Sara lifted her mask and stared at him incredulously. The mischievous twinkle in Jenner’s eyes was replaced by surprise as he saw her face. “What a beauty you are,” he muttered.
Suddenly she gave a burst of laughter. “Ivo Jenner? You’re not at all as I imagined you. You’re actually rather charming.”
“Aye, I’ll charm the drawers off you tonight, given ’alf a chance.” He came forward to refill her glass, plying her with a liberal dose of wine.
“You’re a rogue, Mr. Jenner.”
“That I am,” he agreed readily.
Sara ignored the wine and leaned back against the wall, folding her arms across her chest. “I think you would be wise to leave as quickly as possible. Mr. Craven is looking for you. Why did you come here tonight? To make mischief, I assume?”
“Wouldn’t think of it!” He looked wounded at the very idea.
“I’ve heard from the employees that you’re constantly scheming to plant spies here, summoning the police to conduct raids during the busiest times…Why, rumor has it that you even caused a kitchen fire to be started last year!”
“Bloody lies.” His gaze flickered over the half-exposed mounds of her breasts. “There was no proof I ’ad anyfing to do with it.”
Sara regarded him suspiciously. “Some even suspect you of hiring men to attack Mr. Craven in the rookery and slash his face.”
“No,” he said indignantly. “That wasn’t me. Eweryone knows Crawen’s fancy for ’igh-kick women. It was a woman what did it to ’im.” He snorted. “Pull a cat’s tail, and she’ll scratch. That’s what ’appened to Crawen’s face.” He smiled insolently. “Maybe it was you, aye?”
“It was not me,” Sara said in annoyance. “For one thing, I don’t have a single drop of blue blood—which makes me completely uninteresting to Mr. Craven.”
“I likes you better for it, love.”
“For another thing,” she continued pertly, “I would never dream of slashing a man’s face just because he didn’t want me. And I wouldn’t chase someone who had spurned me. I have more pride than that.”
“An’ so you should.” Ivo Jenner laughed low in his throat. “A prize wench, you are. Forget about Crawen. Let me take you to a better place than this. My club. The pigeons aren’t as fine—but there’s deep play an’ all you wants to drink—an’ no Derek Crawen.”
“Go somewhere with you?” Sara asked, picking up her glass of wine.
“You’d rather stay ’ere?” he countered.
As Sara sipped the fruity beverage, she contemplated him over the rim of the glass. She began to feel better than before, a little less hollow. He had a point, she thought. There were no possibilities for her at Craven’s, not with Worthy and probably the entire staff ready to “escort” her out. Furthermore, this would be a chance for her to continue her research on gaming clubs. Of course, Ivo Jenner was not the most trustworthy of men. But neither was Derek Craven. And—childishly spiteful though it was—the idea of fraternizing with Craven’s business rival was not without appeal.
After replacing her mask, Sara gave him a decisive nod. “Yes, Mr. Jenner. I would like to see your club.”
“Ivo. Call me Ivo.” Grinning widely, Jenner donned his own mask. “I ’ope we can leave without being caught.”
“We’ll have to stop at the front entrance. I’ll have need of my cloak.”
“We’ll be stopped,” he warned.
“I don’t think so.” She threw a reckless grin in his direction. “I’m feeling very lucky tonight.”
He chuckled and crooked his arm invitingly. “So’m I, love.”
Brazenly they walked into the main rooms and along the outskirts of the crowd. Jenner proved skillful at maneuvering his feminine prize out of the reach of the exuberant guests, alternately exchanging laughter and threats as he shouldered his way through. Arm in arm, he and Sara made their way to the front entrance of the club. They paused to request Sara’s cloak from Ellison, the butler.
Ellison flushed in excitement as he saw her. “Miss Mathilda! Surely you’re not leaving so soon.”
Sara gave him an impish smile. “I’ve had a more intriguing invitation. To another club, as a matter of fact.”
“I see,” The butler’s face drooped with disappointment. “You’ll want your cloak, then.”
“Yes, please.”
As an attendant rushed to fetch the required cloak, Jenner pulled Sara a foot or two away. “ ’E called you Mathilda,” he said in a strange voice.
“So he did.”
“That’s who you are? Mathilda? The one they wrote the book about?”
“In a way,” Sara said uncomfortably. It was definitely a twisted version of the truth. She couldn’t tell him her real name. No one must know that well-behaved, proper Miss Sara Fielding had ever gone to a ball and become intoxicated, and consorted with men of ill-repute. If word somehow ever got back to Perry Kingswood, or his mother…She shuddered at the idea.
Seeing the involuntary movement of her shoulders, Jenner received the cloak and draped it about her reverently. Lifting the rippling mass of her hair, he pulled it free of the velvet mantle. “Mathilda,” he breathed. “The woman ewery man in England wants.”
“That’s a great exaggeration, Mr. Jenner…er…Ivo.”
“Jenner?” Having overheard the last few words, the butler looked sharply at Sara’s masked companion. “Oh, no. Miss Mathilda, don’t say you’re going off with this debauched, dangerous ruffian—”
“I’m all right,” Sara soothed, patting the butler’s arm. “And Mr. Jenner is really very sweet.”
Ellison began to protest vigorously. “Miss Mathilda, I cannot allow—”
“She’s with me,” Jenner interrupted, glaring at the butler. “No one can say nofing about it.” Masterfully he pulled Sara along with him and ushered her down the front steps toward the line of waiting carriages.
