suddenly she was aware of a disturbance near the corner. She tried to see what was happening, but the street was shrouded in darkness. After folding the sheaf of paper she had stitched together to form a little book, she slipped it into her handbag and ventured forth curiously. A torrent of crude words brought color to her cheeks. No one used such language in Greenwood Corners except old Mr. Dawson, when he drank too much spiced punch at the annual town Christmas festival.
There were three figures engaged in a struggle. It appeared that two men were holding a third on the ground and beating him. She heard the sounds of fists pounding on flesh. Frowning uncertainly, Sara clutched her reticule as she watched. Her heart began to pound like a rabbit’s. It would be unwise to involve herself. She was here as an observer, not a participant. But the poor victim made such piteous groans…and all at once her horrified gaze took in the flash of a knife.
They were going to murder him.
Hastily Sara fumbled in her handbag for the pistol she always carried on her research trips. She had never used it on anyone before, but she had practiced target shooting in a country field to the southeast of Greenwood Corners. Drawing out the small weapon, she cocked it and hesitated.
“Here, now!” she called out, trying to make her voice strong and authoritative. “I insist that you stop at once!”
One of the men looked over at her. The other ignored her cry, raising the knife once more. They did not consider her a threat at all. Biting her lip, Sara raised the trembling pistol and aimed to the left of them. She couldn’t kill anyone—she doubted her conscience would tolerate it—but perhaps the loud noise would frighten them. Steadying her hand, she pulled the trigger.
As the echoes of the pistol’s report died away, Sara opened her eyes to view the results of her efforts. To her amazement, she realized she had unintentionally hit one of the men…dear God, in the throat! He was on his knees, clasping the gushing wound with his hands. Abruptly he toppled over with a gurgling noise. The other man was frozen. She couldn’t see his shadowed face.
“Go away now,” Sara heard herself say, her voice shaking with fear and dismay. “Or…or I shall find it necessary to shoot you as well!”
He seemed to melt away into the darkness like a ghost. Sara crept to the two bodies on the ground. Her mouth gaped open in horror, and she covered it with her unsteady fingers. She had very definitely killed a man. Edging around his fallen body, she approached the victim of the attack.
His face was covered with blood. It dripped from his black hair and soaked the front of his evening clothes. A sickening feeling came over her as she wondered if rescue had come too late for him. Sara slipped the pistol back into her handbag. She was cold all over, and very unsteady. In all her sheltered twenty-five years, nothing like this had ever happened to her. She looked from one body to the other. If only there were a foot patrol nearby, or one of the renowned and highly trained city officers. She found herself waiting for something to happen. Someone would come across the scene very soon. A sense of guilt crept through her shock. Dear Lord, how could she live with herself, knowing what she had done?
Sara peered down at the victim of the robbery with a mixture of curiosity and pity. It was difficult to see his face through all the blood, but he appeared to be a young man. His clothes were well-made, the kind of garments that were to be found on Bond Street. Suddenly she saw his chest move. She blinked in surprise. “S-sir?” she asked, leaning over him.
He lunged upward, and she gave a terrified squeak. A large hand grasped the material of her bodice, clenching too tightly to allow her to pull away. The other hand came up to her face. His palm rested on her cheek, his trembling fingers smearing blood across the surface of her spectacles. After a frantic attempt to escape, Sara subsided into an unsteady heap beside him.
“I have foiled your attackers, sir.” Gamely she tried to pry his fingers away from her bodice. His grip was like iron. “I believe I may have saved your life. Unhand me…please…”
He took a long time to reply. Gradually his hand fell away from her face and drifted down her arm until he found her wrist. “ ’Elp me up,” he said roughly, surprising her with his accent. She wouldn’t have expected a man wearing such fine clothes to speak with a cockney twang.
“It would be better if I called for assistance—”
“Not ’ere,” he managed to gasp. “Empty-’eaded fool. We’ll be…robbed an’ gutted in a frigging second.”
Offended by his harshness, Sara was tempted to point out that a little gratitude wouldn’t be amiss. But he must be in considerable pain. “Sir,” she said tentatively, “your face…if you will allow me to get the handkerchief from my reticule—”
“You fired the pistol shot?”
“I’m afraid so.” Easing her hand inside her reticule, she pushed past the gun and found the handkerchief. Before she could pull it out, he tightened his grip on her wrist. “Let me help you,” she said quietly.
His fingers loosened, and she brought forth the handkerchief, a clean, serviceable square of linen. Gently she dabbed at his face and pressed the folded linen against the hideous gash that ran from his brow to the center of his opposite cheek. It would be disfiguring. For his sake, she hoped he wouldn’t lose an eye. A hiss of pain escaped his lips, spattering her with blood. Wincing, Sara touched his hand and brought it to his face. “Perhaps you could hold this in place? Good. Now, if you’ll wait here, I’ll try to find someone to assist us—”
“No.” He continued to hold the fabric of her dress, his knuckles digging into the soft curve of her breasts. “I’m awright. Get me to Craven’s. St. James Street.”
