Perilous Risk

by Blackthorne, Natasha

  “A special occasion?” Paul’s words cut into her thoughts again.

  Oh bother! She took a deep breath and struggled to find more patience. Once Paul Cook started, he never let up. But he was just a boy, and a kind one at that. She bit back an impatient response.

  Her concentration, her peace, however: they were gone. Never mind. The wind was howling with more intensity outside, and the winter’s day was growing dark far too early. It was time to leave.

  As she reached down to retrieve her reticule, the odor of wet wool intruded on her senses, mingled with the citrus-soapy scent of a gentleman’s shaving lotion. A body close to hers. Too close. She jerked her head up and faced her waking dream.

  His greatcoat was opened to reveal a fine, silk, embroidered waistcoat that encompassed a broad chest, which narrowed into a flat-as-boards stomach. Water dripped from his hair, leaving wet spots on his hopelessly crushed cravat. He didn’t seem to be aware of his dishevelment.

  She met his eyes. His gaze intensified, turning to brilliant, intimidating greenish fire, like an emerald catching the sunlight. Thick, dark lashes and heavy black brows made the color appear even richer.

  “Thérèse.”

  His voice was deep yet hushed and utterly masculine. It sent another curl of heat through her, stronger, penetrating all the way down from her chest to her navel and into her womb. However, it was the note of despair that made her catch her breath.

  Pressure swelled in her throat, a pang of sympathy. Sympathy for others was the most dangerous emotion of all. It could lead one to make painful, unwise sacrifices.

  She’d never had such an immediate reaction like this to any man. Tingles raced from her midsection to her toes, not arousal this time but an urge to run. He was dangerous.

  And Thérèse? Clearly he was grossly mistaken. Or foxed.

  She stood, then took a deep breath, released it, and raised her brows in a haughty mask. “Pardon me, sir?”

  His expression sharpened. He took her arm, harshly. “Don’t toy with me.”

  She pulled back and he tightened his grip. His hand was large. His hold stronger than any gentleman she’d known.

  He leaned so close she could have brushed her lips against his. “Don’t pretend that you don’t know me!”

  His deep, hushed voice sent pleasurable shivers through her but Jeanne pushed the sensation aside. As his hot breath wafted over her, she inhaled deeply but couldn’t detect any odor of spirits. Nor were the pupils of his eyes dilated, as they might be if he were under the influence of some strong drug. Prickles raced over her scalp like a thousand needles.

  Perhaps the gentleman wasn’t in full control over his mental faculties. Dear God. Just like Papa. She’d spent her youth caring for her father in his varying stages of insanity. Life with him had become a prison. Since his death, she had lived in fear of the unbalanced. Another series of prickles raced over her scalp.

  She met the stranger’s gaze levelly. “What’s your game?”

  “Thérèse, don‘t be this way.” His whisper, laced with steel, was so low, that she unwittingly leaned closer. “We needn’t make any dramatics here. We’re going home.”

  This near to him, Jeanne noted the glassiness of his eyes. Again, she sniffed. No hint of alcohol. But then again, having experienced all of Papa’s variances of sanity, she had an instinct for spotting others who were likewise afflicted. This man was definitely afflicted in his mind.

  This was the exact situation she always dreaded. Since her girlhood, she always watched others, seeking any sign of madness. She’d had to cope with Papa, that had been her duty, but she was always careful to keep others who showed any inkling of mental instability at a safe distance. How stupid of her to have let herself be distracted by this man’s masculine beauty.

  Angry at herself, she jerked her arm, trying once again to free herself. His grip remained relentless.

  “Thérèse!” Again, the low steely whisper. “Behave yourself.”

  How unwise of her. An insane person could react unpredictably. She ought not to provoke him. Yet she knew it was important to present a strong, confident front.

  “Sir, I am not your Thérèse and have no wish to be. So please unhand me.” Her heart was hammering at her chest wall so violently, she had trouble keeping her voice even. She lifted her chin and stared at him steadily. “Now.”

  “You are deliberately pushing me, Thérèse. I don’t appreciate it.”