With the assistance of Jenner and a footman dressed in a slightly frayed uniform, Sara climbed into a black and burgundy carriage. Though the interior was clean and presentable, it hardly matched the luxuriously outfitted vehicles she had become accustomed to at Craven’s. Sara smiled slightly, reflecting on how spoiled she had become in a matter of days. Fine food, French wine, impeccable service, and all the opulence of Craven’s club…It certainly was a contrast to Greenwood Corners.
Uneasily she gazed down at her borrowed finery. It had been willful, frivolous, inconsiderate of her to have put Worthy and Lady Raiford to trouble. It wasn’t like her. She had changed in the last few days, and not for the better. Craven was right—she should return to the village as soon as possible. Her parents would be ashamed if they knew of her conduct, and Perry…Sara bit her lip in dismay. Perry would condemn her for such behavior. He was of the old school, believing that natural feelings and animal urges should be strictly governed, never to take precedence over the intellect.
Wearily Sara leaned her head back against the flat cushions. Mr. Craven must despise her now, she thought. Unwillingly she remembered the searing delight of his hands on her skin, and the hot brand of his mouth. A shiver chased across her shoulders, and her heart gave an extra thump. God forgive her, but she wasn’t sorry for any of it. No one would be able to take it away from her, the memory that would remain even when she was safely tucked away in her country village. When she was an old woman, rocking serenely in a corner of the parlor and listening to her granddaughters giggling about their handsome swains, she would smile privately at the thought that she had once been kissed by the most wicked man in London.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a crowd gathering outside the club. Frowning, she looked at the amassing vehicles and the darkly garbed figures encircling the building. “What’s happening?” She continued to stare as Jenner’s carriage pulled away. “Are those police officers?”
“Could be.”
“Then they’re going to raid the club? During an assembly ball?”
Jenner’s pale blue eyes glittered with enjoyment. “Looks like it.”
“You’re responsible for this!” she exclaimed.
“Me?” he asked innocently. “I’m just a simple ’azard operator, love.” But his satisfied smirk betrayed him.
“Oh, Mr. Jenner, this is too bad of you,” she scolded as the carriage rattled along the street. “I fail to see what this will accomplish! Poor Mr. Craven has had enough on his hands tonight—”
“Poor Mr. Crawen?” he echoed indignantly. “Ah…women! You’ve taken ’is side now?”
“I’m taking no one’s side,” Sara bent a long, disapproving stare on him. “As far as I can see, the two of you are exactly alike.”
“A raid!” someone called inside the club as officers swarmed in through the doors. The happy disorder of the ball turned into pandemonium. Guests milled through the rooms in disoriented groups while employees deftly covered up tables, hid cards and dice, and concealed cribbage boards and bowls of counters. Police officers swarmed inside the club with swaggering aggressiveness, pausing to eye the scantily dressed whores. Inconspicuously they helped themselves to samples of the lavish buffet and expensive wines, a rare opportunity for the poorly paid members of the city force.
Sourly Derek watched the proceedings from a corner of the central room. “What a night,” he muttered.
Ivo Jenner had timed his prank to perfection, crowning an evening already rife with indignity. The raid was nothing. It was what had gone before that had proved his undoing. Derek hadn’t been left high and dry since his early days of chasing after saucy street wenches. He liked it even less now than he had then. His skin prickled as if he’d been ice-burned. Every muscle in his body was tight. Everyone knew it was unhealthy for a man to be kept in such a condition. He counted the ways he’d like to punish Sara Fielding for her antics. Now he was finally rid of her, thank God. No more temptation, no more hazy blue eyes, no more note-taking and questions and “research” that provided an excuse for her to poke her nose into every corner of his unsavory life. Fumbling in his coat pocket, he sought the tiny pair of spectacles. His hand closed around them tightly.
“Mr. Craven.” Worthy approached him with great hesitation. The factotum’s long forehead was plowed in deep furrows. “Jenner,” he said succinctly, gesturing to the police.
Derek fixed a brooding stare on the invading officers. “I pay those bastards enough under the table to keep this from happening.”
“It looks as though Jenner pays them more,” Worthy said, and became the recipient of a frosty glare. Nervously he cleared his throat. “I’ve just spoken to Ellison. He’s in quite a pucker.”
“My butler’s never in a pucker.”
Worthy craned his neck to stare at his towering employer. “He is tonight.”
“We’ve had plenty of raids before.”
“It’s not the raid. The reason Ellison is upset is because he just saw a woman he identified as ‘Mathilda’ leaving the club with Ivo Jenner.”
“So Jenner’s gone? Good. That’ll save me the trouble of pounding the slimy little bastard into the ground.”
“Mr. Craven, forgive me, but you’re missing the point. He—”
“What point? That he’s with some woman named Mathilda? I could find a dozen women for you, all pretending to be frigging Mathilda. It’s a masquerade, Worthy.” He began to walk away, speaking brusquely over his shoulder. “Pardon me, but I have a few police officers to knock heads with—”
“Miss Fielding is Mathilda,” the factotum said bluntly.
Derek froze. He shook his head as if to clear his ears. Slowly he turned to face the smaller man. “What did you say?”
“Somehow Miss Fielding evaded me. She must have used the concealed passageway that leads to the card rooms. The ‘Mathilda’ who just left with Ivo Jenner is described as wearing a blue dress and having long brown hair, not to mention a notable pair of…of…” Worthy spluttered into silence and made an explicit gesture with his hands.