“But I’m not strong enough, or familiar with the city—”
“It’s close enow to ’ere.”
“Wh-what about the man I shot? We can’t just leave the body.”
He gave a sardonic snort. “Pox on ’im. Get me to St. James.”
Sara wondered what he would do if she refused. He seemed to be a man of volatile temperament. In spite of his injuries, he was still quite capable of hurting her. The hand at her bosom was large and very strong.
Slowly Sara removed her spectacles and placed them in her reticule. She slid her arm beneath his coat and around his lean waist, blushing in dismay. She had never embraced a man except for her own father, and Perry Kingswood, her almost-fiancé. Neither of them had felt like this. Perry was quite fit, but he was not at all comparable to this big, rawboned stranger. Struggling to her feet, she staggered as the man used her to lever himself up. She hadn’t expected him to be so tall. He braced his arm across her small shoulders while he kept the handkerchief clutched over his face. He gave a slight groan.
“Are you all right, sir? That is, are you able to walk?”
That produced a choking laugh. “Who the ’ell are you?”
Sara took a hesitant step in the direction of St. James, and he lurched along beside her. “Miss Sara Fielding,” she said, then added cautiously, “of Greenwood Corners.”
He coughed and spat a mouthful of blood-tinged saliva. “Why did you help me?”
Sara couldn’t help noticing that his accent had improved. He sounded almost like a gentleman, but the trace of cockney was still there, softening his consonants and flattening his vowels. “I had no choice,” she replied, bearing up underneath his weight. He clasped his ribs with his free arm and held on to her with the other. “When I saw what those men were doing—”
“You had a choice,” he said harshly. “You could’ve walked away.”
“Turn my back on someone in trouble? The idea is unthinkable.”
“It’s done all the time.”
“Not where I’m from, I assure you.” Noticing that they were straying toward the middle of the street, Sara guided him back to the side, where they were concealed in the darkness. This was the oddest night of her life. She hadn’t anticipated that she would be walking through a London rookery with a battered stranger. He peeled the handkerchief back from his face, and Sara was relieved to see that the bleeding had slowed. “You’d better hold it against the wound,” she said. “We must find a doctor.” She was surprised that he hadn’t asked about the extent of the damage. “From what I was able to see, they made a long slash across your face. But it doesn’t seem to be deep. If it heals well, your appearance might not be affected greatly.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
The remark sharpened Sara’s curiosity. “Sir, do you have friends at Craven’s? Is that why we are going there?”
“Yes.”
“Are you by any chance acquainted with Mr. Craven?”
“I am Derek Craven.”
“The Mr. Craven?” Her eyes widened in excitement. “The same one who founded the famous club and came from the underworld and…Were you really born in a drainpipe, as the legend says? Is it true that you—”
“Lower your voice, damn you.”
Sara couldn’t believe her good fortune. “This is quite a coincidence, Mr. Craven. As it happens, I’m in the process of researching a novel about gambling. That’s why I’m here at this time of night. Greenwood Corners isn’t a very worldly sort of place, and therefore I found it necessary to come to London. My book will be a fictional work which will include many descriptions of people and places significant to the gaming culture—”
“Jaysus,” he growled. “Anything you want—a frigging fortune—if you’ll keep your mouth shut until we get there.”
“Sir—” Sara tugged him away from a small pile of rubble, which he might have tripped over. Knowing that he was in pain, she didn’t take offense at his rudeness. The hand clenched at her shoulder was trembling. “We’re almost out of the rookery, Mr. Craven. You’ll be all right.”
Derek’s head swam, and he fought to keep his balance. The blow to his head seemed to have knocked his brains out of place. Tightening his grip on the small form beside him, he matched his shuffling footsteps to hers. He leaned over her more heavily until the fabric of her hood brushed his ear. A kind of dull amazement took hold of him. Blindly he followed the talkative little stranger and hoped to God she was leading him in the right direction. It was the closest to praying he’d ever come.
She was asking him something. He fought to concentrate on her words. “…should we ascend the front steps, or is there another way—”
“Side door,” he muttered, squinting from behind the handkerchief. “Ower there.”
“My. What a large building.” Sara regarded the club with awe. The massive building was fronted by eight Corinthian columns and seven pediments, and bordered by two wings. The whole of it was surrounded by a marble balustrade. She would have liked to have gone up the front steps and seen the famed entrance hall, filled with stained glass, blue velvet, and chandeliers. But of course Mr. Craven would not want to show himself like this in front of the club members. After she guided him to the side of the building, they descended a short flight of steps that led to a heavy wooden door.
