“We’ll have to ask her.” Carefully he carried her through the door held open by the woman, and into a small neat parlor decorated in shades of blue. He set her down on the small sofa.
The woman promptly pushed him aside to lean over Samantha, peering anxiously into each of her eyes. “She hasn’t got that glassy look like Ned Davies had when he drowned. Can you hear me?” she said loudly, right by Samantha’s ear. “Can you speak, dear?”
“Mrs. Willis, let the poor girl get her breath.” Her rescuer accepted a length of towel from a young maid who ran into the room. He rubbed it over his head and let it fall around his neck, then sat down and pulled off his waterlogged boots. “Jenny, go fetch some hot tea, the river was cold.” The maid nodded and rushed back out the door.
“Where did it happen? How did she end up in the river?” Mrs. Willis snatched a shawl from a nearby chair and threw it over Samantha. “And goodness—your boots!”
He looked down at his soaked footwear. “Some ruffian pushed her into the river and I had to get her out.” He glanced up in time to catch her flinch. “He did push you in, didn’t he?” he asked gently. “Did they hurt you?”
She could only stare at him. He had a kind face, on the long side, but with chiseled cheekbones and warm brown eyes. A drop of water ran from his dripping dark hair down his temple and he flicked it away with a swipe of his fingers.
He was quite handsome, she realized. Strong, too. Samantha remembered his big, capable hands pulling her from the water, then sweeping her into his arms, and shivered.
At her silence he gave Mrs. Willis a grave look. “We should summon a doctor.”
That roused her at last. “No,” Samantha whispered. She was perfectly fine, aside from being wet, cold, and still in shock over being almost kidnapped and then nearly drowned. She didn’t know how to swim, and if he hadn’t followed and saved her, she wasn’t sure she would have made it out of the water. That alone disposed her to like him, and even trust him.
He raised his brows. “Are you certain?”
She nodded.
“Go on, dear,” urged Mrs. Willis. “His Lordship only wants to help. He’s a right decent gentleman.”
Samantha licked her lips. “Lordship?” Heaven help her; did he know her family? She’d never live down the mortification of having to be dragged from the Thames.
The man in question looked like he wanted to roll his eyes. “George Churchill-Gray, at your service. No one calls me Lord George, and I beg you won’t, either. I much prefer Gray.”
“I’m a proper woman and I’ll call you by your proper title,” retorted his landlady. “Son of the Duke of Rowland,” she whispered loudly to Samantha, as if Lord George Churchill-Gray weren’t sitting three feet from her.
“Oh my.” Samantha’s voice faltered. The Duke of Rowland. Her father hated Rowland.
“Pay it no mind,” he said with an irked glance at Mrs. Willis. “What is your name? Your family must be worried about you.”
Her brain froze. Her name. If she told him, he would take her back to her family. Suddenly Samantha felt like the biggest idiot alive; not only had she defied her father and gone to London without permission, she’d been robbed and almost killed. And her savior was Rowland’s son, which would put her father in the duke’s debt, to his mind. She could hear his furious upbraiding already, that she was incompetent, foolish, and a danger to herself. He’d have her wedded to Lord Philip within a fortnight, not a month. Mutely she shook her head.
Her rescuer rocked back in his seat. “What, you don’t remember?”
She’d only meant to delay, but as soon as he asked that question, her mouth opened and she said, “No, I don’t.” And then, as if someone else had taken control of her body, she pressed one hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. “My head hurts.”
There was a moment of silence. She peeked through her lashes and caught the nonplussed look on Lord George’s face. It swiftly vanished when his gaze met hers. He gave her a smile, that confident, comforting smile she remembered seeing while he carried her. “I’m sure it will feel better soon. In the meantime, you are welcome to rest here. Mrs. Willis, will you bring something to eat? And some dry clothing.” He got to his feet, running one hand over his head and sending some last drops of water onto his shoulders. “If you’ll excuse me, I should change, and leave you to Mrs. Willis’s care, Miss…” He hesitated. “I don’t know what to call you.”