“Holy hell!” Derek exploded, turning several shades darker. “No, no, not with Jenner. I’ll kill him if he touches her. I’ll kill her…” Swearing obscenely, he raked both hands through his hair until it was in wild disarray.
“I believe they left in Jenner’s carriage,” the factotum murmured, falling back a few steps. In all the years of their acquaintance, he had never witnessed such a volcanic display from Craven. “Ellison seems to believe they went to Mr. Jenner’s club. Sir…perhaps you’d like a drink?”
Derek stormed back and forth in uncoiling fury. “I tells ’er to go back to bloody Greenwood Corners, an’ instead she traipses off with Ivo Jenner. She’d be safer walking naked through St. Giles!” He glared at Worthy. “You stay here,” he growled. “Pay off the bloody police and get rid of ’em.”
“You’re going to Jenner’s?” the factotum asked. “You can’t leave with the officers surrounding the club—”
“I’ll get through the police,” Derek said coldly. “And when I find Miss Fielding—” He stopped and stared at Worthy, his green eyes gleaming with a vengeful light that caused the factotum to blanch. “You helped her with this, didn’t you? She couldn’t come to the assembly without you knowing. If anything happens to her…I’ll fire you and ewery employee in this club. The whole bloody lot of you!”
“But Mr. Craven,” Worthy protested, “no one could have known she would behave so recklessly.”
“The hell you couldn’t,” Derek said in a blistering tone. “It was obvious since the day she got here. She’s been itching for a chance to land herself in trouble. And you made it bloody easy for her, didn’t you?”
“Mr. Craven—”
“Enough,” Derek said curtly. “I’m going to find her. And you’d better pray nothing happens to her—or I’ll send you to the devil.”
During the carriage ride through the city, Sara listened patiently as Jenner boasted about his prize-fighting days, his past victories and defeats, and all his life-threatening injuries. Unlike Derek Craven, Ivo Jenner was a simple man who knew exactly where he belonged. He preferred the world he had come from, with its assortment of coarse people and coarser pleasures. It didn’t matter to him if his money was taken from silk purses or greasy pockets. He sneered openly at Derek Craven’s pretensions…“Talkin with those ’igh-kick words, pretending ’e was born a gentleman. All clean an’ dandified…Why, ’e walks through ’is fancy club like the sun shines from ’is arse!”
“You’re jealous of him,” Sara said.
“Jealous?” His face crinkled in distaste. “I’m not jealous ow a man what’s got one foot planted in May-fair an’ the other in the East End. Pox take ’im! Bloody fool doesn’t know who the ’ell ’e is.”
“So you believe he shouldn’t mingle with social superiors? I’d call that reverse snobbery, Mr. Jenner.”
“Call it what you likes,” he said sullenly.
Oh, he was jealous indeed. Now Sara understood the bitter rivalry between the two men. Jenner represented all that Craven had tried to escape from. Every time Craven looked at him, he must see the mocking reflection of his past. And Jenner was clearly annoyed by the way Craven had reinvented himself from a street urchin into a rich and powerful man.
“If you’re so indifferent to Mr. Craven and his success, then why—” Sara began, but she fell silent as the carriage stopped abruptly. Her mouth fell open as she heard a cacophony of sound: shouts and screams, breaking glass, even explosions. “What’s happening?”
Jenner shoved aside the curtain at his window and stared at the tumult outside the carriage. He made a startling sound, something between a howling laugh and a roar of encouragement. Sara shrank back into the corner of her seat. “It’s a mob!” Jenner cried. He opened the door to confer with the pasty-faced driver and footman. “ ’Ow many streets does it cover?” he asked. Another snatch of conversation, and then Sara heard him say, “Try a roundabout way, then.”
The door closed and the carriage started again, turning sharply. Sara gulped with fear. A few rocks pelted against the side of the vehicle, and she jumped in her seat. The shrieking mob sounded like a demon chorus. “What’s going on?”
Jenner continued to gaze out the window, grinning at the carnage that surrounded them. His enjoyment increased with every second that passed. “I likes a good mob, I do. I led one or two in my time. We’re in the middle ow it now.”
“Why are they rioting?”
Jenner kept his eyes on the window as he replied. “Does the name Red Jack ring a bell?”
Sara nodded. Red Jack was a notorious highwayman who had earned his nickname by murdering at least a dozen people on the busy coach route from London to Marlborough. “I’ve heard of him. He’s being held at Newgate, waiting to be executed.”
A bark of laughter escaped him. “Not anymore. Offed ’imself yesterday—cheated the ’angman’s noose. Can’t say as I blame these lively bastards for runnin’ riot.”
“You mean they’re angry because he committed suicide? Why should they care, as long as he’s dead?”
“Why, ’anging’s a good spectacle. Ewen the old women an’ the chiwdren come to watch ’em piss an’ twist in the wind. Would’ve been a good show. Now they want a taste ow ’is blood.” He shrugged and regarded the rioters sympathetically. “They dug ’im up tonight to pull ’is guts out. I say let ’em ’ave a bit ow fun.”
“F-fun to publicly dismember a c-corpse?” Sara gagged at the notion and stared at him in horror. Her disgust was lost on him, however. Jenner cheered lustily for the drunken mob engaged in looting, breaking windows, and setting fires. Several heavy thumps caused the carriage to lurch and rock. The vehicle ground to a halt. As Jenner pushed the curtain aside, Sara saw hands and faces wedged against the window. They pushed and shoved, threatening to turn the carriage over.
“Driver’s gone,” Jenner said. “I wondered ’ow long ’e’d last.”