Derek grasped the handle and pushed the door open. Immediately they were approached by Gill, one of his employees. “Mr. Craven?” the young man exclaimed, his gaze darting from the blood-soaked handkerchief clutched to Derek’s face, to Sara’s apprehensive eyes. “Good Lord—”
“Get Worthy,” Derek muttered. He brushed by Gill and made his way through the small panelled antechamber. The winding staircase led to his private apartments. Contemplating the six-flight climb, he motioned abruptly for Sara to join him.
Surprised that he would want her to help him up the stairs, Sara hesitated. She glanced at the young employee, who was already walking away from them, disappearing down a wide, carpeted hallway.
“Come,” Derek said gruffly, motioning for her again. “You think I ’as all night to stand ’ere?”
She went to him immediately, and he draped a heavy arm across her shoulders. Together they began the walk up the steps. “Who is Worthy?” she asked, sliding an arm around his hard waist to steady him.
“Factotum.” Derek’s ribs seemed to cut through his innards like dull knives. His face burned like fire. He heard himself talking, all the years of tutoring dropping away to reveal his thick cockney accent. “Worvy…does ewerything…’elps me run the club. Trusts ’im…wiv my life.” He stumbled on the landing and gave a whimpering curse.
Sara tightened her arm on his waist. “Wait. If you fall, I couldn’t stop you. We must wait for someone strong to assist you the rest of the way.”
“You’re strong enow.” He began the next flight, his arm gripped around her shoulders.
“Mr. Craven,” Sara protested. Clumsily they ascended another two flights, Sara was terrified that he might faint and fall down the stairs. She began to encourage him, saying anything she could think of to keep him moving. “Almost there…Come, you’re stubborn enough to climb a few more…Stay on your feet…”
She was breathing hard from exertion as they mounted the last step and came to the door of his private apartments. They crossed the entrance hall and came to a drawing room decorated with acres of plum velvet and rich brocade. Her astonished gaze took note of the gilt-embossed leather on the walls, the regal parade of French windows, and the splendid view of the city outside. Following Mr. Craven’s mumbled directions, she helped him to the bedchamber. The room was lined with green damask and elaborate mirrors. It contained the largest bed she had ever seen in her life. Blushing deeply, Sara reflected that she had never been in a man’s bedroom before. Her embarrassment was washed away in concern as Mr. Craven crawled onto the bed, boots and all. He sprawled on his back with a gasp and became very still. The arm clamped over his ribs relaxed.
“Mr. Craven? Mr. Craven—” Sara hovered over him, wondering what to do. He had fainted. His long body was unmoving, his large hands half-clenched. Reaching down to his throat, she unknotted his stained cravat. Carefully she unwound the cloth and pulled the handkerchief away from his face.
The slash went from his right temple, across the bridge of his nose, and down to the edge of his left cheekbone. Although his features were blunt, they were strong and even. His lips parted to reveal startlingly white teeth. Coppery smears of blood covered his swarthy skin, crusting in the thick lines of his brows and in his long eyelashes.
Spying a washstand across the room, Sara hurried to it and found cool water in the pitcher. After pouring a few inches of liquid into the basin, she brought it to the bedside table. She dampened a cloth and pressed it to his face, wiping away the blood and dirt. As she cleaned his eyes and cheeks, the water revived him, and he made a hoarse sound. His thick lashes lifted. Sara paused in her task as she found herself looking into intense green eyes, the color of grass on a cool spring morning. There was a strange sensation in her chest. Pinned in place by his gaze, she couldn’t move or speak.
He raised his hand, touching one of the locks of hair that had fallen from her pins. His voice was hoarse. “Your name…again.”
“Sara,” she whispered.
Just then two men entered the room, one of them small and bespectacled, the other elderly and tall. “Mr. Craven,” the smaller one said soberly. “I’ve brought Dr. Hindley.”
“Whiskey,” Derek croaked. “I’ve ’ad the piss knocked out ow me.”
“You were in a fight?” Worthy bent over him, his mild face wreathed in surprise. “Oh, no. Your face.” He stared disapprovingly at Sara, who stood by wringing her hands. “I hope this young woman was worth it, Mr. Craven.”
“I wasn’t fighting ower ’er,” Derek said, before Sara could intervene. “It was Jenner’s men, I think. Two ow ’em armed wiv a neddy jumped me in the street. This little mouse…pulls out a pistol an’ shoots one ow the bastards.”
“Well.” Worthy regarded Sara with a much warmer expression. “Thank you, miss. It was very brave of you.”
“I wasn’t brave at all,” Sara said earnestly. “I didn’t stop to think. It happened very quickly.”
