Susan Carroll

by The Painted Veil

“Now don't you be so hard upon my poor little man. Davy is a good boy, so he is. He looks after his poor old mama.”

  Sara rolled her eyes, but held her tongue. She had never been fond of her younger brother David, finding him both shiftless and underhanded. But it was useless arguing with her mother on that point. Besides, Chastity's last comment about how well David looked after her had been a broad hint, Mum's gaze fixing upon the parcel Sara had brought.

  Sara handed her the package and Chastity pounced upon it as greedily as a small child. Chastity cooed with delight over the tea, the pound of coffee, the chocolates, and sundry other delicacies. But what pleased her most was the box of cigars. Mum had acquired a taste for the nasty things from one of her lovers who had been a sea captain.

  As Chastity examined the last of Sara's offerings, several new pairs of knit stockings, Sara reached for her reticule. She fished around inside, drawing forth a small wad of pound notes.

  “I am sorry I could not bring you as much as I usually do,” Sara said. “Since my parting from the marquis I have had to be more careful with my funds.”

  “Ah, don't you fret, babe.” As she took the money, Chastity reached out to give Sara a motherly pat on the cheek. “Things will come out all right. So that wretch of a man left you. You'll find a new love soon enough.”

  Sara started to reply, then closed her mouth. It was of no use trying to explain to Chastity that Mandell had never been her love or that it had been Sara who had broken off the relationship. Mum would never understand whistling such a handsome and wealthy lover down the wind any more than she would understand Sara's yearning to be a real lady, to achieve a noble marriage.

  “I am sure I will come about in time,” Sara said. “But I worry about you, Mum, about being able to bring you enough. I don't want you feeling hard-pressed or thinking that you have to go back to Madame Dubonnet's.”

  “Lordy, child, as if I would ever have to do that if I didn't want to!” Chastity daintily tucked the money inside the bosom of her gown and gave a proud toss of her head. “Your Mum still possesses a few resources of her own, you know. Besides, you forget I have two strong sons to care for me.”

  “But that is the other reason I came here today, to tell you Gideon had to leave London, perhaps for quite awhile.”

  “Oh, er—yes. Poor Gideon. Traveling on that horrid stage up north. I have only my little Davy left now.”

  “How did you know where Gideon went'?” Sara asked sharply. “I just sent him off yesterday and I gave him no chance to come back here,”

  “Well.” Chastity moistened her lips. “I expect I heard it from Davy. Yes, Davy. He just happened to be at the inn, spying upon you. You know what a rogue he can be sometimes.”

  Giving a nervous laugh, Chastity's gaze flicked toward the curtained alcove and guiltily away again. Sara stiffened. Her mother had the most transparent features imaginable.

  Sara swore. How could she have been so stupid when she peeked behind the curtain before? The glossy boots should have been familiar as the snoring, the huddling down beneath bedcovers pretending to be asleep. It was one of the oldest tricks of their childhood. Compressing her lips, Sara stalked toward the alcove.

  “Oh, no, Sary,” Chastity cried. “I have a guest in there I didn't tell you about. You don't want to—”

  Ignoring her mother, Sara flung back the curtain. Gideon was already leaping up from the bed. Shoving back the strands of his tousled hair, he gave her a sheepish grin. “Hullo, Sara.”

  Sara's fingers clenched about the end of the curtain. “Damn you, Gideon! I put you on that stage myself. I had you out of here. Why the devil did you come back?”

  He spread his hands wide in an apologetic gesture. “Well, my dear, when the stage got past the city, I chanced to look out the window.” He gave a mock shudder. “There were pastures, Sara. Cows! Sheep!”

  Chastity gave a shrill giggle which died when Sara whipped around to glare at her mother. “This is not amusing, Mum.”

  “Aw, Sara.” Gideon tried to get an arm about her shoulders, but Sara flung him off.

  “Come now, Sary,” Chastity coaxed. “You have got yourself into a rare state of panic over nothing. Gideon told me everything about you trying to make him run off over a few suspicions. No one is accusing him of being the Hook yet.”

  “When someone does, it will be far too late,” Sara snapped.

  “If it's the money you wasted upon the stage,” Gideon said, “I will pay you back somehow.”

  “It is not the money, you fool! I am trying to keep you from being arrested for murder.”

  “Bah, there is nothing to connect Gideon to those killings. Only rumor.” Chastity smiled, preening a little. “Mind you, it has not hurt my reputation in the neighborhood a bit, having people imagining Gideon might be the one. Why, the Hook is getting to be something of a legend like Dick Turpin or Robin of the Hood. The butcher actually slipped me an extra slab of bacon the other day.”

  “When you see your oldest son swinging by the neck, I hope you will think the bacon was worth it, Mum.”

  “Of course I wouldn't.” Chastity's smile faded, her chin quivering. “I went to see poor Meg Cuttler's boy turned off just last week for horse stealing. Davy and I attended the hanging. It was dreadful, though Meg did lay out a nice funeral breakfast in her flat afterwards.”

  “And all the while I suppose Davy plotted to steal the corpse.”

  “Certainly not!” Chastity said. “I raised your brother up to be a gentleman. He'd never open the grave of anybody he knows.”

  A smothered choking sound escaped from Gideon, but Sara had no desire to laugh. She did not have the strength to be angry anymore, either. Sinking down at the table, she rested her brow upon her hands, determined not to have another headache.

  What was the use of arguing? she thought wearily. What was the use of trying to help either one of them? It was hopeless. Life had always been hopeless in Bethnal Green.

  Gideon drew their mother aside. After a little whispering between them, Gideon handed Chastity some coin, instructing her to bring back some rum from the shop around the corner.

  Snatching up her shawl, Chastity slipped out of the room, promising to be back directly. A silence settled over the flat when the door had closed behind her. Gideon ambled back over to the table, but he did not sit down. Resting his hands on the back of one of the chairs, he stared at Sara and said, “It wasn't any good me running away, Sara. I think we both realize that.”

  “If you had just possessed the sense to keep on running.”

  “I have done some checking, Sara. The authorities are as baffled as ever. They have no witnesses, no clear description of the Hook. I am safe.”

  “For the moment.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Fool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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