The back door flew open and the proprietor peered out.
“Who’s there? Here now, no skulkin’ about, ye thievin’ rascals! Steal my customer’s mounts again, will ye? I’ll show ye trouble!”
A loud boom rang out and an object whizzed past Sarah’s left ear before spraying splinters from the livery wall into the air. She lunged forward and pushed Dicken toward the street. “Run, Dicken!”
Sarah dashed in the opposite direction, trying to divert the tavern keeper’s attention. She knew it would be a moment before the man could reload and fire again. “We’re not thieves,” she called. “Please, sir, desist!”
Heavy footsteps chased her down a blind alley. When she came to a high stone wall, she halted and turned to face her pursuer. He carried a lantern in one hand and his pistol in the other. A wide toothless grin split his round face like a grotesque wound.
“Got ye now,” he said, slowing to a walk, menace in every step.
“Enough, Jack. Let her be. She’s no horse thief,” instructed a voice behind the man’s beefy girth. She heard the metallic slide of a sword easing back into a sheath.
Sarah did not know whether to laugh or cry when she heard the low raspy voice. How had she made occasional forays into Blackfriars without encountering this man before, and now all of a sudden, she could not sneeze without drawing his attention?
“She?” The tavern keeper peered through the gloom. He held his lantern high to illuminate her face. “How do ye know she ain’t?”
“I’ve had dealings with her in the past,” Ethan Travis said as he shouldered the man out of his way. “Go back to the tavern, Jack. I’ll handle this.”
Jack took several backward steps before turning and retreating. Sarah waited for him to be out of earshot before acknowledging Ethan Travis’s assistance.
“I suppose I must thank you for your interference this time, sir.”
He inclined his head—an oddly elegant gesture in such a setting. “You are welcome, Miss Hunt. I do not often lie. I hope you prove worthy of it.”
“You have not lied, sir. I am not a thief.”
“Not a very good one, at any rate.” He smiled. “Did picking pockets prove too difficult? I will grant that horses are larger and do not require you to reach into pockets, but hiding the goods is more difficult. Are you certain you wish to change your career?”
She nearly laughed, but she did not want to encourage him. “I swear I am not a thief,” she repeated.
“That is not what you swore just last night. I believe you said you wished to supplement your income.”
“You are impossible,” she said, suppressing her smile.
“I? How so?”
“It is not gentlemanly to call a lady a liar.”
“Thankfully I am not a gentleman and you, Miss Hunt, are not a lady.”
Sarah fidgeted as he came closer. The scent of lime and French-milled soap seemed incongruous in a back alley in Blackfriars, and yet appropriate for a man like Ethan Travis. It intrigued her in an oddly unsettling way. Her heartbeat sped as he closed the distance between them.
“And you are a liar,” he continued as he gazed down at her. “One or the other, Miss Hunt. You cannot have it both ways.”
“Very well, then. I am a liar, but not a thief.”
“And I am a thief, but not a liar,” he confessed in a husky voice.
Confounded, she allowed him to take her arm and lead her toward the street. The heat from his hand penetrated the fine wool of her jacket, and the memory of Lord Cedric Broxton flashed through her mind. She wondered why his touch, his nearness, awoke none of the exciting nervousness this man generated in her. When his breath, scented ever so lightly with fine brandy, fanned her cheek, she nearly stumbled. She wondered if his kiss would taste of it, or his tongue bear some residue that would make her drunken with—she caught herself with a start. Where had that thought come from?
“Thus, since I am not a liar,” he continued, smiling at her momentary distraction, “you may rest assured that I am speaking the truth when I say that you are unsuited for thieving. Stick to…your other profession, Miss Hunt. It will serve you better and may keep you out of Newgate.”
“Y-you think so?” she managed.
“I do.” An odd expression passed over his face as he said the words, as if he was perplexed by his own advice.