“In any case, we owe you our gratitude.” Worthy hesitated before adding, “I am employed by Mr. Craven to deal with disturbances on the floor, as well as”—he glanced at Craven’s bloodstained body and finished lamely—“any other matters that require my attention.”
Sara smiled at him. Worthy was a very nice-looking man, with small, neat features, thinning hair on top; and gleaming spectacles perched on his pointed nose. There was an air of patience about him that she guessed would not be easily shaken. Together he and the doctor bent over the bed, removing Craven’s shoes and clothes. Sara turned away, modestly averting her gaze. She began to walk from the room, but Craven said something gruffly, and Worthy stopped her. “I think it would be best if you didn’t leave yet, Miss—”
“Fielding,” she murmured, keeping her eyes on the floor. “Sara Fielding.”
The name seemed to awaken his interest. “Any relation to S. R. Fielding, the novelist?”
“Sara Rose,” she said. “I use my initials for the sake of anonymity.”
The doctor looked up from the bed with an expression of startled delight. “You are S. R. Fielding?”
“Yes, sir.”
The news seemed to animate him. “What an honor this is! Mathilda is one of my favorite novels.”
“It was my most successful work,” Sara admitted modestly.
“My wife and I have spent many an evening discussing our theories on the ending of the novel. Did Mathilda cast herself from the bridge to end her misery, or did she choose to seek atonement for her sins—”
“Excuse me,” said an icy voice from the bed. “I’m frigging bleeding to death. Mathilda can go tip a pike.”
Sara frowned contritely. “Oh, I’m sorry. Dr. Hindley, please see to Mr. Craven at once.” She turned her gaze to Worthy. “Where would you like me to wait?”
“In the next room, if you please. You’re welcome to ring for tea and refreshments.”
“Thank you.” As Sara went to the drawing room, she wondered what it was about Mathilda that always inspired such interest. The book’s popularity never failed to amaze her. There had even been a recent stage production of the story. People tended to discuss the character of Mathilda as if she were a real person, seeming to enjoy endless debates concerning the novel’s conclusion. After writing the story of a girl who had run away from the country and fallen into the sinful ways of prostitution, Sara had deliberately left a question as to the ending. On the last page, Mathilda was poised at the edge of London Bridge, faced with the decision to end her ruined life or commit herself to a selfless existence of doing good for others. Readers could form their own opinions about Mathilda’s fate. Personally, Sara didn’t think it important to know whether Mathilda lived or died…the point was that she had learned the error of her ways.
Discovering that her reticule was hanging forgotten from her arm, Sara delved inside and found her spectacles. She polished them on her sleeve until they shone, placed them on her nose, and located her notebook. “ ‘Tip a pike,’ ” she mused, writing down the unfamiliar expression. She must ask someone to explain it later.
Slowly she removed her cloak and draped it over the back of a chair. She felt as if she were trapped in a temporarily vacated lion’s den. After walking to the windows, she pushed aside the heavy plum-colored drapes to reveal a view of the street. All of London was just outside these thin panes of glass, a world of busy people absorbed in their own lives. She turned to gaze at the gold mirrors adorning the walls, and the sumptuous furniture upholstered with painted white velvet. The tables, inlaid with semi-precious stones, were weighted with arrangements of fresh hothouse flowers. The room was beautiful, but too extravagant.
Sara preferred the small cottage she and her elderly parents lived in. There was a kitchen garden in the back, and fruit trees that her father tended meticulously. They had a small yard and paddock, and an old gray horse named Eppie. The faded furniture in their small parlor was constantly filled with callers. Her parents had many friends. Nearly everyone in Greenwood Corners had come to visit at one time or another.
This, by contrast, was a splendid and lonely palace. Sara stood in front of a vivid oil painting depicting Roman gods involved in some decadent celebration. She was distracted by a groan from the next room, and a curse from Mr. Craven. They must be stitching the wound on his face. Sara tried to ignore the sounds, but after a few moments, curiosity compelled her to investigate.
Coming to the doorway, she saw Worthy and Dr. Hindley leaning over Mr. Craven’s head. His lower body, covered with a white sheet, was still. But his hands were twitching at his sides, as if he longed to shove the doctor away from him.
“We’ve given you all the laudanum we can, Mr. Craven,” Dr. Hindley remarked, drawing another stitch through the cut.
“Damn stuff…never works on me. More whiskey.”
“If you’ll just be patient, Mr. Craven, it will be done in a few minutes.”
Another pained groan erupted. “Damn you and everyone else in your stinking, bloodletting, bone-sawing, corpse-humping business—”
“Mr. Craven,” Worthy interrupted hastily. “Dr. Hindley is doing his best to repair the damage done to your face. He is trying to help you. Please don’t antagonize him.”
“It’s quite all right,” the doctor said calmly. “By now I know what to expect from him.” He continued to join the edges of skin with small, careful stitches.
