Peregrine could see that under the shift, her body was more that of a woman than a child. Even beribboned gowns would not disguise her much longer.
His mouth tightened. A prostitute could earn much more than a shop girl or mill worker, and for some women prostitution was a brief, profitable interlude before they moved on to more respectable lives. But for a girl who was virtually a slave, the future was bleak. He wondered if Jenny thought the security of being cared for was worth the price she had to pay. "Would you be allowed to leave if you wanted to?"
"Not bloody likely," she said bitterly. "Even if I could escape, I've nowhere to go. Won't go home, the only reason Pap didn't use me himself was because he knew I was worth more untouched. Working the streets is worse than this, and going into service can be pretty bad. My older sister was a housemaid, worked fifteen hours a day, and every man there had his way with her as well, till she died trying to get rid of a babe."
Obviously leaving was a topic Jenny had considered, and with an impressive degree of common sense. "Is there something you would rather do if you could have your wish?"
Her delicate face became wistful. "I've always thought it'd be nice to be a lady's maid. They get to work with pretty things, and they're important belowstairs, not like a housemaid. I'd like to work for a lady who was young and fashionable, and who would give me her gowns when she was done with them. Maybe someday I'd marry a handsome footman."
She thought a moment, then added vehemently. "One that doesn't drink like Pap."
Her eyes met his, eagerness lighting up the clear blue depths. "Why are you asking? Do you want me for a mistress? I'd be a good one, I know everything a man likes. Or... or I can be a virgin every night if that's what you fancy."
"I'm not looking for a mistress, and if I was, I prefer women who look like women, not children," he said curtly, irritated at himself for inadvertently giving her ideas when he had only been indulging his curiosity.
Jenny's small face was a painful mixture of hope and pleading. "Please? I swear you'll not regret it."
Peregrine sighed. London was full of girls like this one. Many were in worse straits, selling their scrawny bodies in doorways, prey to any man who wanted them, hoping for a coin in return. They were like the sands of the sea, endless, unnumbered, living and dying like mayflies.
His early life had been a ruthless course in survival, and he had quickly learned that compassion was a dangerous luxury. He had seen every possible degree of degradation and suffering, and knew better than to waste his time with rescue or reform. If he chose, he could help this girl, but what was the point of saving one little whore? It would make no difference to that vast, endless, tragic horde of broken children.
But as Jenny stared at him with great stark eyes, he knew that it would make a difference to her.
Usually Peregrine was deliberate in his actions, capable of infinite patience when necessary. But sometimes he felt a powerful, irrational impulse, and when he did, he always obeyed it.
He felt such an impulse now. While he was no savior, it was not against his principles to lend a hand if doing so would not interfere with his other goals. And he owed someone a good deed. "I don't want you for a mistress," he said brusquely. "But if you really want to leave, I can give you a place to stay and help you find a job that will support you."
Jenny's breath caught, as if she had not believed that he would respond to her plea. "Oh, I want to leave," she whispered, "I surely do. But she'll never let me just walk out of here."
Peregrine thought a moment. He could probably buy the girl's freedom if he wanted to, but stealing her away from Mrs. Kent would be both cheaper and more satisfying. Besides, he preferred stealth as a matter of general policy.
"Is this always your room?" After she nodded, he continued, "I'll come tomorrow night, between two and three o'clock in the morning. I'll throw pebbles against the glass. If you are alone and ready to leave, open the window and I'll throw up a rope."
"I'm not sure I can lift the sash," she said uncertainly. "It's painted shut."
He stood and went to the window. When he pushed aside the layers of heavy, opaque draperies, he saw that she was right. Probably the window had not been opened in years, possibly decades. Taking the concealed knife from his boot, he slid the blade around the edge of the window frame, then tried to lift the lower sash. His arms strained until he feared that the glass might shatter. Then the sash suddenly broke free and surged upward with a raucous, grating noise.
Leaning out, Peregrine saw that a dark, noisome alley separated the brothel from the building next door. All the brothel's windows were heavily curtained, so it was unlikely that anyone would look out and see that an inmate was escaping. He counted windows so that he would know the correct one when he returned, then he had Jenny lower and raise the stiff sash to be sure she could manage it alone.
Anxiously she said, "If I'm not alone when you get here, will you wait for me?"
"For half an hour or so. If you still can't leave, I'll come back the next night, and the night after if necessary. The rope I toss up will have knots every foot and a half or so. Do you think you will be able to climb down without a problem?"
"I'll manage," she said tersely.
Deciding that he had been with the girl long enough to make it seem that he'd done what was expected, Peregrine crossed to the door. "I'll go now. I assume that you will make the sheets look convincing so that your mistress won't be suspicious of what has happened—or rather, what hasn't happened?"
Jenny gave him an indignant glance. "Of course I will. I know a lot more about this kind of thing than you seem to."
"I defer to your greater experience," he said, amused. Then his slight smile faded. "You are sure you want to leave? You know nothing of me. I might be a worse monster than Mrs. Kent."
She shrugged. "Aye, you might be. But it's a risk I'm willing to take. There's no future for me here, and I may never have another chance like this."