Helplessly she stared at him.
“Well.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “I hope it comes back to you, Perdita.” He bowed awkwardly and left, leaving damp footprints on the carpet.
“Poor child,” murmured Mrs. Willis. She gave Samantha a pitying glance. “I’ll find some dry clothes for you—you’re a dainty thing, but I might have some of my Mary’s old clothes in a trunk in the attics. My eldest daughter,” she added with a trace of pride. “Married a shipwright in Greenwich two years ago.” She went to the door and leaned into the corridor. “Jenny! Where’s that tea?” Without waiting for a reply she came back to the sofa and lowered herself to her knees. “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes first, before you catch your death of cold. I hope His Lordship is clever enough to do the same, but one never knows with men…” She shook her head as she unlaced Samantha’s walking boots. “He’s a good boy, that one, but I vow he’d give away the shirt off his back and never once think of the cold. Another pair of boots, ruined! At least he had the sense to put the coat around you, dear, although I shudder to think how we’ll get the stains out.” She lifted the coat off Samantha’s shoulders, whisking the shawl back into place a moment later. But Samantha caught the way her brows twitched upward at the sight of her clothing. Mrs. Willis recognized quality. Still, she said nothing about it, and Samantha found it easier to say nothing, too.
By the time the girl, Jenny, returned with a cup of tea, Mrs. Willis had helped her to a small bedroom at the back of the house. Together with Jenny, she peeled off Samantha’s sodden dress, wrapped her in a nightgown that obviously belonged to Mrs. Willis herself, and put her into bed. “Drink, dear,” urged the landlady as she collected the wet clothing and directed Jenny to take it to the kitchen for washing. “You’ll feel better.”
“Thank you.” Her voice was hoarse. Samantha sipped the tea, knowing it was just a reprieve. Her wits seemed to be thawing along with the rest of her. She still had to find Benedict, but for now she only wanted to lie down. Her head did hurt, and she still felt cold. Surely it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to delay a few hours. She could rest until her clothes were dry, then claim to have recovered her missing memory. She would thank the very helpful landlady for all her care, and ask her how to get to the Household Guard officers’ barracks. Or even better, she could send her brother a note and ask him to come fetch her, so she couldn’t possibly get lost again.
And if the very handsome Lord George Churchill-Gray protested and offered to see her safely into Benedict’s care, she would politely decline.
Yes, she thought, finishing the tea and letting Mrs. Willis take the cup and tuck the blankets around her. That’s what she would do… And on that thought, Samantha closed her eyes.
Chapter Four
By the time Gray got himself dried and freshly attired, Mrs. Willis had put the girl in bed.
“Fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow,” she confided to him. “How frightening it must have been for her!”
“No doubt. Did she say anything else about the men who accosted her, or who she is?”
The landlady shook her head. “Not a word, poor dear.”
Jenny, the maid of all work, appeared in the corridor. “Ma’am, there’s a constable at the door, askin’ for His Lordship.”
“I’ll be right there,” Gray told her. “Don’t let Perdita sleep too long,” he said to Mrs. Willis. “If she got a terrible knock on the head, it’s not good for her. Wake her up in a few minutes.”
“Why, I never heard that! How is sleep bad?”
“Very well.” She patted his arm. “So very gentlemanly to worry about her!”
He waved one hand and went downstairs to the parlor, where the constable was waiting. After the expected questions, none of which he could answer—who is she? who were those men? and when can I speak to her?—Gray leaned back on the settee. “Nothing’s going to come of this, is it?”
The constable puffed up in indignation. “If we can find the men, and she’ll swear against them in court, they’ll be sent to Newgate.” Gray gave him a cynical look, and the constable deflated. “Perhaps it might. She looks like a lady, don’t she? It might have weight.” He grimaced. “Of course, a lady might not want to swear in court.”
“I’ll be glad to swear in court. I saw everything.”