  Boots sounded on the floorboards. The sound drew her attention to how quiet the public room had become. She glanced around. The other patrons were staring.

  “Miss Darling, is everything all right?”

  The tall gentleman turned to Paul and regarded him with an icy, haughty stare. “The lady is a friend. Please go back to your counter and mind your business.”

  At the velvet over iron tone, the young man’s eyes grew round. He took one step backward and then another, then stood looking uneasy.

  “Are you having a spot of trouble here, Miss Darling?”

  Jeanne turned to face the shop owner, a large, barrel-chested man.

  The stranger exhaled long and loud. A sound of complete exasperation. “As I told the boy, the lady is a rather close friend. I would appreciate a little privacy.”

  The shop owner turned to her. “Miss Darling?”

  Her heart froze and her chest constricted. She placed a hand to her throat. She didn’t know what to say.

  “The gent don’t look right to me.” The owner’s wife squinted at the stranger.

  Jeanne glanced at the gentleman’s handsome profile and the proud jut of his jaw. He gazed at her sideways and she caught her breath. There was something about that brief gaze. A lost, disorientated air. Just like Papa when he had been in one of his worst spells and he was trying to hide it by acting arrogantly assertive.

  But she had seen. The stranger was truly not in his right mind.

  He swayed then braced his large hands on the back of the chair and caught himself. Arrogance fell over his face like a mask.

  Jeanne’s throat ached. He was so vulnerable. So alone.

  Mrs. Cook motioned to the chair Jeanne had vacated. “Sir, you better sit.”

  The gentleman stared at the matron—well, rather he glowered down his nose at her. “If you please, the lady and I have some personal business to attend to.”

  His eyes jerked from side to side. At the alarming motion, Jeanne started. He seemed to lurch forward. She looked down and saw his hands gripping the chair back. The knuckles were white. The ache in her throat increased.

  “Paul.”

  Jeanne glanced back at Mrs. Cook. The woman wrinkled her forehead. “Go fetch Dr. Miller.”

  Paul walked to the door.

  “Quickly now.” Mrs. Cook’s voice carried urgency and she made a shooing motion.

  A doctor.

  Memories rose in Jeanne’s mind. Her father screaming, his face contorted in torment as the doctor painted yet another mustard plaster on his skin in an attempt to draw the poisonous humors out. The endless purges and emetics. The excruciating blisters on his skin and the agonizing dry heaves. None of it did anything to cure Papa’s mad fits and mental lapses. And then finally, the insane asylum.

  It is how they would deal with this obviously touched gentleman. As though her stays had suddenly shrunk, her chest constricted. No, no, it wasn’t her place to step out of her way to aid this gentleman. He wasn’t her responsibility. She owed him nothing. Her breathing came shorter, faster. It wasn’t safe to stick one’s neck out. And yet the words rose. She tried to hold them back but they burst out, “There‘s no need for a doctor.”

  Mrs. Cook frowned deeper. “But he called you Thérèse. That’s a French girl’s name, not yours.”

  “He is calling me by my middle name.” Jeanne held her breath and waited to see if this lie would be accepted.

  Mrs. Cook blinked several times. “You have a French middle name?”

  “Yes. My mother’s mother was
French.” Another lie.

  The matron’s eyes narrowed. “Just how does this gentleman know you? He seems very well off to be on familiar terms with a decent girl from around here.”

  Jeanne caught herself biting her lip. She quickly released it and gave the first answer that came to mind. “He’s my cousin, on my mother’s side, twice removed.”

  Again, Mrs. Cook blinked a few times then her mouth twisted until she looked like she’d just tasted a particularly sour lemon.

  “My cousin is not well.”

  “Apparently. More likely drunk as a lord.” Mrs. Cook’s tone became sourer than her expression. “I don’t like this.”

  “Pardon me?” Jeanne tried for genteel outrage.

  Mrs. Cook’s tone became sharper. “I have known you since you started coming here on Saturdays with your Papa. I always thought you were such a dedicated daughter. A good girl. But I don’t like having fancy pieces courting trade in my shop.”

  “Mrs. Cook, this man is my cousin.”