All was quiet for a moment, and then Derek gave a muffled gasp. “Bloody ’ell. I don’t care what it looks like. Leave me alone—” He made a move to get up from the bed.
Sara entered the room immediately. It was clear that Craven had a quick temper, but he must be coaxed into staying. It would be a shame not to let the doctor salvage what he could of his face.
“Sir,” she said briskly, “I know it is uncomfortable, but you must let the doctor finish. You may not care about your appearance now, but you might later. Besides…” She paused and added pointedly, “a large, strong man such as yourself should be able to bear a little pain. I assure you, it’s nothing compared to the suffering a woman endures in labor!”
Slowly Derek eased back to the mattress. “How do you know?” he sneered.
“I was present at a childbirth once in Greenwood Corners. It lasted for hours, and my friend bore the agony with hardly a sound.”
Worthy looked at her pleadingly. “Miss Fielding, you would be more comfortable in the next room—”
“I’m distracting Mr. Craven with some conversation. It might take his mind off the pain. Wouldn’t you prefer that, Mr. Craven? Or should I leave?”
“Do I have a choice? Stay. Flap your gums.”
“Shall I tell you about Greenwood Corners?”
“No.” Derek damped his teeth together and stifled a grunt. “About yourself.”
“Very well.” Sara approached the bed, taking care to preserve a discreet distance. “I am twenty-five years old. I live in the country with my parents—” She paused as she heard Mr. Craven’s panting groan. The stitch-taking was hurting him.
“Go on,” he said sharply.
Sara searched frantically for more to tell him. “I-I’m being courted by a young man who lives in the village. We share the same fondness for books, although his tastes are more refined than mine. He doesn’t approve of the fiction I write.” She crept closer and stared at Craven curiously. Although she was unable to see his face, she had a good view of his chest, which was covered with a great amount of dark hair. The sight was startling. The only male chests she had been privileged to view before now were those of hairless Greek statues. Above his lean waist and midriff, his chest and shoulders were powerfully muscled, and splotched with bruises. “Mr. Kingswood—that’s his name—has been courting me for almost four years. I believe that his proposal will come soon.”
“Four years?”
Sara felt mildly defensive at his jeering tone. “There have been a few difficulties. His mother is a widow, and she relies on him a great deal. They live together, you see. Mrs. Kingswood doesn’t approve of me.”
“Why not?”
“Well…she doesn’t consider any woman quite good enough for her son. And she dislikes the subject matter I have chosen for my novels. Prostitution, poverty…” Sara shrugged. “But they are issues that need to be addressed.”
“Especially when you makes money off ’em?”
“Enough to keep my parents and myself in a comfortable style,” she admitted with a smile. “You’re a cynical man, Mr. Craven.”
His breath hissed through his teeth as the needle pierced his skin. “You would be too, if you knowed anyfing about the world outside your stinking village.” The ordeal was making his accent slip again.
“Greenwood Corners is a very nice place,” Sara said, mildly provoked. “And I know a great many things about the world.”
Derek held his breath for a moment, then let it burst forth. “Dammit, ’ow much longer—”
“A few more,” the doctor murmured.
Derek struggled to keep his mind on the conversation with Sara. “Writing books about whores…I’ll bet you newer…joined giblets wiv a man in your lily-white life.”
Dr. Hindley and Worthy began to reprove him, but Sara smiled quizzically. “ ‘Joined giblets?’…I’ve never heard it put that way before.”
“You ’asn’t been long enow in the rookery.”
“That’s true,” she said seriously. “I must make several more visits there before my research is complete.”
“You’re not going back,” he informed her. “God knows ’ow you lasted this long. Bloody little fool, traipsing through the rookery at night—”
“This is the last stitch,” Dr. Hindley announced, carefully tying off the thread. Derek sighed in relief and fell silent.
Worthy left the bedside and came to Sara, smiling apologetically. “Forgive Mr. Craven. He’s only rude to the people he likes.”
“Will he be all right?” she whispered.
“Certainly. He’s a very strong man. He has survived worse than this.” Worthy looked at her closely, his expression softening into concern. “You’re trembling, Miss Fielding.”
Sara nodded and took a deep breath. “I suppose I’m not used to so much excitement.” She hadn’t realized how rattled she was until now. “Everything happened so quickly.”
“You must rest for a little while,” Worthy urged, “and steady your nerves with some brandy.”
“Yes…perhaps a splash, in a cup of tea.” She twined her fingers together. “I’m staying with friends of my parents, the Goodmans. The hour is late…they might worry…”
“As soon as you’re ready, we’ll have a private carriage convey you anywhere you wish.”
“Worthy!” Derek’s disgruntled voice interrupted them. “Stop that bloody whispering. Give the country mouse some money and send ’er back where she came from.”
