Passion

by Gayle Eden

  Chapter 4

  Lady Caroline looked around the bustling street in dismay. Her hand on the hood of her blue cloak to shield her face, and a scented hanky to her nose, she worried her lip and wondered if Harry had given her the wrong address?

  Jostled and assailed by noise and scents, she tried to see the numbers on the doors and buildings amid the sheer crush of traffic, peddlers, beggars, an alarming mixture of the poor, business men, flamboyant artist and scurrying paperboys—flower sellers, animals—everyone seeming to be calling and yelling at the same time.

  She could not distinguish which were shops, taverns, residences, or both. Her panic was starting to get the best of her. Already having scolded herself for sending her maid back with the coach so that her father would not know she had gone out. She was so out of her element though, she had no idea what to do.

  She muttered in marvel that Harriet, with her fortune, would rather live in such a bustling part of the city rather than Mayfair, or some superior, more spacious address. On the other hand, Harry was nothing if not different, she doubtless thrived on it.

  About to give up, though walking the street alone was an equally daunting prospect, Caroline sucked up her courage and darted across the street in a lull between passing coaches, buggies, and people. She ignored the tugs on her sleeve and rude, rather wild-eyed people who tried to get her attention.

  Caroline stepped back to get out of the way of a juggler who nearly knocked her over—and felt someone slam into her back. Her oomph sound was joined by a male curse. Groping, Caroline clutched the closest thing she could to keep from falling—the man’s sleeve.

  “I beg your pardon,” a deep voice snapped, in a manner less apologetic than his words.

  Turning, Caroline was saying, “No. No 'tis my fault. I was trying to avoid—“But words quickly died on her lips.

  Caroline gazed upwards, being just chest height to the male, and finding herself looking at a swarthy, masculine face, strong nose, beautiful lips—skin the hue of warm almond, eyes shielded by dark glasses.

  Dark glasses—Caroline made a small gasping sound, realizing he was blind. His hand, ungloved, held her upper arm as she had gripped his forearm.

  The noise and traffic did not cease.

  She watched his mouth move, as he muttered, “Not at all. If you will just hand me my walking stick.”

  “You were in the war?”

  “Captain. The Navy.” he snapped.

  “And you are blind?”

  “Obviously,” the sarcasm was lost on her.

  She was a few seconds dragging her gaze from his face, having noted the pinker skin just visible under the rims. Her senses picked up a pleasant, masculine scent, from his jacket.

  Caroline glanced at the ground, and then around, at the street. With so many people walking, dozens of skirt hems sweeping the cobbles, it was a blur for a moment.

  Releasing his jacket, she muttered, “I do not see it—oh, wait—there ‘tis.” She pulled away from him and endeavored to work her way through passersby, and dodge a team of horses clipping past.

  The cane, a black and ivory was in her sight. She hurried and bent to snatch it up, doing a less polite pushing back through to join the man in the entry alcove.

  “Here you go.” She took his hand in hers, wrapping it around the head of the cane, and rushing, “Pardon my initial reaction, sir. I assure you I was not being boorish. I was merely trying to establish how much you could actually see. Lenses of various tints have become so fashionable these days.”

  He nodded. “My thanks, for the retrieval of the cane, madam.”

  “You are most welcome. I vow, these streets are madness, are they not?”

  “Not safe for a blind man.”

  At his unexpected jest, she peeked up to see his strong white teeth showing on an attractively crooked smile.

  So interested in that, Caroline did not see the door opening behind him, and this time it nudged him forward. She was rudely elbowed by an enormous matron on the street and yelped, being forced forward.

  “Beg Pardon.” The old man grumped, having come out the doors without thought or looking, busily packing his pipe. However, Caroline was squished against the male, and though holding his cane, he had caught her with his other arm, to keep them both from falling.

  His laugh rolled smoothly above her head, even as he issued a “Bloody hell.” Moreover, Caroline could not help but laugh, too.