"You're a brave girl."
"Or a stupid one," she answered with cockney tartness. In the subdued light she looked like a child ready to be put to bed by her nurse, but the expression on her small face was thoroughly adult.
Peregrine was glad that he had obeyed his impulse. The girl was intelligent and resilient, and she deserved a chance to forge a better life for herself. He guessed that she would make good use of her opportunity.
* * *
Later that night, after a sated, self-satisfied Weldon had dropped his guest off at the Clarendon Hotel, Peregrine sat up until he had recorded all the details of his night's tour. The names and addresses would prove useful to Benjamin Slade's investigations.
Chapter 5
It was rather small as fashionable balls went. There was still room to draw a deep breath, for which favor Sara was duly grateful. After she and Charles arrived, they had worked their way through the crowd, greeting friends and acquaintances. Then he had found her a quiet seat, half-concealed behind a potted plant, and they had enjoyed a glass of punch together.
As Sara drained the last of her cool drink, Charles asked, "Are you comfortable here, my dear? If you don't mind being left alone, I'd like to go to the card room for a while."
Sara handed him her empty punch glass. "Go and enjoy yourself. When I feel the need for company, I will have no trouble finding it."
"Admirable Sara." He touched her cheek with possessive fingers. "I am the most fortunate of men, for you will make the best of wives." Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Pleased by the compliment, Sara watched his broad back retreat, thinking that her betrothed looked wonderfully distinguished in formal evening wear.
Her shifted to the dancers crowding the floor as her mind drifted back to her own first Season. Though she had always had a serious turn of mind, she had enjoyed her first foray into adult society, and had laughed and danced and flirted as much as any of the young girls before her now. It seemed a lifetime ago.
The ballroom was
warm, so she spread her fan and absently wafted cool air toward her face. On the far side of the room, she caught a glimpse of Ross and Prince Peregrine. She had talked to both men briefly earlier. Then Ross, with his usual thoroughness, had taken his friend off for further introductions.
As she watched the Kafir critically, Sara decided that he no longer needed a guide to London society, if he ever had. He moved among the British aristocracy with utter confidence, and they in turn accepted him, at least on this social level. Indeed, society had welcomed him; no less than three beautiful women were listening raptly to his every word.
Sara snapped the ivory sticks of her fan shut, feeling stifled by the heat of massed candles and active bodies. To the left, French doors led out to a wide balcony, so she slipped out for some fresh air. The balcony was blessedly cool and empty. She inhaled deeply, enjoying the fragile scent of the garden below after the heavy atmosphere of the ballroom.
Her body swaying to the rhythm of the music, Sara watched the dancers inside, their bodies abstract blurs through the translucent draperies. Since her accident, watching was the closest she came to dancing.
Turning her back on the ballroom, she looked up at the full moon, which gilded Mayfair with silver serenity. There was no point in envying those who could still dance.
It would be more productive to consider her wedding plans. There was much to be done, and most of the work would fall on her own shoulders. Aunt Marguerite, Ross's mother, would help, but that was not the same as having a mother of her own to take charge of the event.
Caught up in planning, she did not hear the French doors open and gave an unladylike jump when a deep voice said in her ear, "Is playing truant proper behavior at a London ball?"
She whirled, her heart pounding from surprise even though Prince Peregrine's soft, accented voice was instantly recognizable. "It is acceptable to slip away for fresh air, but not to startle other guests out of their wits," she said severely. "You could give a cat lessons on silent stalking."
"On the contrary, I once took stalking lessons from a cat." He smiled reminiscently. "A snow leopard, to be exact."
Black-haired and dark-garbed, he belonged to the night, as intensely alive as he was irresistibly attractive. No, not irresistible; Sara was a woman grown, in control of her emotions. "Did you stalk the leopard, or did it stalk you?"
"Both, in turn. At the end I could have killed it, but could not bear to. It was too beautiful." He chuckled. "Don't tell anyone I said that, I don't think noble savages are supposed to be so sentimental."
Sara considered his remark. "You may be many things, but savage is not one of them. A savage knows nothing of the rules of civilization. You know them, I think, but do not always choose to follow them."
"As usual, you are uncomfortably perceptive," he said after a moment. "But enough of seriousness. Will you dance with me?"
"No, thank you." She looked down and smoothed a wrinkle from the lace trim of her low-cut bodice. "I do not dance."
"Do not dance, or cannot dance?"
"Do not," she said shortly. Then, fearing that she sounded rude, Sara glanced up and added, "I could probably manage most of the steps, but I prefer not to invite the pity of old friends who remember that I was once graceful."
"In that case, you are a perfect partner for me," Peregrine said, his velvet voice coaxing. "I have had some instruction in European dancing, but have not yet dared my skills in public. Come, we can dance gracelessly together."
Before she could protest, he drew her into waltz position, his right hand at the waist of her turquoise silk gown, his other hand clasping hers, a correct twelve inches between them. As they began moving to the music, she said with amused resignation, "I can't believe that there is anything you don't dare."
"To dare is the last resort. I prefer arranging matters so that the outcome will not be in doubt."