  “A wealthy relation who didn’t help you when your dear Papa was ill?”

  “My cousin was out of the country at that time—he was in India, making his fortune.”

  Mrs. Cook looked from Jeanne to the gentleman and back. Several times. “I don’t see any family resemblance.”

  Jeanne swallowed against a tightening throat. Could everyone hear the pounding of her heart? “I favor my father’s side. He—he is my cousin.”

  Her voice came out so strained that she cringed internally.

  The matron’s expression hardened. “I think you met this gentleman under less than respectable conditions. Perhaps in a place where you’re known by a false name, a fancy French name to make yourself sound more interesting to wealthy gentlemen.”

  Jeanne’s mouth dried and anxiety twisted her insides. “That’s not how it happened.”

  “I’d appreciate if you took your cousin and left. I’d also appreciate if you never came back. I run a decent shop here, not a place of disorderly assignation.”

  Jeanne sucked in a deep breath. That had hurt. More than she wished to admit. This was her place of comfort and respite when her isolation became too much. And she was a horrible liar. But what else could she have done? Consigned this poor soul to Bedlam? Oh God. She’d known he was dangerous. Why hadn’t she listened to that inner voice?

  She glanced up at the gentleman. He was gazing at her with an odd, confused expression. Might he be ill, instead of insane? Surely, if he were that ill, he’d be in bed.

  She reached a hand to him. “Let’s leave.”

  The gentleman released the chair then took her hand and laced his fingers with hers as naturally as though he’d always done so. “Come, Thérèse.”

  They walked sedately out of the coffee shop, just like that, with their hands intertwined.

  The rain had let up yet the wind still gusted. With her free hand, she readjusted her scarf. His hold remained firm on her hand until they had traveled a block away. The strength of his grip sent prickles of fear darting into her. He could easily overpower her, if his insane whim so dictated.

  He stopped just as they were about to turn the corner, and he looked down at her. A slight smile softened his mouth. “My darling.”

  Dear heavens, he was such a gorgeous man. But he was still a madman. Dangerous, utterly dangerous. Any sensible person knew well to be frightened of the insane, she more than anyone. She returned his smile but only to placate him.

  “Are we headed in the proper direction for the mews?” he asked.

  “Yes, we are. They are just down this street and to the right.”

  “Esau has the carriage there.”

  Well, there it was. She’d done her part keeping him out of the clutches of an overzealous doctor. God and this Esau fellow would have to watch over him now. She wasn’t about to get anywhere near his carriage and risk him shoving her bodily into it.

  She offered another, hopefully warm, smile.

  She must have succeeded for he relaxed his grip on her hand and they resumed walking. As they rounded the corner, she slipped her hand from his.

  And ran.

  “Thérèse!”

  Her heart pounded and she ran faster.

  “Stop, please. For the love of God!” His tone was hollow with desolation. Her sympathy panged her yet again. Unwittingly, she glanced over her shoulder.

  Wind whipped the gentleman’s dark forelock. He leaned against a street lamp, one hand holding his side. He appeared to be panting for breath, his expression a mask of loss and despair.

  Just like Papa. She’d seen those emotions on her father’s face too many times. But the expression appeared so out of place on such an arrogant, masculine face. Her heart constricted. She turned back to face the direction she was running and put all her energy into it.

  Something came between her foot and the pavement. She lost her balance and fell forward. As the bricks rose to meet her, she threw her hands out to brace her fall. She cried out then reeled from the fall. Her arm began to burn like fire. She knew she wouldn’t be able to run easily for much longer.

  She hauled herself to her feet and scanned the shop fronts.

  Mrs. Mason’s Bakery.

  Relief washed over her. Mrs. Mason had always been friendly. She had even given her day-old bread on days when she couldn’t pay.

  She darted into the shop and the scent of baking bread and spicy cinnamon and apples comforted her.

  “Good day, Miss Darling!” Mrs. Mason sang out. “What shall it be today?

  “I think I’ll have whatever smells of apples and spice.”

  “You sit and I’ll bring it right out.”