  “Goodness. This has to be the worst idea I’ve ever had.” She chuckled breathless.

  “Have you a coach or maid nearby? I shall endeavor to escort you to it. Despite this clumsy business, once on the street, I navigate quite well.”

  “No. I am afraid not. I was to meet…ah…my friend, and she would provide transport once our visit was over.” Caroline grimaced. In truth, Harry had not said that specifically. She had said she gathered new information for Caroline about her supposed half-sister, and Caroline sent Harry a note saying she would come to her—quite a stupid idea, Caroline now knew.

  “Well,” he was saying, “If you will give me your address…I will secure a hack for you—”

  Biting her lip, Caroline thought fast and then blurt, “No. No thank you. That will not be necessary. My friend lives on this street…er….somewhere, and I was but looking for the number…” Her voice trailed off again, having been gazing up at him, noticing that he tilted his head slightly to hear her voice clear amid the din.

  As if sensing her stare, he dipped his head a bit and murmured, “Pardon my familiarity…but you have a most pleasing voice and scent, madam.”

  “T…thank you.” Caroline could have returned the compliment. She got tingles at his voice. He smelled very nice indeed. Her cheeks flushed.

  Still scandalously, publicly, glued to his front, she stepped back a bit, feeling an odd sensation when his hand slid against her back where he had caught her.

  Clearing her throat, and unable to stop looking at him, in particular feeling a little flutter at the closeness of his rugged face, the way he had came near to say that, Caroline suddenly realized, how it pleased her that a stranger, someone who neither knew of her fortune or bloodlines, paid her a genuine, simple, compliment.

  He was blind. He could not see her looks, nor could he know who she was. How famous!

  Caroline began, “I suppose we should…”

  “Yes…” he returned.

  Yet neither of them moved.

  It was as if between the heavy crowds, thousands of distracted people, and the solidness of the tobacco shop, there was some square of ground, which existed unto itself.

  Caroline, in her years of attending the best parties and exclusive balls, of being escorted, danced with, had never felt so intrigued by a stranger. Never, had she felt this anonymity and freedom either. Because, everyone there knew who she was, and what she was worth. Never had she had an un-escorted or un-scrutinized moment to converse normally. Everything in her world was practiced and written in the very strict code of etiquette.

  His hand on her back now moved to her shoulder. Caroline felt it through the thin cloak and lace blouse. The walking skirt was the plainest thing in her wardrobe, a sapphire blue. It just happened to match the summer cloak, so she would felt safe wearing it.

  She felt his fingers lift, the tips were barely, discreetly, grazing her jaw. “I wish I could see you.”

  It sounded intimate, soft and deep.

  Wetting her lips, she joked, “Its better you cannot.”

  “What color is your hair?”

  “Red—" she blurt. Then, “Well red and blond. Too curly by half.” She smiled and his fingertip touched the corner of her lip.

  Tingly now, oddly breathless, Caroline was fascinated by that focus on his face, the merest curve to his lips.

  “Your eyes are…”

  “Blue.”

  “Blue… Just blue?”

  She laughed a little breathless. “On the lighter side.”

  Three fingertips now touc
hed her cheek. “You’re very young.” He was straightening, drawing back.

  “Not at all. I am half a hag already. Tis the wonders of face creams. The fountain of youth, or so they claim.”

  His tension relaxed for a moment, but a frown lingered there.

  For some reason Caroline did not wish him to guess her station, or think her younger than the twenty and two she was.

  She was suddenly grateful to have met Lady Harry too, because a year ago she would have likely giggled coyly or fainted if a strong and handsome man had been so familiar.

  Yes, his military background fit him, and there was a different kind of maturity there than the polished peers she had been around. Oh very well, she admitted his “earthiness” was attractive. Those sinewy and strong fingers had not been on a pampered hand.

  Despite what it must feel like to be wounded, blind, he had some humor. Yes. She was glad Harry laughed and mocked her old practiced affections and silliness. Harry likely saved her from being the simpering idiot she often saw in her peers.

