Sacrifice (Fashionably Impure Book 3)

by Natasha Blackthorne

  A touch on her shoulder brought her into the moment. “Why don’t you just stay here tonight?”

  Jeanne shook her head furiously. “No, no, I have to go.”

  She tore from Mrs. Mason’s touch, arose from her seat, and hurried to the door.

  “Wait, wait. The gentleman may be waiting—”

  Jeanne jerked the door open and exited the shop.

  She ran faster than she ever had in her life. But she didn’t have far to go once she’d turned the corner. The gentleman was leaning against a wall. He looked as pensive as ever.

  As she approached his expression eased and he reached a hand out. “My darling, let’s go home.”

  The wind gusted, sending ice cold straight to her bones, and she pulled her pelisse closer to her chin. A passing coach rattled by, its wheels sending a sluice of cloudy grayish water up in an arc which came dangerously close to drenching them.

  She forced a smile. “Yes, let’s go home.”

  She’d get him into a carriage and on his way back to where he belonged. Surely that was enough. A gentleman like him must have servants who would watch over him. Her responsibility would be discharged.

  “Where the devil is the carriage?” Deep offense resounded in his voice, as though he’d never had to wait for a carriage before.

  “Didn’t you tell your driver to wait?”

  “Of course I did.” His voice rang with indignation.

  “Come,” she said firmly. “Let’s go back to the mews and see about your carriage.”

  The groom at the mews nearest the coffee shop said that the gentleman hadn’t left any carriage there.

  “Where did you come from before you arrived at the coffee shop?” she asked once they had walked out of earshot of the groom.

  The gentleman just stared at her with that highbrow look and compressed his lips. So, he didn’t know where he’d been or where he’d left his damned carriage. She sighed. “We’ll walk a bit and a hackney will come along.”

  He looked down from his lofty heights, almost sneering down his aristocratic nose. “We’re certainly not going to take a public carriage.”

  “Well, the carriage is—” She drew her brows together. “—being repaired.”

  “Being repaired?” he asked, as though such a thing were a complete impossibility.

  “Yes.”

  Her heart fluttered a series of frenzied beats. Shaky, panicked energy quivered down her legs. She drew in a deep, hitching breath. Calm, she must remain calm. If she stayed calm, he was less likely to have any sort of fit or rage, right? Perhaps she might play the loving mistress? “Darling, don’t you remember?”

  He stared at her then blinked several times.

  “Don’t you?” She made her voice very soft.

  He released her hand. “Blast it, I don’t remember.” His expression went blank yet his eyes widened. “I don’t remember anything.” He frowned. “Except that you were angry with me.”

  “Angry about what?”

  “Everything.”

  There was that devastated, desolate look again. The burn returned to her throat and she had to turn away. “It’s terribly cold. We’re being soaked. Let us find a public conveyance and sort all of this out later, shall we?”

  He jutted his chin and his features took on an annoyed expression. Apparently, he was not used to listening to others or taking their advice. He blinked once or twice and then he took her hand again and strode determinedly ahead, pulling her with him.

  When they found a carriage for hire, the gentleman stared blankly at the driver.

  “Sir, where shall I take you?”

  “Darling, tell the man.” Again, she tried to make her voice soft. Loving.

  He turned to her. His eyes, now glassy again, reflected sheer fear. Her throat constricted. Again, she wondered if he were really ill with a fever. He didn’t remember where he lived. Or he couldn’t remember how to give directions to where he lived. Heavens, it was worse than she’d thought. Oh Lord. She did not want to deal with any panicked hysterics or self-defensive rages like with Papa. She swallowed hard and smiled at him in a hopefully reassuring manner.

  He jerked his gaze away.

  “Give him directions, Thérèse.” The resentment in his voice made her heart contract. She was intimately familiar with a man not wanting to appear weak. Not wanting to need help.

  Wetness pricked the corners of her eyes. Not from the rain but from frustration.

  All right, yes, mostly she cried from sympathy.

  She did not want this. This couldn’t be happening. She quickly gave the driver directions.

  She’d have to take him to her garret for now. The other women frequently entertained men in their rooms. Mrs. Pillmore required her percentage, of course. But it wouldn’t seem amiss to anyone. Oh, just imagine how Mr. High-And-Mighty was going to respond to being taken to her garret. But what else was she to do with him? Good heavens, he wasn’t a stray dog.

  The driver rushed to aid her into the carriage but the gentleman pushed him away, then poked his head inside.

  He began peeling off his greatcoat.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “It is appalling in there. You shall have to sit on my coat.”

  She stuck her head inside and caught the odor of mildew and a touch of stale urine. Well, clearly not the best but she’d come across worse. On a rainy day, this close to east London, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  “Please put your coat back on.

  “You cannot sit on those seats.”

  “You are becoming soaked through. Please, put your coat on.”

  His frown deepened. “Thérèse, why are you suddenly so disagreeable?”

  “The longer we stand here, the more thoroughly soaked we get from the sleet.”

  Was that a hint of a smile on his lips? “Your new bluntness is a refreshing.”

  He reached out, as though he were about to help her into the carriage. Then he swayed and listed backwards. His eyes rolled until only the whites showed. He pitched forward.

  A startled cry pierced the silence. Hers. She leapt forward, hands poised to catch him. He fell upon her and his weight overwhelmed her to the point her knees buckled.

  Then his weight eased. The driver was lifting him. “Let’s put him inside, milady.”

  Milady.

  She could have laughed at any other time. But the reality of her situation came crashing upon her. She was now responsible for an unconscious, mentally unstable gentleman. Together, they got him inside. She settled beside him and took a deep breath.

  The driver closed the door with a slam. The finality of the sound resonated deep in her chest.

  What a fine situation she’d willingly trapped herself in.

  Her nostrils began to burn. The connivance didn’t smell any nicer with the door shut. She wrinkled her nose. Thank God she didn’t live too far away.

  It began to move. To put it more bluntly, it began to rock hard enough to rattle her teeth. His unconscious form shifted and fell against her shoulder.

  “Thérèse—” His deep voice sounded sleepy. “The channel is so choppy this time of year. You mustn’t be afraid. Think about Paris. We shall have a grand time in Paris.”

  He locked an arm around her waist and drew her near. Sheltering her from the jarring motion with his body.

  His very solid body.

  The hackney rattled along and another strong jolt hit. She found her face pressed ruthlessly against his chest. The scent of his shaving soap was certainly better than the odors in the carriage.

  He pressed the curve of her waist then slid down to the swell of her hip. “You have gained some weight.”

  Heat suffused her face. Of course, his Thérèse must be a slip of a thing. No one could ever accuse Jeanne of being slender.

  “You never ran from me before.”

  “No?”

  “No.” He found her hand. “Can you forgive me? Will you come home and stay?” He didn’t plead
. But there was a sincere, earnest, urgency underneath his calm tone that made her believe his sincerity. His remorse. It held her spellbound, unable to resist as he lifted her hand to his cheek. The stubble there was a faint rasp against her fingers.

  His skin burnt her like live coals. She gasped then jerked her hand out of his hold.

  She tore her glove off and put a hand to his forehead. Moist, blistering heat.

  Thurmp, Thurmp. Thurmp.

  Her heart pounded her ears with sudden, jarring violence. Her mouth went dry. God above. She’d been so focused on her dread of insanity, it had clouded her perception. Clearly, the man was dreadfully ill and delirious with fever.

  Totally her responsibility.

  She swallowed hard and in the semidarkness they rode in silence for long moments. Silence but for the subtle wheezing issuing from his open mouth as he slipped back into unconsciousness.