Worthy began to reply, but Sara stopped him with a light touch on his arm. Squaring her small shoulders, she approached the bed. “Mr. Craven,” she said calmly, “you’re very kind to offer a reward, but I have enough money to suit my needs. However, I would be grateful if you would allow me to tour your club, and perhaps ask a few questions of your employees. As I mentioned earlier, I’m writing a novel, and you could help me—”
“No.”
“Mr. Craven, it is a reasonable request, considering the fact that I saved your life tonight.”
“Like ’ell you did.”
Sara was taken aback. “But those two men were trying to kill you!”
“If they’d wanted that, I’d be dead now.”
“Then…their purpose was to…to deliberately mark your face?” She recoiled in horror. “But why would anyone want to do such a thing?”
“Mr. Craven has many enemies,” Worthy remarked, his round face troubled. “In particular a man named Ivo Jenner, who owns a rival club. But I wouldn’t have expected Jenner to do something like this.”
“Maybe not,” Derek muttered, closing his eyes. “Maybe it was someone else. Worvy…take ’er out of ’ere.”
“But Mr. Craven,” Sara protested.
“Come,” Worthy said, shushing her gently. He urged her away from the bedside. Reluctantly Sara followed him to the next room.
Left alone, Derek gave a soft laugh threaded with bitterness. “Damn you, Joyce,” he whispered, and raised a hand to touch the stitches on his face.
After Dr. Hindley departed, Worthy rang for tea and stirred the fire in the grate. “Now,” he said pleasantly, sitting in a chair near Sara’s, “we may talk without interruption.”
“Mr. Worthy, could you try to make Mr. Craven understand that I wouldn’t be a nuisance, or inconvenience him in any way? All I want is to observe the activities at the club, and ask a few questions—”
“I will talk to Mr. Craven,” Worthy assured her. “And I’ll allow you to visit the club tomorrow while Mr. Craven is indisposed.” Worthy smiled at her obvious excitement. “It is a privilege rarely granted to women, you know, except on assembly nights. There was only one other lady who has even been allowed to cross the threshold.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of her—they called her Lawless Lily. She was Mr. Craven’s paramour for a number of years, wasn’t she?”
“Things are not always what they seem, Miss Fielding.”
They were interrupted by a maid bearing a tray of tea and delicate sandwiches. Efficiently Worthy poured Sara’s tea and added a liberal amount of brandy. Balancing the cup and saucer on her lap, Sara nibbled on a sandwich, feeling as if she were slowly awakening from a nightmare. She stretched her damp feet toward the warm fire, taking care not to expose her ankles.
“There is only one condition I must ask of you,” Worthy said, settling back in his chair. “You must not approach Mr. Craven, or ask him any questions. In fact, I insist that you take care to avoid him. You will be free to talk to anyone else at the club. We will all try to be as accommodating as possible.”
Sara frowned in disappointment. “But Mr. Craven could be of great help to me. There are things I would like to ask him—”
“He is an intensely private man who has spent his life trying to escape his past. I assure you, he will not want to talk about himself.”
“Is there anything you could tell me about him?” She sipped her tea and watched the factotum hopefully.
“He’s not easy to describe. Derek Craven is by far the most complicated individual I’ve ever met. He is capable of kindness, but…” Worthy drank some brandy and contemplated the rich amber depths in the glass. “I’m afraid that all too often Mr. Craven reveals himself as a man of ruined potential. He comes from a world more savage than you could begin to comprehend, Miss Fielding. All he knows about his mother was that she was a prostitute who worked at Tiger Bay, a dockland street where sailors and criminals go to be serviced. She gave birth to him in a drainpipe and abandoned him there. Some of the other harlots took pity on the infant and sheltered him for the first part of his life in local brothels and flash houses.”
“Oh, Mr. Worthy,” Sara said in a strangled voice. “How dreadful for a child to be exposed to such things.”
“He began to work at five or six years of age as a climbing boy for a chimney sweep. When he became too old to climb, he resorted to begging, thievery, dock labor…There is a period of a few years which he will not speak of at all, as if it never existed. I don’t know what he did at that time…nor do I wish to know. Somehow in the midst of it all he gained a rudimentary understanding of letters and numbers. By his teens he had educated himself enough to become a Newmarket bookmaker. According to him, it was at that time that he conceived the idea of operating his own gambling club someday.”
“What remarkable ambition for a boy with such origins.”
Worthy nodded. “It would have been an extraordinary achievement for him to build a small den in the city. Instead, he dreamed of creating a club so exclusive that the most powerful men in the world would clamor to be allowed membership.”
“And that’s precisely what he’s done,” she marveled.