“Oh, God!” Sara cowered in the corner, staring at him with wide eyes. “They’ll tear us to pieces!”
“Don’t worry. You’re safe with these to look after you.” He held up his heavy fists as if they were dangerous weapons.
The ceiling shuddered and sank downward as people piled on top of the carriage. Sara scrambled wildly for a way to protect herself. God knew what she had done with her reticule. She was defenseless without her pistol. The door burst open like a clap of thunder, and Sara screamed at the nightmarish sight of dozens of hands reaching for her.
Enthusiastically Jenner flung himself through the opening, landing on three men at once. His arms swung in a steady rhythm, plowing through the rioters like a scythe through grain. Sara leapt after him. Reaching for the back of Jenner’s coat, she clutched handfuls of the thick fabric and followed him with her head lowered. She gritted her teeth as she was jostled and elbowed by the crowd. Miraculously they broke through the free-for-all. Sara gripped her companion’s burly arm.
“Mr. Jenner,” she begged, “get me away from here.”
He laughed down at her, his eyes bright with excitement. “No taste for a little brawl, eh?”
Sara glanced back at the carriage, which was being demolished. “The horses,” she said anxiously fearing for the animals’ safety. The rioters had unhitched the team from the carriage and were leading them away.
Some of Jenner’s amusement faded. “My ’orses! I paid a king’s ransom for ’em!” He left her to stride after the thieves. “Stop, you thieving scum, those are mine!”
“Mr. Jenner,” she pleaded, but he appeared not to hear.
It seemed she was going to have to fend for herself. Carefully Sara made her way through the street while looters rushed by her with armfuls of stolen goods. A bottle flew past her ear and shattered on the pavement nearby. Sara flinched and drew closer to the shadows. She looked in vain for a night watchman or a stray police officer. Fire cast a ruddy glow over the ramshackle buildings. She didn’t know what direction she was walking in, only hoped the path she was taking wouldn’t lead to a thieves’ kitchen. She passed a gin shop and an evil-smelling ditch. People swarmed from one street to another, scuffling, quarreling, giving bloodthirsty cries as they hurled rocks and sticks through the air. Sara pulled the hood of her cloak over her face and stumbled around a row of wooden posts rising from the flagged pavement. All the giddy warmth of the wine she had drunk was driven away. She was sober and terrified.
“Damn,” she said under her breath with each step she took. “Damn, damn, damn…”
“Egads, what have we here?”
Sara stopped short as she saw a man’s broad silhouette before her. He was dressed in a dandy’s clothes, fine and disheveled. Precisely the kind of young buck who frequented Craven’s club and went slumming to attend blood sports in Covent Garden and visit prostitutes at the Strand. They gambled, drank, and went “skirt-hunting” to relieve their boredom. Profligates, libertines, yes…but gentlemen by birth. Sara began to feel relieved, knowing that this man would be honor-bound to see her to safety.
“Sir—”
He interrupted her with a cry to unseen companions. “À moi, my good fellows—come meet the enchanting wench I’ve discovered!”
Immediately Sara was surrounded by three chortling young men, all reeking of liquor. Crowding around her, they gloated over their new acquisition. Alarmed, Sara spoke to the first one. “Sir, I’ve lost my way. Please guide me safely away from this place, or…at least stand aside and allow me to pass.”
“My sweet bit o’ skirt, I’ll lead you ’zactly to the place you belong,” he promised with a lecherous grin, sliding his hands down the front of her body. Sara jumped back with a muffled cry and found herself restrained by the rake’s companions. They held her tightly, laughing at her struggles.
“Where shall we take her?” one of them asked.
“To the bridge,” came the ready suggestion. “I know just the spot to have her. We’ll wait our turns politely—as gennelmen should—an’ if she makes a fuss, we’ll toss her in the Thames.”
The other two burst out laughing.
“Let me go! I’m not a prostitute. I’m not—”
“Yes, you’re a good girl,” he soothed. “A young, pretty wench who shouldn’t mind a bit of folly with a few randy bucks.”
“No—”
“Don’t worry, darling, you’ll like us. Splendid fellows, we are. Never given a wench reason to complain before, have we?”
“I should say not!” the second man chimed.
“You’ll likely offer to pay us after!” the other added and the three rocked with drunken hilarity as they dragged her along with them. Sara screamed and fought with her nails and teeth, lashing out with all her strength. Annoyed by her frantic clawing, one of them cuffed her across the face. “Don’t be a little fool. We’re not going to kill you—just want a tail-tickle.”
Sara had never made sounds in her life as she did now, mad screams that rent the air. She found unexpected strength in her terror, feeling her nails rip across skin, her half-closed fists striking hard against the bonds that held her…and yet it wasn’t enough. She was half-carried, half-dragged. Her lungs shuddered, drawing in enough air for another ear-splitting scream. Suddenly she was dropped to the street, landing hard on her buttocks. The scream was knocked out of her throat. She sat on the ground in stupefied silence.
A slim, dark figure passed before her eyes, moving with a peculiar catlike grace. Sara heard heavy thuds as a weighted cudgel swung in vicious arcs. Two of the men who had assaulted her collapsed, groaning sickly. The third screamed in outrage and skittered back. “What are you doing?” he shouted. “What in blazes? You ignorant swine…I’ll see you hanged for this!”