She fell silent. How in the world had she got herself into this predicament? The thought flitted briefly though her mind to tell him the truth—that she was not a prostitute—but some instinct for survival stopped her just in time. She could not imagine what a man of Mr. Travis’s reputation would do with the information that Lady Sarah Hunter wandered the streets of London after midnight disguised as a boy, and gave her business as that of a prostitute. The ton would cut her dead. Reginald would kill her! She would not mind for herself, but she could not bear to bring shame to the Hunter name or her brothers’ honor. She’d already sacrificed a great deal on that score.
“You seem preoccupied, Miss Hunt. Was it something I said?”
She shook her head and, failing a better plan, assumed her persona as Sadie Hunt. “I do not want to go to Newgate, Mr. Travis. There is no one whom I could call upon to buy my way out. I would rot there.”
His gaze dropped to her chest, buttoned tightly into her jacket. “I am afraid there is no way around it, Miss Hunt. The streets are cruel for women in your profession. You have chosen a dangerous occupation.”
“And you would know about dangerous occupations?”
There was a long silence during which he appeared to weigh his words. When he answered, it was clear that he was not inviting further questions. “Yes, Miss Hunt. I would.”
“Then I shall take your word for it, Mr. Travis.”
“Thieving aside, have you considered other options?”
“What other options do you think a prostitute has, sir?”
His hand moved to her jacket front and, before she could protest, undid the top three buttons. Her shirt buttons gave way as easily and allowed her flattened breasts to swell at the deep opening. Before he dropped his hand, his knuckles brushed the heated flesh and caused her to shiver. Such an action from another man would have made her flinch, or provoked fear or anger, but this man was different, and there was no imminent threat in his manner. He was almost brotherly.
“Miss Hunt, you are a great gift wrapped as rubbish. You needn’t ply your trade on the streets of Blackfriars. Any number of expensive brothels would be pleased to employ you. You’d be off the streets, under the protection of an employer, and certainly able to afford better clothing than a man’s castoffs. If you are interested, I’d be pleased to recommend you to some of the better establishments. They would, of course, wish to interview you as to your, er, qualifications and any, ah, special talents or proficiencies you may have acquired.”
There was no mockery in Ethan Travis’s manner, Sarah realized. She was both touched with his apparent concern and humiliated to her core that he believed her a woman of ill repute. What could she say to such a reasonable argument? How could she refuse such an offer? “Would I have to…service anyone with the price?”
“I believe that is the custom,” he allowed.
“Thank you, but no, sir. I value my independence too highly to sell it. As things stand, I decide who, and what, and where. I do no one’s bidding. I prefer it that way, and if I must trade it for independence, I shall choose independence. ’Tis is the last vestige of pride I have.” At least there was an element of truth in that.
He smiled again, as if both disappointed and pleased at the same time. “As you wish. Should you change your mind—”
“I will not.”
“Nevertheless, I stand ready to tender you an introduction to two or three of the better establishments. I believe, beneath the cap and trousers, you are comely enough, and I can vow your speech is pleasing.”
She smiled to herself, then she realized what he was suggesting. “Would these be establish
ments at which you are a client?” she asked. She could not see a man of Ethan Travis’s ilk purchasing favors. Neither could she see him with a demure wife in a cottage somewhere on the outskirts of London.
An angry flush colored his cheeks. “Miss Hunt, my personal habits are not relevant to this conversation. When they are, I will be certain to inform you of them. Unless…”
“Unless?” she challenged.
“Unless you’d like to find out now.” He stepped forward and lifted her chin with his forefinger. His mouth came down to hover just above hers as he continued speaking. “That is an interesting prospect, is it not? You could learn my ‘habits’ firsthand whilst I test your professional qualifications.”
Oh my! Nothing brotherly here! As his lips descended the half inch that had separated them, she had the answer to her earlier question. Yes, the brandy on his lips was intoxicating. Yes, she wanted more. His arms tightened fiercely around her, drawing her so close that she felt as if she would melt into him. And she wanted him to kiss her—not this tantalizing teasing with his lips barely brushing hers in contrast to his possessive embrace. She craved a deeper contact from those lips. As deep as his embrace. She wanted to feel the weight and heat of his mouth. That realization should have frightened her. Indeed, she should be shocked. She should run.