“Yes. He was born without a shilling to his name…” Worthy paused. “He was born without a name, as a matter of fact. Now he is wealthier than most of the gentry that patronizes his club. No one is really aware of how much Mr. Craven owns. Landed estates, houses, streets lined with rent-paying shops and tenants, private art collections, yachts, race-horses…it’s astounding. And he keeps track of every farthing.”
“What is his goal? What does he ultimately want?”
Worthy smiled faintly. “I can tell you in a word. More. He’s never satisfied.” Seeing that she had finished her tea, he inquired if she wanted another cup.
Sara shook her head. The brandy, the firelight, and Worthy’s calm voice had all combined to make her drowsy. “I must leave now.”
“I’ll have a carriage brought around.”
“No, no, the Goodmans live a short distance from here. I shall go on foot.”
“Nonsense,” the factotum interrupted firmly. “It is ill-advised for a lady to go anywhere on foot, especially at this time of night. What happened to Mr. Craven is an example of the dangers that could befall you.” They both stood up. Worthy was about to say something else, but his words died away, and he stared at her oddly. Most of Sara’s hair had fallen from its pins to her shoulders, the red glow of firelight dancing over the chestnut waves. There was something oddly moving about her quaint, old-fashioned prettiness, which would easily be passed over in this day when more exotic beauty was preferred.
“There’s something almost otherworldly about you…” Worthy murmured, quite forgetting himself. “It has been too long since I’ve seen such innocence in a woman’s face.”
“Innocent?” Sara shook her head and laughed. “Oh, Mr. Worthy, I know all about vice and sin—”
“But you’ve been untouched by it.”
Sara chewed her lip pensively. “Nothing ever seems to happen in Greenwood Corners,” she admitted, “I’m always writing about the things other people do. Sometimes I’m desperate to live, to have adventures and feel things, and—” She broke off and made a face. “I hardly know what I’m saying. What must you think of me?”
“I think,” Worthy said with a smile, “that if you long for adventure, Miss Fielding, you’ve made quite a start tonight.”
Sara was pleased by the notion. “That’s true.” She sobered immediately. “About the man I shot—I didn’t intend to harm him—”
“You saved Mr. Craven from horrible disfigurement, if not death,” Worthy said gently. “Whenever you feel guilty about what you’ve done, you might remind yourself of that.”
The advice made Sara feel better. “You’ll allow me to return tomorrow?”
“I insist that you do so.”
She gave him an enchanting smile. “Well, in that case…” Taking his proffered arm, she allowed him to escort her downstairs.
Derek lay stretched out on the bed. The laudanum coursed through his veins, making him sluggish, dizzy. It did little to numb the pain, or his self-disgust. His lips pulled into a bitter smile. He almost would have preferred it if his attackers had made a proper beast of him, instead of giving him a piddling slash that made him look less a monster and more a fool.
He thought of Joyce, and waited for a feeling of betrayal, anger, anything but this cold sense of admiration. At least she cared enough about something to take action, even if it was her own pride. Whereas he couldn’t bring himself to care about anything. He had everything he’d ever wanted…wealth, women, even the pleasure of watching his betters scrape their boots at the entrance of his club. But over the past two years all his former voracious appetites had dried up, and he was left with nothing, a young man with a withered soul.
It was the absence of feeling that had driven him to Lady Ashby’s bed, and ultimately had led to tonight’s disaster. Joyce, with her sinuous body, blond hair, and catlike eyes, had stirred an interest that he hadn’t felt in a long time. Mild though the feeling was, it had been enough to make him pursue her. He couldn’t deny there had been many entertaining nights, filled with sophisticated games and sensual depravity…and it took a hell of a lot to make him feel depraved. Finally Derek had ended the liaison, disgusted with himself as well as her. The memory rolled over him, and he relived it in a drugged stupor.
“You can’t be serious,” Joyce had said, her silky voice amused at first. “You would never give me up.” She stretched on the bed, her naked body unconcealed by the rumpled linen sheets. “Tell me, who would it be after me? Some bovine country maid? Some little actress with bleached hair and red stockings? You can’t go back to that, Derek. You’ve developed a taste for finer things.”
Derek had grinned at her confident tone. “You aristocratic ladies and your gold-plated twats. You always think it’s such a honor for me to touch you.” He surveyed her with mocking green eyes. “You think you’re the first high-kick wench I’ve ever had? I used to have blue-blooded bitches like you pay me to do this. You’ve gotten it for free.”
Joyce’s beautiful face, with its narrow, aristocratic nose and sharply sculpted cheekbones, was suddenly pinched with rage. “You lying bastard.”
“How do you think I got the money to start my club? They called themselves my ‘patronesses.’ ” Derek gave her a hard smile, pulling on his trousers.
Joyce’s red lips parted in a sneering laugh. “Then you were nothing but a whore? A male whore?” The idea clearly excited her.