Sara passed a hand over her eyes and gazed at the apparition in trembling wonder. At first she had thought Jenner had come back to rescue her. But it was Derek Craven’s scarred face she saw, harsh as a primitive war mask, lit by red fire-glow. He stood with his legs splayed and his chin lowered. One hand was wrapped around a neddy, the weighted club preferred by rookery brutes. He didn’t spare a glance for Sara, only stared at the remaining man like a hungry jackal.
He spoke through his teeth. “Take your friends and leave.”
The fallen libertines struggled to their feet, one of them clasping a hand to his bleeding head, the other holding his side. The third, divining the accent in Derek’s voice, did not move. “Well-dressed for a cockney, aren’t you? So fine feathers are to your taste, eh? I’ll give you money for more. You’ll be the Beau Brummell of the East End. Just let us have the woman.”
“Go.”
“I’ll even share, if you want a taste of her first—”
“She’s mine,” Derek growled, and raised the club a few inches.
By tacit agreement the two injured men lurched away. The third stared at Derek in angry indecision. “Thickheaded knave!” he finally exclaimed. “Have the little bitch all to yourself, then!” After biting his thumb in a contemptuous gesture, he hastened to join his companions as they shuffled down the street.
Sara stood up and staggered toward Craven. He was upon her in three strides, with a swirl of black cloak and a face so harsh that she half-believed he was the devil. Her shoulders were seized in a brutal grip. She was ushered without ceremony to an ebony horse waiting nearby, its sides gleaming with sweat. Silently she endured Craven’s rough handling as he more or less threw her into the saddle. He took the reins and swung up behind her in a lithe movement, his left arm clamping hard about her.
The horse sprang into a canter. Dismal shacks, broken storefronts, and swarming streets flew past them. Closing her eyes against the biting rush of air, Sara wondered dully if he was taking her back to the club. Miserably she turned her face into the fine wool fabric of his cloak. Each rising surge of the horse’s gait urged her closer against him. She had never been held so tightly, her body caught hard against his, her lungs squeezed until her breath was short. But strangely she found a measure of solace in his painful grip. With the sinewy strength of him braced behind her, nothing and no one would harm her. She’s mine, he had said…and her heart had throbbed in answer…recognizing it as truth.
Strange, unknowable man, who had once deliberately driven the woman he loved into someone else’s arms. Worthy had told her the story of how Derek had practically thrown Lily into Lord Raiford’s bed.
“Mr. Craven feared that he himself was falling in love with her,” Worthy had confided, “and so he virtually gave her away to the earl. He did everything possible to encourage their liaison. Mr. Craven doesn’t know how to love. He recognizes it only as weakness and folly. That’s part of his attraction for women, I believe. They each hope to be the one who will finally capture his heart. But it’s not possible. He’ll never allow it, no indeed…”
Weakness and folly…Tonight she had indulged in a hearty share of both. Words of apology and gratitude hovered on her lips, but she was too ashamed to say them. Instead she closed her eyes and clung to him, desperately pretending that time had vanished and they would keep riding forever, off the edge of the earth and into a sea of stars…
Her fantasy was short-lived. Soon they reached a small park bordered by quiet streets. The glass globes of suspended oil lamps cast ovals of feeble light across the road. Reining the horse to a halt, Derek dismounted and held up his hands to her. Awkwardly Sara slid down from the saddle, guided by his hands at her waist. He let go of her as soon as her feet touched the ground and walked to the edge of the park.
Sara approached him and stopped a few feet away. Her lips parted and her throat worked, but no sound came out.
Derek swung around, rubbing his jaw as he gazed at her.
She was swamped by a feeling of utter hopelessness as she waited for him to destroy her with a few caustic words. But he continued to watch her silently, his face unreadable. It seemed almost as if he were waiting for some cue from her. The dilemma lasted for several seconds, until Sara solved it by bursting into tears. She jerked her hands up to her face, blotting her streaming eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she gasped.
Suddenly he was next to her, touching her shoulders and arms lightly and then jerking his hands back as if burned. “No, don’t. Don’t. You’re all right now.” Gingerly he reached out to pat her back. “Don’t cry. Everything’s fine. Bloody hell. Don’t do that.”
As she continued to weep, Derek hovered over her in baffled dismay. He excelled at seducing women, charming and deceiving them, breaking down their defenses…everything but comforting them. No one had ever required it of him. “There, now,” he muttered, as he had heard Lily Raiford say a thousand times to her crying children. “There, now.”
Suddenly she was leaning on him, her small head resting at the center of his chest. The long skeins of her hair draped everywhere, entangling him in a fine russet web. Alarmed, he lifted his hands to ease her away. Instead his arms slid around her until she was pressed against him length to length. “Miss Fielding,” he said with great effort. “Sara…” She nestled deeper against him, muffling her gulping sobs in his shirtfront.
Derek swore and furtively pressed his lips to the top of her head. He concentrated on the chilly night air, but his loins began to throb with an all-too-familiar pain. It was impossible to stay indifferent to the feel of her body molded to his. He was a bloody charlatan…no gentleman, no chivalrous comforter of women, only a scoundrel filled with raw desire. He smoothed his hand over her hair and urged her head into his shoulder until she was in danger of being smothered. “It’s all right,” he said gruffly. “Everything’s fine now. Don’t cry anymore.”
“I sh-should never have gone off with Mr. Jenner, but I was angry with you for…for…”
“Yes, I know.” Derek searched in his coat and found a handkerchief. Clumsily he plastered it against her wet face. “Here. Take this.”
She peeled the linen from her cheeks and used it to blow her nose. “Oh, th-thank you.”