Though the prince did not dance with the unthinking ease of long practice, he had been well taught and his natural physical grace compensated for minor flaws in technique. Sara could not say the same for herself. Though she tried to relax, she was rigid and awkward, convinced that disaster was just a step away.
Her fears were confirmed when she stumbled on a turn, her weak leg unequal to the sudden shift of weight. But instead of a humiliating fall, there was only a slight irregularity in their progress as the prince's strong clasp carried her through the moment of weakness. He smiled down at her. "Was that so bad?"
Sara did not answer out loud, just tilted her head back and laughed. Now she relaxed, her body soft and pliant as she yielded to his lead. When Peregrine had taken her up on his horse, he had freed her of the fear of pain. Now he was freeing her again, this time of the fear of making a fool of herself.
Why had she let pride prevent her from dancing? The risk of being thought clumsy was a small price to pay for this pleasure.
As they swirled across the flagstones, he said teasingly, "I'm disappointed in you, Lady Sara. I expected gracelessness. Instead your dancing is the equal of any other lady here."
"You were also flying false colors, Your Highness," she retorted, "for you could be giving lessons, not receiving them."
"Not quite, but I thank you for the compliment."
As they spun across the rectangles of light cast by the French windows, the sheer sensual pleasure of dancing filled Sara's being. In the months and years after her accident, she had done her best to detach her mind from her body as the only way to survive the endless pain. Now, in the joy of the waltz, her spirit and body were one again for the first time in a decade.
They had finished one dance and were halfway through the next before she became aware that another, more focused joy was growing inside her. She was intensely conscious of Peregrine's nearness. In spite of her gloves, she tingled where they touched. He was so strong, so attractive, so close....
Too close, the distance between them was less than half what it should be, at this rate she would soon be pressed against his broad chest. And shamelessly Sara wanted that to happen. She wanted to raise her face to his and discover if there was more to kissing than she had yet experienced, she wanted to feel his body moving against hers.
In the darkness her face flamed as she realized that once more she was falling under the spell of his compelling masculine presence. The man was dangerous, and he wasn't even trying to be. She stopped and released him. "I must catch my breath. I am unaccustomed to so much exertion."
She sat down on a stone bench by the railing and opened her fan, needing to cool her burning face. Her temperature problem was not helped when the prince sat down beside her. Though he was a respectable distance away, he was still too close for comfort, for she could feel the warmth of his body radiating through the cool evening air.
"Clearly dancing, like riding, is another activity that should be part of your life again," he remarked.
"I think you are right." Sara's smile was rueful. "You are an alarming person, Your Highness."
His glance was narrow-eyed. "Why do you say that?"
"Because you have the power to change lives, quickly and casually. Certainly you keep changing my life."
He shrugged fatalistically. "Life always changes, it just changes faster sometimes. Are you not to marry soon? If you do that, nothing in your life will be the same."
With a sudden shift of subject, Peregrine motioned toward her fan. "I have heard that ladies use these to communicate with gentlemen. Do you know how that is done?"
"The language of the fan?" Her mind flashed back to her school days, when an older girl had demonstrated the gestures to Sara and her best friend Juliet. "It originated in Spain, I think, where young men and women were much more strictly separated than here." Remembering the females who clustered around the prince, she added with a touch of dryness, "These days, there are easier ways to send a message, but perhaps there will be an occasion when you will need to understand some of the language. Let me see if I can remember any of it."
She thou
ght for a minute. "Bear in mind that it is not only the fan that speaks, but also the eyes and the whole body." She opened her fan. It was an elegant trifle of black Spanish lace mounted on carved ivory sticks, a gift from Charles.
Letting the fan rest against her right cheek, she said, "This means yes." She moved it to her left cheek, "And this means no." Then she drew the fan across her eyes, accompanying the movement with a soulful look. "This means 'I'm sorry.'"
The moonlight disclosed a gleam of amusement in Peregrine's eyes. "Can anything more complex be conveyed?"
Since an active performance would take Sara farther from his disquieting presence, she stood and crossed the balcony. "Carrying the fan in my left hand like this means that I desire to make your acquaintance."
"Better," he said approvingly. "But since we are already acquainted, what might come next?"
"If I carry the fan in my right hand in front of my face, it means 'Follow me.' "Walking toward him, she demonstrated, then turned away and cast a coy glance over her shoulder as if to see whether he was following.
Obligingly the prince stood and moved after Sara. She turned toward him and opened her fan very wide, accompanying the action with a burning gaze. "This means 'Wait for me.' "
"What am I waiting for?" he asked with interest as he stopped three feet away from her.
Sara drew the fan across her forehead, then hissed melodramatically, "We are watched!"
Peregrine glanced at the French doors. Inside the ballroom, another waltz was in full swing, the lush music flooding the night with sound. "Fortunately not," he said in a conspiratorial whisper as he turned back to her. "Apparently no one else feels the need for fresh air. Does the fan have anything to say when two people are finally alone, or do we now rely on words?"
"Some ladies are too shy or proper to say what they wish." A mad impulse drove Sara to do what she would never have dared do openly. Folding her fan, she touched the handle to her lips. "So this means 'Kiss me.'"
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