The constable nodded and made a note. “Very good of you, sir. But I wouldn’t expect much. The lady wasn’t kidnapped, nor hurt badly.”
Thanks to me, not to you, thought Gray. “Notify me if anything does turn up.”
After he showed the constable out, he went to the landlady’s room. The door was ajar, and Mrs. Willis was chattering away inside the room. Perdita must be awake. He rested his shoulder against the door and listened for a moment, wishing his landlady wasn’t quite so voluble. He wanted to hear her voice again. She’d barely said a dozen words, and sounded more than a little confused while doing so, but her voice was soft and warm, while still bearing an unmistakably refined accent. It put him in mind of rosy sunsets over the lush green hills of Kirkwood, his family seat. She was a lady, he’d bet his last tube of vermillion on it. More than ever his fingers itched to sketch her. Perhaps, if she couldn’t remember her name, she wouldn’t decline his request in a burst of horror. He had saved her life, after all, surely that would offset any offense…
Mrs. Willis came into the corridor, interrupting his thoughts. “There you are, sir. The young lady’s awake, as you asked, although she’s got a touch of headache. I’m going to have Cook prepare a tisane for her—does a body good, Cook’s tisane. But if you want to speak to her, go right in.”
He waited until Mrs. Willis had bustled down the stairs, calling for Jenny. Then he tapped on the door, still ajar, and pushed it gently open. “May I come in?”
Perdita drew the blankets up to her chin. “Must you?”
Gray made a face. “No, but it’s dashed uncomfortable to converse from out here. And shouting at you might make your headache worse.”
“Oh.” Her hair had dried in a mess of golden curls, falling over her shoulders like fractured sunlight. Late summer sunlight, bright and full of warmth. He tried not to look at it, but she was avoiding his gaze and blankets covered the rest of her. “I suppose, then…”
There was a high-backed armchair near the door. He pointed to it questioningly, and she nodded, a soft blush coloring her cheeks. Leaving the door conspicuously open, he sat down. “Thank you. The constable was here.”
Instead of reassuring her, that seemed to make her more nervous. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth and blushed even pinker. “Has he caught them?”
“No, and I doubt he will unless you can think of anything that might help him discover them again.”
“I thought not,” she said on a sigh. “The first one—the polite one—told me he was searching for a lost little girl, like the one whose daisies I bought. Humphries, he called himself. He wanted me to help look for her in the crowd. But I knew he was lying when he said her mother was—”
He leaned forward when she abruptly stopped speaking. “Who?”
Now her face was ashen. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Someone… I—I thought I knew her… But I tried to walk away and then the other man was behind me and they wouldn’t let me go.”
Gray nodded. “And did they say what they wanted? Did they rob you?” She hadn’t been holding one of those little bags women carried. Reticules—that was the word.
She stared at him a moment as if thinking. Her eyes were big and green, and with her hair down and the sheets clutched to her bosom, she looked like a young girl. He’d held her in his arms, though, and seen her soaking wet, and he remembered how very nicely grown she was. “Mr. Humphries took my reticule. They—they told me how pretty I was, and said I was worth five guineas.”
Gray’s hand curled into a fist. They had intended to sell her to a brothel. With her golden prettiness and air of gentility, she would have fetched a good price. But there was no reason to scare her. “Ah,” he said lightly. “Gentlemanly villains.”
The girl sank lower, her knuckles whitening around the blankets. “I don’t think that. One of them touched me…inappropriately and spoke very crudely. The other man called him Billy, and warned me he wouldn’t be gentle if I struggled…” She shook her head. “I was so stupid,” she said, her voice cracking on the last word.
“No.” He leaned forward. “Do not blame yourself. A woman should be able to walk down a busy street in London without being accosted and molested.”
“And nearly drowned.” Her lips wobbled as if she were trying to smile. “Mustn’t forget that part.”
“Have you any idea why they did that?”
“I bit him, and yanked his hair.” Pride warmed her tone. “He dropped me, but then I couldn’t get away in time.”