“Did Jenner hurt you?”
“No, but he left me, right in the middle of that m-mess—” Her chin wobbled, heralding fresh tears, and Derek interrupted in alarm.
“Easy. Easy. You’re safe now. And I’m going to wring Ivo Jenner’s neck—after I wring yours for going with him.” His hand slipped under her cloak to her velvet-covered back, kneading the knotted muscles.
Sara gave a last hiccup. She drooped against him, shivering. “You saved me tonight. I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”
“Don’t thank me. We’re even now.”
“I am grateful,” she insisted.
“Don’t be. I’m responsible for some of this. I should have known it was you behind the mask.” His eyes swept over her luminous, tear-streaked face. “Perhaps I did, somehow.”
Sara was very still, soaking in the warmth that mingled beneath their cloaks. The heel of his hand rested on the side of her breast, while his other spread across the small of her back. “Where did the dress come from?” he asked, his breath a puff of white mist in the air.
“Lady Raiford.”
“Of course,” he said sardonically. “It looks like something she would wear.” He glanced into the open neck of the cloak, where the shadow of her cleavage was visible. His thumb moved high on her breast, lingering at the edge where velvet ended and soft skin began. “Except you fill it out differently.”
Sara pretended not to notice the gentle fondling, even as her blood quickened and her nipples contracted within the velvet sheath. “Lady Raiford was very kind. You mustn’t blame her. Coming to the assembly ball tonight was my idea. It was all my fault, no one else’s.”
“I suspect Worthy and Lily were damn eager to help you.” His knuckles brushed over the top of her breast and around the side, until a tremor of pleasure went through her. He spoke softly against her hair. “Are you cold?”
“No,” she whispered. Liquid fire raced through her veins. She felt as if she had drunk some heady concoction a hundred times more potent than wine.
Derek eased her head back and stared into her eyes. “I want you to forget everything that happened tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re going back to your village tomorrow. You’re going to marry your Kingsfield.”
“Kingswood.”
“Wood,” he repeated impatiently.
Sara moistened her dry lips. “Will you forget, Mr. Craven?”
“Yes.” His gaze flickered to her mouth, and he let go of her.
Momentarily disoriented, Sara swayed and found her balance. She half-expected him to tell her it was time to leave, but he seemed in no particular hurry. Wandering to the wooden fence nearby, he leaned against the highest rail.
“Shouldn’t we return to the club?” Sara asked, following him.
“For what? There’s not much left of the assembly, after the raid your friend Jenner arranged. No more guests, no gambling…and fortunately for you, no more rum punch.”
Sara blushed deeply. “That punch was quite intoxicating,” she admitted.
He laughed, inspecting her flushed cheeks and her uncertain balance. “You’re still flying high as a kite, angel.”
Relieved that he was no longer angry with her, Sara folded her arms and glanced at the quiet streets. The wind seemed to carry the faint howl of the distant mob, though that was only a trick of her imagination. She wondered if their gruesome purpose had been accomplished, if they had reveled in pulling apart the highwayman’s corpse. The thought made her shudder, and she told Craven what Jenner had said about the mob. He listened without surprise. “How can people behave in such a way?” Sara asked. “How can they watch executions for entertainment? I can’t understand it.”
“I did, when I was a boy.”
Her jaw dropped. “You went to hangings, a-and floggings, and disembowlings, and…but you didn’t enjoy it. You couldn’t have.”
Derek met her gaze without blinking. “Now I take no pleasure in death. But at the time I had quite a fascination for it.”
Troubled by the admission, Sara reminded herself that as a child he had lived in an underworld of crime and sin, brought up in brothels, flash houses, and the streets of the rookery. But still she found it difficult to accept the image of him cheering as a man strangled at the end of a rope. “What did you think, as you watched them being hanged?” she asked.
“I considered myself lucky. At least I wasn’t up there. I was hungry, and didn’t own so much as a piss pot…but at least there was no rope around my neck.”
“And that made you feel better about your situation?”
“I had no ‘situation,’ Miss Fielding. I fought, cheated, stole for everything: the food I ate, the gin I drank…for women, sometimes.”
Sara colored slightly. “What about honest labor? You worked sometimes. Worthy told me you did.”
“Labor, yes. Honest?” He shook his head and snorted in bitter amusement. “You’d rather not know.”
Sara was quiet for a moment. “I would,” she said suddenly. “I would like to know.”
“More material for your research?”
“No, it’s not that at all.” Impulsively she touched his arm. “Please. You must believe I would never betray a private confidence.”
Derek stared at the place on his sleeve she had touched, even after her hand was withdrawn. He crossed his long legs and kept his eyes on the ground. A heavy swath of black hair spilled over his forehead. “I was a climbing boy until I got too big. Some of the chimneys were only two or three bricks wide. I was small for a boy of six, but one day I couldn’t squeeze myself through the flue.” A reminiscent smile crossed his face. “You don’t know what hell is until you’ve been stuck in a chimney.”
“How did they get you out?” she asked, horrified.
“They lit a bundle of hay underneath me. I tore half my hide off, scrambling up that chimney.” He laughed shortly. “After that I worked on the docks, loading crates and boxes. Sometimes I skinned and gutted fish, or shoveled manure and hauled it from stableyards to the wharf. I never knew what a bath was.” Sliding a glance at her, he grinned at her expression. “Stank until even the flies wouldn’t come near me.”
“Oh, my,” she said faintly.