Instead she clung to his coat to keep from swooning and ran her tongue along the seam of his lips, wanting to taste more of him. She heard a little moan and realized with horror that it was hers. With a quick intake of breath, the Demon of Alsatia dropped his hands and stepped back as if he’d been stung, a look of surprise on his face.
He could not possibly be more surprised than she. She—who’d lost her innocence but never been kissed before tonight—was playing the role of a practiced wanton.
“Nicely done, Sadie,” he breathed. “Very seductive. I nearly forgot myself, and I cannot recall the last time that happened. I shall vouch that you are good at your job.”
Sanity returned with the chill that replaced the heat of his body against her, and she realized he had just conceded the skirmish! He must never know that she had been more at a disadvantage than he. When all was said and done, she had not been able to break the spell.
He gave her a little push toward White Lion Hill. “Run, Sadie, before I pay my money and take you up on that invitation. And do not let me find you thieving again.”
Sarah sprinted up the hill toward St. Paul’s, desperate to escape. In mere seconds a myriad of thoughts raced through her mind. That kiss. She gulped. That kiss, her first from a man she was not related to, had been the most disconcerting event of her life.
Even when she had been assaulted and raped by four men in Vauxhall Gardens, she had not been confused or unsettled. That was terror, plain and simple. That was pain and shame and grief. But Ethan’s kiss was bitter and sweet, terror and temptation.
She wanted more.
She was terrified she’d get it.
Chapter Four
Ethan Travis let himself in the garden door of his home on Clarendon Square well before daylight and bolted it behind him. The address afforded him the trappings of respectability, if not the actual reputation. He had purchased the town home because of its distance from his work, not because he wanted entrée into society. He had that, though somewhat tarnished, if he ever chose to use it.
When he’d first come back to London after the scandal, he had lived down by the river, near the warehouses, knowing he would be needed close by should anything go wrong. Now, however, everything was running smoothly and there were others in his organization who could handle most emergencies.
His housekeeper, Mrs. Grant, had gone home hours ago, leaving his dinner of steak and kidney pie on the kitchen table and a fire banked in the hearth. The woman was a blessing; prompt, reliable, discreet and efficient, but she was possibly the worst cook he’d ever encountered.
He whistled for Wiley, his Irish setter, as he put the cold dish on the stone hearth next to the fire. The dog came running from the front parlor, his nails clicking on the oak plank floors. He wagged and leaned against Ethan’s leg for a pat on the head before sniffing at the steak and kidney pie.
Ethan took a knife from the cutting block and sliced several slabs of bread, a wedge of cheese and an apple, and put them on a china plate from the cupboard. He carried his cold supper to the small library off the front foyer, poured himself a glass of sherry and dropped into a deep club chair in front of the fire with a weary sigh.
His mail was stacked on a silver salver beside his chair. Mrs. Grant had once again anticipated his mood. Using the small fruit knife with a deftness that hinted at a darker past, he opened the envelopes on the tray. Aside from the assorted household bills, there was the monthly accounting from his factor. Satisfied that his investments were doing well and that his import business was at least paying for itself, he folded the accounting sheets and put them back in the envelope. There were no accounting sheets for his real business.
The final envelope was linen white, edged in gold and bore an elegant A in the upper left corner. He stuck his thumb beneath the flap and broke the wax seal. Puzzled, he read the formal script on the face of the folded card. It seemed he was cordially invited to a grand ball at Lord and Lady Auberville’s London home on Clarendon Place Friday next. The favor of a reply was requested.
Odd, he hadn’t been aware that Tristan Sinclair, Lord Auberville, lived around the corner on Clarendon Place. Leave it to the Aubervilles not to forget their smaller neighbors. As an afterthought, Ethan lifted the fold. Heavy dark lines scrawled a personal note.
My old friend, Imagine my surprise to find you are my neighbor! We must take this opportunity to renew our acquaintance. I would consider it a great personal favor if you will come to our little soiree. You must meet Annica. T.S.