“Among other things.” He buttoned his shirt and faced the mirror to straighten his collar.
Joyce slid from the bed and strode to him, pausing for a moment to admire her naked body in the mirror. Married at a young age to an elderly widowed earl, she had satisfied her sexual urges by taking a long string of lovers. Any pregnancies had been terminated quickly, for she would never ruin her figure with children, and the earl had already begotten suitable heirs with his first wife. Joyce’s cunning wit and beauty had made her a society favorite. A lovely predator, she devoted herself to ruining any woman whom she perceived as a threat to her own position. With a few carefully chosen words and some brilliantly engineered “coincidences” Joyce had been known to shred many a good reputation and cast innocent women into the depths of disgrace.
Derek also looked into the mirror, seeing what Joyce intended him to see, the erotic contrast between his clothed form and her gold-and-white nakedness. At times Joyce could seem as guileless as an angel, but he had seen her turn into a witch with wild hair and a contorted face, screaming at the height of ecstasy and clawing him with her long nails. She was the most wanton woman he’d ever known, willing to do anything for the sake of pleasure, no matter how debauched. They were quite a pair, he thought grimly, both of them existing only to satisfy their own needs.
Keeping her pale blue eyes on his expressionless face, Joyce ran her hand over his flat stomach, seeking his crotch with her palm. “You still want me,” she purred. “I can feel how much. You’re the most satisfying lover I’ve ever had, so big and hard—”
Derek pushed her away so roughly that she fell back onto the bed. Expectantly she spread her legs and waited for him. Surprise dawned in her eyes as she realized he wasn’t going to oblige her.
“It’s over,” Derek said flatly. “I’ll pay all your debts on Bond Street. Pick out something from that little frog-eating jeweler you like so much, and charge it to my account.” He left his black silk cravat hanging loose around his neck and shrugged into his coat.
“Why are you doing this? Do you want me to beg?” Joyce smiled provocatively. “I’ll get on my knees before you. How would you like that?” As she sank to the floor and leaned her face toward the front of his trousers, Derek forced her up, clamping his hands on her shoulders.
“Listen to me, Joyce—”
“You’re hurting me!”
“I haven’t lied to you. I made no promises. How long did you think this would go on? We both got what we wanted. Now it’s over.”
She glared at him. “It will end when I say so, and not before!”
Derek’s expression changed. “So that’s it,” he said, and laughed. “Your pride is hurt. Well, tell your friends whatever you want, Joyce. Tell them that you were the one to break it off. I’ll agree with anything you say.”
“How dare you speak to me in that superior tone, you ignorant cockney! I know how many thousands of boots you licked to get where you are, and so does everyone else! Gentlemen will come to your club, but they’ll never invite you to their homes, or their parties, or let you eat at their tables or approach their daughters, and do you know why? Because they don’t respect you—they regard you as something to be scraped from their shoes and left in the gutter where you came from! They think of you as the lowest form of—”
“All right,” Derek said, a humorless smile crossing his face. “I know all that. Save your breath.”
Joyce stared at him closely, apparently realizing her insults hadn’t affected him at all. “You have no feelings, do you? That’s why no one can hurt you—because you’re dead inside.”
“That’s right,” he said smoothly.
“And you don’t care about anyone. Not even me.”
His glinting green eyes met hers. Although he didn’t reply, the answer was clear. Drawing back her arm, Joyce struck him with all her strength, the blow sounding like the sharp crack of a pistol. Automatically Derek moved to strike back. But his hand stopped before it reached her face. He lowered it slowly. His face was dark and cool.
“I can make you want me,” Joyce said hoarsely. “There are things we still haven’t done together—new games I could show you—”
“Good-bye, Joyce.” He turned and left the room.
His refusal of her body was insultingly casual, as if he had turned down an unwanted offer of seconds at the supper table. Joyce flushed crimson. “No,” she snarled. “You won’t leave me! If it’s another woman, I’ll claw her eyes out!”
“It’s not another woman,” came his sardonic reply. “It’s just boredom.” Suddenly his accent changed to coarse, flat cockney. “Or as you gentry likes to call it, ennui.”
She ran out of the bedroom, still naked, calling after him as he went down the stairs. “Come back this instant…or you’ll pay for this every day of your life! If I can’t have you, no one will! Do you understand me? “You’ll pay for this, Derek Craven!”
Derek hadn’t taken her threat seriously—or maybe it was just that he hadn’t cared. He had done what he’d planned with his life, never dreaming that at the end of the long, treacherous path success would be coupled with such disappointment. Now he had gained everything he wanted, and there was nothing to look forward to. Damn ennui, the mind-numbing clutches of boredom. A few years ago, he hadn’t even known what the word meant. A rich man’s disease, he thought, and smiled grimly in ironic appreciation.