“Sometimes I mudlarked—stole cargo from the waterside, sold it under the table to crooked merchants. I wasn’t much different from the other lads in the rookery. All of us did what was necessary to survive. But there was one…Jem was his name…a scrawny boy with a face like a monkey. One day I noticed he was doing better than the rest. He had a thick coat to wear, food to fill his belly with, even a wench on his arm now and again. I went up to him and asked where he was getting his money.” His face changed, becoming coarse and hard, all trace of handsomeness wiped away. “Jem told me. On his advice, I decided to try my hand at the resurrection business.”
“You…joined a church?” Sara asked, bewildered.
Derek gave her a startled look and then began to choke with laughter. When she asked what was the matter, he actually doubled over, gasping for breath. “No, no…” After dragging a sleeve over his eyes, he was finally able to control himself. “I was a bone-grubber,” he explained.
“I don’t understand—”
“A grave-robber. I dug up corpses from cemeteries and sold them to medical students.” A peculiar smile crossed his lips. “You’re surprised, aren’t you? And revolted.”
“I…” Sara tried to sort through her scattered thoughts. “I can’t say I f-find the thought very pleasant.”
“No. It was far from a pleasant business. But I’m a very good thief, Miss Fielding. Jem used to say I could steal the twinkle from the devil’s eye. I was a good resurrection man—efficient, dependable. I averaged three a night.”
“Three what?”
“Bodies. By law, surgeons and medical students can only use the corpses of convicted felons. But there’s never enough to go around. So they paid me to go to burial grounds near hospitals and asylums and bring them the newest corpses I could find. The surgeons always called them ‘specimens.’ ”
“How long did this go on?” Sara asked with a horrified shiver.
“Almost two years—until I began to look like the corpses I stole. Pale, scrawny, like walking death. I slept during the day and only went out at night. I never worked when the moon was full. Too much light. There was always a danger of being shot by groundskeepers, who naturally didn’t look kindly on the business. When I couldn’t go about my work, I would sit in a corner of the local tavern and drink as much as my belly would hold, and try to forget about what I’d been doing. I was a superstitious sort. Having disturbed many an eternal rest, I began to think I was being haunted.”
He spoke in a flat voice, as if he were talking about something that had no connection with him. Sara noticed that his color was high. Embarrassment, self-disgust, anger…She could only guess at the emotions that stirred within him. Why was he confessing such personal and unspeakable things to her?
“I think I was dead inside,” he said. “Or at least only half-human. But the money kept me going back, until I had a nightmare that put a stop to it all. I never set foot near another graveyard after that.”
“Tell me,” Sara said softly, but he shook his head.
“After my resurrection days I turned to other ways of making a profit—all of them nearly as unsavory. But not quite. Nothing’s as bad as what I did. Not even murder.”
He was quiet then. The moon was veiled by clouds, the sky painted in muted tones of gray and violet. Once it might have been the kind of night he had gone out to desecrate graveyards. As she stared at the man next to her, his hair gleaming like ebony in the lamplight, Sara realized that her heart was pounding and her palms were clammy. Cold perspiration trickled down her back and beneath her arms. He was right—she was revolted by the things he had done. And without a doubt there was more he hadn’t told her.
She struggled with many feelings at once, trying to understand him, trying most of all not to fear him. How terribly naive she had been. She would never have imagined him capable of such terrible things. The families of his victims, how they must have suffered—and it could just as well have been her family, her relatives. He was responsible for causing pain to many people. Had someone described such a man to her, she would have said that he was beyond redemption.
But…he wasn’t completely bad. He had come after her tonight, fearing for her safety. He had refused to take advantage of her at the club, when there had been nothing to stop him but the remnants of his own conscience. Just now when she had been crying, he had been kind and gentle. Sara shook her head in consternation, not knowing what to think.
Craven’s face was turned away, but challenge was clear in every line of his posture. It seemed as if he were waiting for her to condemn him. Before she was quite aware of what she was doing, she reached out to the black hair that curled slightly on the back of his neck. At the touch of her hand, he seemed to stop breathing. Muscle flexed beneath her fingertips. She sensed the smoldering beneath his stillness, and his battle to keep his emotions closed away.
After a minute he looked up at her with blazing green eyes. “You little fool. I don’t want your pity. I’m trying to tell you—”
“It’s not pity.” Hastily she snatched her hand back.
“I’m trying to tell you that all that stands between me and becoming that again is a pile of money.”
“You have a mountain of it.”
“Not enough,” he said heatedly. “Never enough. If you had the sense of a frigging sparrow, you’d understand.”
Sara’s brows knitted together. She felt the tightness in her chest expand until she burst with an anger that almost equaled his. “I do understand! You have the will to survive, Mr. Craven. How could I blame you for that? I don’t like the things you’ve done, but I’m not a hypocrite. If I’d been born in the rookery, I probably would have become a prostitute. I know enough to understand that there were few choices for you in that place. In fact…I…I admire you for lifting yourself out of such depths. Few men would have had the will and the strength to do it.”
“Oh?” He smiled darkly. “Earlier today you were asking about my committee of patronesses. I’ll tell you. Most of their husbands keep mistresses, leaving them alone in their beds night after night. I used to service those fine ladies for a price. I made a fortune. I was as good a whore as I was a thief.”
The blood drained from Sara’s cheeks.
Seeing her reaction, he jeered softly. “Still admire me?”