“Well done,” he told her. “He deserved every bit of it.”
“Yes.” Her faltering smile died. “Do you think the constable will catch them?”
“He’ll try.” There was no reason to tell her more. “Your family will worry about you, and you must be longing to return home.”
She licked her lips. Now that her color was coming back, Gray was vividly aware that she was very pretty indeed. Her mouth was the precise shade of a ripe peach. “I don’t know…”
“Do you really have no memory?” he pressed, puzzled. He would swear she knew more than she was saying, but why would she pretend otherwise? Perhaps she really was a runaway. It didn’t make him regret saving her from the ruffians who were hardly the sort any respectable gentleman would send after his daughter…or his wife…but then, perhaps that gentleman wasn’t so respectable, or decent or kind. It was possible she had felt she had no choice but to run away. “Are you running from someone?” he asked on impulse.
She went alabaster pale again, and didn’t speak.
“I won’t send you back to anyone who might hurt you,” he promised, though he had no idea what he would do with her. Even if he could persuade Mrs. Willis to let her stay for a while, it was a small house. Gray let the upper floors for his lodgings and painting studio, and there weren’t any spare rooms. “But if you have friends or family who could care for you in more comfort, I want to help you back to them.”
“I… I don’t…” She bit her lip.
Again he thought of fresh peaches, juicy and sweet. Gads. For his own peace of mind he needed to deliver her to her family. “Do you live in London?”
Slowly she shook her head.
“Visiting, then. Were you going to meet someone?”
After a long pause she gave a slight nod. “I think so.”
He grinned in relief. “Then I’m sure that person will be looking for you, when you don’t turn up. Do you remember anything at all—where you were going, when you were to meet, a name…?”
For the longest moment she gazed at him with wide, unblinking eyes. She drew a breath, and Gray leaned forward without thinking, entranced by the color staining her cheeks and the clear green of her eyes. Who was she? In a blur of images, he imagined delivering her into the arms of a frantic family; snatching her from the grasp of a cruel guardian; saving her from an arranged marriage to
a lecherous beast. He wanted to help this girl, and see her face glow with gratitude and admiration…to hear her invite him to call on her…to feel like her hero…
“My head hurts again,” she whispered, seeming to shrink under the covers.
Gray sat back, feeling like he’d been dropped from a tall height. She wasn’t spinning fantasies of him as a dashing and brave hero, but suffering from a terrible experience and possible injury. “I’m sorry,” he said at once, giving himself a mental slap. “You should rest some more. But not too long,” he added, thinking again of Dickie Russell, who went to sleep and never woke.
“Thank you.” She slid lower on the pillows in blatant suggestion that he leave. The blankets were clutched up tight under her chin.
Gray rubbed his palms on his knees, then rose and left, pulling the door closed behind him. Mrs. Willis met him in the corridor. “How is the young lady?”
“She said her head hurt. I think we should send for a physician, regardless of what she protests.”
The landlady’s forehead creased. “Of course! Naturally we should, I’ll send the boy directly. But who is she?”
Gray hesitated. “She doesn’t remember.”
Mrs. Willis’s eyes popped wide. “What, not a bit?”
“Shh!” Gray put up both hands to shush her, picturing the poor girl listening to them from under the blankets. “She says not.”
“Well, I never! When she wouldn’t say earlier I thought it was all a dodge.”
He didn’t volunteer that he thought much the same thing. “Either she truly doesn’t know—she did suffer a vicious assault—or she doesn’t want to tell for some reason.” He lowered his voice even more. “Frankly I suspect it’s the latter. She looks frightened.”
His landlady gasped. “Of what? Do you think those ruffians may come back looking for her? Oh, what will become of us if they break in the door!”
“I don’t think that will happen,” he said, to no effect. Mrs. Willis was worried now, and had an imagination able to supply an endless series of horrid visions.
A Study in Scandal (Scandalous) Page 4