Damn! A personal request. He could not think of a polite way to refuse. Well, he’d make an appearance, shock the ladies to the core with his audacity to mingle in their society, endure the cold greetings of their husbands, accept Auberville’s apology for his poor judgment in insisting, and then make an early night of it.
An idea began to take root. Perhaps he could make discreet inquiries about Harold Whitlock. The scoundrel’s peers might be able to tell him something Ethan’s hirelings had not been able to learn. He went to his desk to find a pen, scribbled his acceptance, slipped it in an envelope and tossed it onto the salver for Mrs. Grant to post in the morning.
There were other gatherings he could attend. No one would stop him at the door or tell him he was unwelcome. He still had his “position” in society. Yes, there was the crush at Webster Manor two days hence. Perhaps he’d test the waters there.
Wiley ambled into the library, still licking his jowls clean of steak and kidney pie. The dog came to him and laid his head upon his knee, the rich reddish brown of his coat awakening uneasiness in him. Why? He stroked the cool silky strands and closed his eyes.
Ah, yes. Sadie Hunt with her dark pansy eyes and the glorious glow of her chestnut locks as they spilled from her boyish cap—that was what had got his hackles up. The little coquette was far too present these days. Too much to be coincidental?
Instincts that had preserved him thus far urged him to caution. Something was not what it appeared to be. Something was “up.” Sadie would bear watching, and the sooner he uncovered her scheme, the better. Tomorrow night he’d send one of his men to follow Whitlock while he would search for Sadie Hunt.
A loose shingle shifted underfoot and Ethan stepped back from the edge of the roof. Alerted to the muffled sound, Sticky Joe glanced upward before hurrying after Sadie. Ethan would have to put the lad out of the way. He estimated his distance to the next intersection, then lowered himself to street level by shinnying down a drain pipe.
Sticky Joe never heard him coming. He had his hand over the lad’s mouth and was dragging him into an alley before he could react.
“Go home, Joe,” he rasped in the lad’s ear. “You are
in my way. I do not take kindly to that.”
He removed his hand from Joe’s mouth and held him at arm’s length. Surprise and consternation replaced anger when Joe turned to confront his adversary.
“S-sir, I cannot leave Sadie alone.”
“Yes, Joe, you can. You will.”
The lad looked as if he were about to argue, and Ethan narrowed his eyes to demonstrate how useless that would be.
“But it ain’t safe, sir.”
“Leave her to me,” Ethan said.
“She won’t come to no ’arm?”
Ethan never made promises he couldn’t keep. He gave the boy a cynical smile. “We are wasting time, Joe, and Sadie is getting farther away. Must I find another way to convince you?”
Joe backed away, fear clearly etched on his face. Ethan sighed, knowing he had that effect on others. “I…no, sir. I am trustin’ you as a gen’leman to do the right thing, sir.”
Gentleman? The “right thing”? Ethan nearly laughed. He waited while Joe disappeared before resuming his pursuit.
He sniffed the heavy damp air, always sensitive to the least little nuance, the faintest element that was out of place. The scent of lilacs, soft but distinct, lingered. His body responded instantly. Yes, Sadie had come this way. He swung himself up to the eaves again, using his vantage to see ahead, the fog heavier at street level.
No more than one hundred feet ahead, barely within sight, was the charcoal cap bobbing along, just visible above the fog cover. He hurried after her, sprinting along the eaves and leaping from roof to roof. He kept the cap in view, imagining the sleek chestnut tendrils slipping from the confines, as they had when she had lifted her face to accept his threat of a kiss.
When he’d initiated that kiss, he’d meant to shock her, to make her understand her dangerous appeal. She had taught him something quite different—that he was still a man with an unquenchable hunger that couldn’t be met with so little as a curious kiss. She had kissed him. Her little moan had been oddly innocent, and could not have been faked. She had surprised him by melting into him and running her tongue across his lips. Another second and he’d have handed over his purse for her favors. Hell, he’d have given his fortune for a night.
Saving Sarah Page 4