  Actually, Harry was annoyingly right about most of the mockery aimed her way.

  Caroline drew in a long breath and let it out. She peeked around and then back at the Captain, who had dropped his hand and was obviously putting distance between them.

  “I’m twenty and two. You, Captain?”

  “Twenty eight, going on one hundred.”

  She laughed, “You’ve certainly aged well.”

  Those lashes blinked behind the lenses and she saw him start to raise a hand toward them before he stopped and let it fall.

  His self-consciousness was so at odds with the strong and handsome figure he cut, that Caroline husked, “It looks to be healing nicely. You must not be self-conscious.”

  For a moment, his cheek flexed. He seemed to be half speaking to himself and murmured, “You’re very beautiful, are you not?”

  “No. I am not.”

  He breathed in again. “Expensive scent, a cultured voice…what games are you playing, miss…?”

  “No games. No name, please. I am of average good looks. I tend to freckle. I have some assets and some flaws, I promise.”

  She knew her time with him was ending. She was a proper lady, behaving very improperly on a public street, yet, Caroline dared slip off her glove and ease her hand under his cuff, just at the wrist of the one grasping his cane. It was warm with a strong, manly pulse, beating steady.

  “I must go, to make my appointment on time.” She had witnessed that slight jerk in him, a surprise at her touch. “I hope we shall meet again, Captain.”

  His head moved again focusing on her words, his were deep-voiced when he replied, “I very much doubt it if my ear and instincts are true, lady mystery.”

  “Oh, you never know. I could take up smoking tobacco and we’d run into each other again, compare blends....”

  He laughed, and both that flash of white teeth and the sound, pleased her. He really was a handsome man. She really hated her fortune and background sometimes.

  Caroline really did not want to leave his presence. “I’d like to know you better, Captain.” Sighing when he did not answer, she dropped her hand and put her glove back on, preparing to leave.

  Caroline had turned toward the street, her back to him and was preparing to step out, when his fingers nudged the side of her cloak hood, his warm breath caressed her ear as he leaned down and murmured “Greenfield’s coffee House, ten tonight.

  Shocking, scandalous! She rasped, “Yes. I shall find it.”

  Caroline could scarcely focus a half hour later, when she did find Harry’s address—looking more like a bookshop, so towering were the shelves and overflowing books on the tables. Maps, graphs, an assortment of art, and sculptures, were scattered amid Harriet’s “normal” furnishings.

  “It was a bookshop,” the woman told her, serving tea after moving carelessly tossed fringed shawls out of the chair. “I have three houses in the city. One I let out, and father’s mansion, but I prefer this one.”

  Still hearing the noise outside the door, shades drawn, Caroline asked, “Why? How can you think with all this racket?”

  Taking her own seat, dressed in brown skirt and white blouse, riding boots, Harriet propped those boots on a stool and sat back with her tea.

  “I like it. I am used to the bustle. I can step outside and see more than the fashionable crowd. Here are artists, musicians, orange sellers, standing alongside some financier or an out of pocket rake. You never know who you will see, certainly some of the greatest minds, the up and coming scientists, poets and doctors.

  The trouble with your world, Caroline, is that they do not want to be enlightened, they want to lock themselves behind ivy walls and ivory towers—and cling to their archaic ways, and not a one of them are happier for it.”

  “I cannot argue with that.”

  “Which—" Harriet went on, “is why, men like your father end up living tangled lives.”

  Caroline nodded. “You say the woman—Natasha Druitt, was famous?”

  “In London, yes.” Harriet eased her feet to the floor and got up, setting the tea aside, before she went digging through a pile of papers.

  She brought Caroline a handbill.

  “The sketch doesn’t do her justice, according to some of the older actresses and dancers I spoke to. She was an exotic beauty. Her gypsy dance was one of the more popular acts.”

  Examining the sketch and the advert, Caroline mused, “I cannot imagine my father—the Duke of Coulborne…well, you know.”

