She didn’t know if her words had helped Eleanor or not, but if her cousin had suffered from despair since, she kept it hidden well.
As for herself, Sarah hadn’t shed a tear since the night Brother Joshua—the monk she’d come to The Mint to help—had died and she realized that if she didn’t wish to go home, she would need to take over his charity. She’d learned self-control, cultivated an unwavering equanimity that had served her well in the turbulent streets of Southwark.
Then Samuel James had entered her life and suddenly her emotions were barely contained beneath the surface of her skin.
She stopped in the middle of the room and scrubbed her hands over her face. The late afternoon light was weak, battling clouds and smoke to barely illuminate the room. The light was grey and in its pale glow, everything else was grey as well.
Staring bleakly out the window, Sarah thought how she’d forced herself to relive the memory of Peter Greene’s to squelch her feelings for Samuel James. And yet she had not turned away that night he’d kissed her in the pub. Rather, she’d drunk him in like the Scotch whiskey, only he’d been more intoxicating, bringing her body to life in ways she’d shunned for years.
After their embrace in the Chalcroft garden, her defenses had lowered even more. Who knew what might have grown between them. His sister had said he’d postponed his passage home. Eleanor had speculated that he could even be seeking to move here because of her.
But it didn’t matter now, for just when she was at her softest, her most open after hours spent with Mr. James and the very much in love Trowbridges, when daydreams and fantasies had been buzzing in the heavy soft air of the park, Peter Greene had arrived to remind her what became of fantasies.
A sob tore from Sarah’s throat and she doubled over, for it was not only her life he had ruined that day…
“No!” she cried, and dashed the tears from her face. Peter Greene had made a muck of her life six years ago, but she’d ruined any chance at whatever might have developed between Samuel James and her.
Overcome with the need to expend the frenetic, hopeless energy roiling inside her, she grabbed up one of the crates of food delivered by the Quakers. It was heavy and it banged against her hip, but she lugged it downstairs and for the two blocks to the building where her kitchen was located. Her arms were burning and her lungs heaving by the time she set the box in the pantry, but she returned to her flat and made six more trips.
By the time she was done, she was drenched in sweat and physically exhausted. But she had exorcised her bitter regret, at least temporarily She took a sponge bath and fell into bed where she quickly sank into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
Chapter Eight
Sam tossed back another whiskey and barely felt the burn at the back of his throat. He hadn’t set out to get drunk, but as he’d downed the first glass, he couldn’t help but remember drinking whiskey with Sarah in a shabby pub in Southwark. No, he corrected, that’s not what first came to his mind; though he tasted whiskey in his glass, in his mind he remembered the taste of it on her lips, on her tongue. That memory had led to a second drink. Then his traitorous mind had brought up images of the multiple kisses they’d shared in the Chalcroft gardens. Who knew where those would have progressed had they not been interrupted by Reading and Lady Eleanor, for Sarah set him ablaze like no other woman ever had. Perhaps because his attraction was to more than just how her mouth fit so perfectly against his, her lips full and lush and mobile. It was more than how their bodies had melded together, there in the quite dark of a London garden. Though it was as if his hand had been made to fit the curve of her lower back; the softness of her breasts was a perfect counterpoint to the contours of his chest; the strength of her arms around him a perfect match for how closely he wanted to hold her. The taste of the soft skin of her neck, sweeter than any ambrosia. It
Sam surged to his feet, a remote part of his brain pleased when he maintained his balance with only the merest wobble. Eschewing his glass, he grabbed the bottle and headed for his bedchamber. Depositing the bottle on his nightstand, he crossed to the washstand and splashed water on his face to cool his ardor. He stared at the drops of water on his nose in the mirror, and forced away fantasies of Sarah lying beneath him in the soft grass of Lord Chalcroft’s garden from his whiskey-soaked brain.
Because for all of the delicious physical attractions Sarah Draper held for him, the greatest pull was her very presence. The way she talked to him about real life issues, the way she was completely honest in her responses—guarded but honest. There was no coyness to her, no affectation. From the beginning, she had not been afraid to unleash her rapier sharp wit upon him, teasing him for being an ignorant American or…well, mostly for that, he thought with a half grin.
Then there was her courage: leaving a comfortable upbringing to live and work in one of London’s toughest slums. But her bravery was not just about facing dangers, it was about helping people that society had cast aside as unworthy, seeing them with all their warts and flaws and still committing everything she had to trying to improve their lives.
Pushing away from the mirror, he made his way to the bed. He picked up the half-empty bottle, but paused with the neck just inches from his mouth.
Why had she left a comfortable upbringing? She’d said she’d been inspired to help by a priest, but that didn’t ring true. No, he corrected himself, it didn’t seem to be the whole truth. He wondered again about the man at the park today, feeling sure he’d had something to do with her past. He wished he’d been able to track the man down after he’d chased after Sarah, but he was gone by the time he walked back to the pavilion.