  Jeanne sank into the nearest chair. Moments later, Mrs. Mason brought hot tea and apple pie. But Jeanne found the pie tasted like ashes and could only manage a few tiny bites. Unable to stop twitching and fidgeting, she kept catching herself glancing back at the window.

  She jerked her head away.

  No, don’t look. He is not your affair.

  She forced herself to focus on Mrs. Mason’s steady chatter. The wind made a long, low, threatening howling sound. Such a dreadful day. What about—

  No, he isn’t your responsibility.

  A loud crash seemed to rumble through her body and shake her bones and resound in the pit of her stomach.

  What happened? An accident? A carriage trying to avoid a disorientated pedestrian and yet hitting them all the same?

  She jumped to her feet and rushed to the window. Some crates had blown over. Men were shouting and running about. The sky had grown darker.

  Against all her caution, her gaze was drawn back to the direction whence she had come.

  Oh God, there he was, staggering down the street in a wavering pattern. For such a stalwart-looking man, the gentleman walked so oddly, so slowly. Had he been in the war perhaps and suffered some irreparable head injury that had left him this way?

  Almost completely in front of the shop, he glanced up. He had that lost, desolate look.

  Her throat burned.

  His gaze sharpened. Homed in on her.

  Oh, damn. How stupid of her. Of course, he’d seen her at the window. She stepped back several paces. But it was too late. He began walking toward the door.

  “Isn’t it just awful weather, Miss Darling?” Mrs. Mason exclaimed. “My Ben can take you home in the gig later, if you like. Come sit back down and have a chat.”

  Jeanne didn’t answer, her gaze was fixed on the gentleman as he reached for the door. He was coming in. And he looked absolutely furious, in a cold, controlled way that was all the more frightening. Her hand flew to her mouth to stop the cry of protest that sprung from the depths of her and she backed away from the window.

  The tiny bell tinkled as he entered, an incongruously gay herald. His eyes blazed into hers. She gave a little squeak and took several steps backwards until her bottom hit one of the display cases.

  As he approached, he looked down at her arm. She followed h
is eyes. Long red scrape marks still oozed a little blood. She drew it behind her, scratching it along her wool gown and the wounds burned. She winced.

  His expression softened. “My darling, are you all right?”

  “Dearie, is he bothering you?” Mrs. Mason asked in her grandmotherly tones.

  “We have something to discuss,” he answered.

  Jeanne inhaled sharply and gave the first plausible explanation that came to her mind. “My father owed him money. He thinks I can pay but I don’t have it.”

  The gentleman gaped at her, his eyes gone wide with shock that quickly transformed into raw-edged hurt.

  His pain sliced into her. She began rubbing her hands together. As though iron bands constricted her, she could barely breathe, so greatly did sympathy overwhelm her. “Please, sir—”

  She couldn’t think of what else to say.

  His expression hardened, his eyes frosted.

  “That’s just about enough.”

  At the sound of Mrs. Mason’s voice, Jeanne turned to the serving counter. The older woman narrowed her eyes. She reached behind the counter and pulled out a small pistol.

  Every hair on Jeanne’s body stood on end and she gasped. “Oh, please don’t—”

  “Don’t fret, dearie, I’ll take care of this,” Mrs. Mason said as she leveled it straight and steady at the gentleman.

  “Please, Mrs. Mason, put your gun away.” Jeanne forced the words past her tightening throat muscles. “I can handle him.”

  “I know how to deal with these uppity nobs. They get two pence to rub together in their pockets, some fancy clothes, and they think they are the lord of the manor.” Mrs. Mason said, keeping her pistol aimed at the gentleman’s chest. “Mister, I think you better leave.”

  He frowned. “Madam, do you have any idea to whom you are speaking?”

  “To whom am I speaking?” Mrs. Mason asked.

  The gentleman stared at her blankly. He lost that arrogant expression. He looked forlorn once more.

  Jeanne’s chest tightened again.

  “You forget yourself, where you are at. You’re not among your type here, sir.” Mrs. Mason walked closer to the gentleman. “I left my home in Pennsylvania over forty years ago when I married. And I have lived here among the British and made my husband‘s home my own. But I have never been settled to bow and scrape to your kind.”