  Lady Harry chuckled and took the flyer. While she walked over to the table, she said, “He was apparently in love with her. Those who knew her claimed she had several admirers who sent her gifts, showered her with flowers. She was a free spirit, but not loose morally, which is why it shocked many when she broke off the association with Bordwyc. “

  Caroline eyed her friend, who leaned her hips against the table, regarding her. “She found someone else?”

  “Well, that’s the mysterious part. Everyone knew the Duke fathered a child on her. The actors and dancers said the girl was beautiful, quite charming, and lived backstage. Natasha, in the true Gypsy spirit, made the theater her home. However, there was a man, whom none can seem to put a name to who seemed obsessed with her. And one day they simply vanished.”

  “But you do not believe that—" Caroline studied Harry’s expression.

  “No. In fact, I do not think she left London at all. I don’t know what happened, but when I began to enquire a bit deeper, people seemed…..frightened.”

  Setting the cup aside, Caroline stood and strolled toward her. “Whatever could it mean, Harry?”

  “It would shock you what goes on in this city.” Harry considered her in return. “I have lived in the Far East and in places where brothels are run out of huts and sewers, and children are…” Harry shook her head. “Are you sure you want to go any further with this, Caroline? Perhaps you should just speak with your father—“

  “I don’t know how to broach the subject with him.” Caroline grimaced. “You know how he thinks of me, sees me. And he’d be mortified, perhaps embarrassed.”

  “But what do you expect to do once you find her?”

  “I don’t know. Meet her. Talk to her.”

  Harry sighed. “She may not be alive.”

  “Is that what this…fear implies? However, it makes no sense. Surely, she was an independent woman. Someone discerning, and of the world.” Caroline frowned

  “Everyone can be fooled. There is wisdom among actresses, women who find themselves famous young, admirers will not always be there. Youth does not last forever, and their income will run out. Most find a protector.”

  “Very well. I understand why father—well, as you say, she appears to have ended it with him. But why would he not take care of the girl?” To her surprise, Caroline found her eyes burning with tears. She loved her father. She could not stand to think he would be so careless of a child he had fathered. She understo
od—thanks to Harry, about men and their mistresses, many of them actresses or dancers. Nevertheless, this was her father…and he was a kind and loving man. He had been her mainstay, because her mother, other than letters, was never in her life.

  Cutting through her thoughts, Harriet offered, “Perhaps after it ended, or she ended it, and he lost track of them just as everyone else seems to.”

  “If she stayed in London, there must be some trace of her. If not the both of them. If they died, would it not be noted…somewhere?”

  “Yes. Possibly. However, I do not like the feeling, the sense I get, when I ask about the man she took up with. There is something very wrong there. She had friends and loved the theater. It just doesn’t seem typical for a woman as vivacious and loved by friends as she was, to never contact them.”

  Caroline paced the room a bit, endeavoring to think, but knowing less than Harry, about these things. “Harry?”

  “Hum?”

  “You don’t think the child ended up in one of those awful places you mentioned…those flesh dens...” She could not even picture her blood having suffered such.

  “Anything is possible if this person she trusted meant her ill. People can vanish. This city is exploding with more immigrants. Whole streets are populated by brothels and gin shops. Ships leave every day. However, we have to consider who her admirers were, and they were of a certain income and status. Which means he alone knows where she, or the girl… young woman now, is.”

  “I could have passed her on the street and not known it, Harry.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where do we go from here?”

  “I don’t know.” Harriet pushed away and strolled over to pick up her tea and sip. “I can keep digging.”

  “If ‘tis dangerous—”

  “Whatever we do, you really must think beyond your impulse, Caroline. You move in a world few privileged people do, and you are connected to powerful people. What you have done thus far is scandalous, and these facts getting out would bring scandal on the Duke, and tarnish your chances for the sort of marriage you are expected to make. In addition, if you do not consider your part, think of this, even if you find one or both, they cannot be brought into your world, Caroline. I’m telling you nothing you do not know.”