Then there were Sarah’s words she’d flung at him like knives. He took a long pull from the bottle, then tugged and kicked until he freed himself from his boots. He sprawled back against the pillows, remembering her anguished plea to leave her alone, to go back to America, her accusations that he’d seen her as nothing more than a freakish diversion, her insistence that he was no more than a handsome face and a glib tongue. He paused, staring blearily at the canopy. Had she said he was handsome? He laughed humorlessly.
His reflective mood turned sour. “I know when to take a hint,” he mumbled. Curse Caroline for her insistence that he try to get to know a woman’s mind, try to appeal to more than a flirtatious interest. He knew where he stood with a woman who was simply interested in his looks and quick charm.
So what if those relationships burned out quickly? he thought petulantly. They were pleasant and mutually enjoyable. Unlike this wretched position he found himself in, longing for a woman who clearly did not want him around.
“To hell with it,” he grumbled. He took one last swig from the bottle and snuffed out the bedside candle.
There were times he cursed his penchant for waking up early—mostly when he’d overindulged the night before. How much less uncomfortable it would be to be able to sleep off the pounding headache, pasty mouth, and general sluggishness of too much liquor. But no, he thought, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he was awake with the dawn.
Picking up the bottle, he was surprised to see barely an inch of liquor left in it. He’d drunk more than he’d intended and far more than he normally did. And why? he asked himself, putting the bottle down with a thunk. Because a woman he barely knew had fallen into a snit and told him to pack off to the States. Yes, they’d shared a half-dozen—oh very well, a dozen—passionate kisses. (Did anyone actually keep track of details like this when indulging in a garden tryst?) Yes, they’d been rather ground shaking. But still, he rationalized, it was just a harmless flirtation in the end.
He padded to the washstand and poured a glass of water.
Thank God he’d not made it round to the ticket offices yesterday to change his return passage. He’d been stuck in a meeting most of the morning and then it was either see to his ticket and be exceedingly late or run straight to the park and be only a little late.
He’d been ridiculously excited to see Sarah again, had e
ven planned how to get her alone for some more stolen kisses. Surely groves of tress were to be found at the park and barring that, he could escort her home and take advantage of the long drive to Southwark. His preference was to enact both scenarios.
Shaking his head at his reflection in the shaving mirror, he wondered what madness had possessed him these last few weeks. Well, no matter. He had come to his senses and within a week would be boarding a ship for the States where he would throw himself back into his business. Digging in his trunk, he fished out a packet of headache powder and scarcely noticed the bitter taste as he poured it down his throat. A cold bath and a hot shave did much to make him feel human again and once he was dressed, he vowed to have a productive day.
He spent the rest of the day writing down his ideas to grow his publishing house, as well as editing the travel journal he had been writing about London. If he thought about Miss Draper throughout the day, it was with a shake of his head and a forced gratefulness that he’d discovered her mercurial nature before anything had progressed too far. If he didn’t entirely believe that, well, it merely required repetition. He knew how to convince himself of practically anything.
When his sister called the next day to bid him farewell, he was back to himself and completely unperturbed by thoughts of Sarah Draper.
“What happened to Miss Draper?” Caroline asked immediately upon entering the room.
“And so nice to see you too, sister,” he replied dryly.
“What did she say when you caught up to her?” she demanded. He’d left the park shortly after Sarah had and he knew his sister had been dying with curiosity to ask him about it. He was frankly surprised that she hadn’t beat down his door yesterday.
“She told me to take my sorry hide back to America. Which I am doing, by the way. Two days after you and Trowbridge depart.”
“No! You changed your booking to remain in London longer, didn’t you?”
Remaining excessively calm in the face of her rising agitation (it was a time-honored older brother practice, after all), he said, “Never got around to it. I don’t really see a need to hang around once you’re gone, though.”
“You weren’t going to stay for me! You were going to stay to further your relationship with Miss Draper! To get to know her better. To see if you two suited.”
“As to that,” he said, affecting an interest in a stack of papers on his desk. “Turns out I know all I wish to about Miss Draper. And no, we don’t suit.”
Caroline tugged her hat off and cast it onto a table, heedless for once of the mess the action left of her coiffure.
“But I don’t understand! What else did she say? Why did she run off like that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Something must have been terribly wrong,” Caroline said, pulling off her gloves to chew on her thumbnail.
“She didn’t deign to share it with me if there was,” he said tightly.
Caroline stopped at his tone and stared at him. “Did you two have a quarrel?”
“A quarrel? What on earth would we have to quarrel about? We scarcely knew each other.”
“You scarcely—what on earth are you talking about? You’re in love with Sarah. You all but admitted it the other day.”
“I assure you, I’m not,” he said crisply. “Now if we may change the subject?”
But if Caroline heard him, she did not acknowledge him. She tapped her finger against her mouth as she paced in front of him. “If you didn’t quarrel, something else must have upset her. Did someone else approach her at the park? Perhaps in the pavilion? Maybe someone recognized her and said something unkind. There are certainly plenty of horrid people in the ton who look down on her for leaving her position in society to work with the poor.”