Numbly Sara remembered the conversations she’d had with the prostitutes she’d interviewed for Mathilda. They had the same look on their faces as Craven did now…bleak, hopeless. “When I needed more money to finance the club,” Craven continued, “I blackmailed a few of them. No proper lord would like to find out his wife had taken flash gentry like me into her bed. But the odd thing was, the blackmail did little to dull my charms. The ‘friendships’ continued until the club was built. We have very civilized understandings, my patronesses and me.”
“Lady Raiford—” Sara said hoarsely.
“No, she wasn’t one of them. She and I never…” He made an impatient gesture and retreated unexpectedly, beginning to pace around her as if a circle of fire separated them. “I didn’t want that from her.”
“Because you cared about her.” When the comment drew no response, Sara pressed further. “And she’s one of many people who care about you…including Mr. Worthy, Gill, even the house wenches—”
“It comes along with paying their salaries.”
Ignoring his sneering sarcasm, she regarded him steadily. “Mr. Craven, why have you told me all of this? You won’t accept my sympathy—and I won’t give you scorn. What do you want from me?”
Stopping in the middle of another pass, he crossed the invisible barrier between them and seized her. His hands clenched her upper arms painfully. “I want you to leave. You’re not safe here. As long as you’re in London you’re not safe from me.” His gaze raked over the rippling mass of her hair, her delicate face, her bewildered eyes. With a sudden groan he pulled her against him, burying his face in her hair. Sara closed her eyes, her mind spinning. His body was solid and powerful, hunching over hers to accommodate their difference in height. She felt him tremble with the force of his need. He spoke just beneath her ear, his voice thick with tormented pleasure. “You have to leave, Sara…because I want to hold you like this until your skin melts into mine. I want you in my bed, the smell of you on my sheets, your hair spread across my pillow. I want to take your innocence. God! I want to ruin you for anyone else.”
Blindly Sara flattened her hand on his cheek, against the scratch of newly grown beard. “What if I want the same?” she whispered.
“No,” he said fiercely, and turned his mouth to the tender skin of her neck. “If you were mine, I would make you into someone you didn’t recognize. I would hurt you in ways you’d never dream of. I won’t let that happen. But don’t ever think I didn’t want you.” His hands gripped her closer, and they both began to breathe harshly. The hard jut of his arousal burned against her stomach. “That’s for you,” he muttered. “Only for you.” He groped for her wrist and brought her palm to his chest. Even through the thickness of linen, broadcloth, and wool, she could feel the resounding thump of his heart. She squirmed to press harder against him, and he caught his breath. “A man should never come so close to hell as this,” he said raggedly. “But even with the devil whispering in my ear to take you, I can’t do it.”
“Please,” she gasped, not knowing if she was asking him to let go or to keep her with him.
The word seemed to drive him to the edge of madness. He fitted his mouth over hers with a tortured groan, his tongue searching in urgent forays. Sara curled her arms around his head, tangling her fingers in his dark locks as if she could hold him to her forever. She could still feel his heartbeat pounding against her flattened breasts. His thigh was a hard intrusion amid her skirts, bearing firmly against an unspeakably intimate place. She didn’t know how long he stood there kissing her, his mouth sometimes gentle, sometimes brutal, his hands wandering freely inside her cloak Her legs turned weak, and she knew she couldn’t have stood upright without his arms around her.
“Mr. Craven,” she moaned when his lips left hers to slide hotly down her throat.
He smoothed her hair back from her face and pressed his forehead to hers until she could feel the stitches of his wound against her skin. “Say my name. Say it just once.”
“Derek.”
For a moment he was immobile. His breath fanned over her chin. Then he brushed a soft kiss on each of her closed eyes while her lashes trembled against his lips. “I will forget you, Sara Fielding,” he said roughly. “No matter what it takes.”
There was one last moment of that night that lingered in Sara’s memory. He had taken her to the Goodmans’ home, riding with her perched sideways across the saddle. She burrowed her head against his chest, clinging to him tightly. Even in the wintry rawness of the air, his body seemed to blaze with the heat of a coal fire. They stopped on the side of the street, and he disentangled her arms in order to dismount.
A light snow had begun to fall. Tiny flakes swirled downward, making a delicate, audible patter on the street. Craven helped her to the ground. A few snowflakes had fallen on his hair, melting points of lace caught in the dark locks. His scar was more pronounced than usual. She longed to press her lips against the wound, a lasting reminder of the night she had met him. Her throat was unbearably tight. Her eyes stung with unshed tears.
He was so far from the gallant knights in her romantic fantasies…He was tarnished, scarred, imperfect. Deliberately he had destroyed any illusions she might have had about him, exposing his mysterious past for the ugly horror that it was. His purpose had been to drive her away. But instead she felt closer to him, as if the truth had bonded them in a new intimacy.
Walking her to the Goodmans’ front steps, Craven paused to survey her tangled hair, whisker-burned cheeks, and puffy lips. He smiled slightly. “You look like you’ve been done over by a squadron of sailors on leave.”
Sara looked into his intent green eyes, knowing they would haunt her forever. “I’ll never see you again, will I?” she asked dazedly.
There was no need for him to reply. He took her hand as if it were a priceless object, raising it to his mouth so lightly that she felt as if her arm were floating. The warmth of his breath penetrated her skin. She was aware of the movement of his lips as he pressed soundless words in her palm. He released her, and the look he gave her seemed to reveal the depths of his lustful, longing, bitter soul. “Good-bye, Miss Fielding,” he said hoarsely. He turned and strode away. Sara watched in frozen silence as he hoisted himself easily into the saddle and rode down the street, until he had disappeared from sight.