Sam frowned at his desk. He had seen that man talking to Sarah, of course. He’d even asked her about him. Had he said something unkind or inappropriate? Or perhaps commented on her relationship with Sam himself? What if he’d seen them kissing in the Chalcroft garden?
Some of Sam’s righteous indignation faded at the idea that Sarah’s lashing out had had nothing to do with him. He’d wondered as much during his drunken reverie, but he’d allowed his—well, his hurt pride, dammit—to turn her behavior since then into simply an irrational woman’s snit.
“Did you escort her home from the park?”
“What? No, I—”
He’d stormed off after seeing that the man in the pavilion was gone. Sam hadn’t wanted to face Caroline and her questions.
“You didn’t?” his sister practically screeched. “You let her go home, as upset as she was, without finding out what was wrong and without making sure she arrived safely?”
It had been a while since he and Caroline had had a good sibling row and Sam jumped into the fray blindly.
“I asked the bloody woman what was wrong—I chased her halfway across the park, for God’s sake! She didn’t want to tell me. What was I supposed to do, tie her to a tree until she confessed?
“And she had a coachman to see her safely home! I made sure she got to the carriage, but yes, I assumed the man would do the job for which he’s being paid.”
“Hmmph,” was all Caroline said. They glared at each other for several moments in prickly silence and Sam saw when his sister’s expression melted from anger to something like compassion.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” she said. “It’s only that I liked Miss Draper very much and it’s clear to anyone with eyes that you’re quite taken with her.”
He scowled at that comment, but did not correct her.
“And given our conversation a few weeks ago about how easily you give up on a woman—“
“Alright, Caroline, stop. You’ve made your point.”
To her credit, his sister abruptly changed the subject, prattling on about a farewell dinner Trowbridge’s mother has hosting in their honor.
“Good heavens, you’ll be back in a few months,” he growled. “You’d think the two of you were trekking off to India for four years.”
An hour later, Caroline stood to leave. Sam hugged her tightly and promised to be a better correspondent.
“You’re a writer, for goodness’ sake,” she chided. “Just pretend you’re writing one of your travel articles.”
“Yes, yes,” he placated, opening the door for her.
She paused in the hallway, a small frown creasing her brow. “And Miss Draper,” she began.
“Caroline—“
“Just make sure she’s alright.”
“I’ll think about it,” he said, giving her one last kiss goodbye on her forehead.
The next day found him wrapping up the last of his actual business in London. In addition to the new ink supplier, he’d set up a trade with a fellow publisher who wished to reprint Sam’s maps of America and in return would give Sam exclusive distribution rights of their world maps in the States.
He was debating putting a bit more money into Caroline’s bank account when he realized he’d never given Sarah Draper his promised contribution.
“Well dammit,” he muttered, staring at the lockbox in which he kept his currency. He debated just going to the bank and forcing the manager to deposit the funds in Sarah’s account, but Caroline’s words had been clattering around in his brain since the day before.
Also, he was feeling a bit like a heel for not making sure Sarah was well. What if something was truly wrong and he’d let his ego keep him from helping her?
That settled it. He opened the lockbox and withdrew a stack of banknotes, paused, and then added a few more. He wrapped them securely in a sheet of parchment and tucked it in his breast pocket. Leaving so quickly he forgot his hat, he ran down the three flights of stairs and called for a hackney cab.
He tried not to dwell on what he would say to her—pursuing a woman after she’d given him the brush off was new territory for him—and he didn’t want to overthink it. But the closer his cab drew to Southwark, the more anxious he grew to see her. He’d missed
her, dammit, and they hadn’t managed to sneak away for a kiss at the park as he’d planned. Perhaps if they had, she would not have encountered whatever had upset her.
If that man he’d spotted with her had said something to her, he would track him down and—
The cab drew to a stop in front of Sarah’s building. As soon as he handed up a few coins to the driver, the man urged the horses on, unwilling to linger in The Mint.
Sam’s heart pounded like a nervous schoolboy’s, and he tugged his waistcoat in place and smoothed his hair before striding purposefully into the building. He realized immediately he had no idea which set of rooms was Sarah’s and so he pounded on the first door he came to. There was no answer, nor did anyone open the second door. Finally the third door opened to his insistent pounding and a frazzled woman holding a wailing toddler on her hip opened up.
“Which is Miss Draper’s door? Sarah Draper?” he clarified when the woman stared at him mutely. “She runs the aid organization here.”
“I know who she is,” the woman said. “I just don’t know why I should be tellin’ ye where she lives.”
“I have something for her. Something important.”
“That doesn’t sound like anything good. I don’t think she’ll want anything you have to give.” She moved to close the door and Sam stopped it with the flat of his hand.
“Hey! Wot do you—“
He held up a gold sovereign. “I assure you, what I bring is for Miss Draper’s benefit.”
The woman hesitated a moment and Sam cast a quick glance behind her at the squalid room. It was no surprise to him when she took the coin and gestured with her chin to the staircase. “Third floor.”
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