Page 27 of Beneath the Devil’s Mask (The Hidden Hearts Collection #4)

“I feel warm enough, Mum,” Sara said, though she had never felt so cold in her life. She lied, “I have to get home to change. A gentleman is taking me to supper tonight.”

“I daresay it will be some elegant affair.” Chastity sighed. “I knew a young baronet once. A little on the simple side, but a good-hearted fellow. He took me to an assembly ball one evening. His mama damn near died of shock.”

Smiling at the remembrance, Chastity rustled forward to fuss with the strings of Sara’s bonnet, tying it for her. She always could do up the prettiest bows.

“There. Now you look quite the young lady. When will you be coming back to see your mama again?”

Sara hesitated, thinking of her recent discussion with Gideon, what she had just decided. She stared at her mother’s face, the age lines feathering eyes that still had the bright sparkle of a young girl’s.

If only her mother had had more intelligence and ambition, where might the whole Palmer family have been today?

And yet, Chastity had not been such a bad mother, really.

Whenever Sara had been sick, Chastity had always been there, and sober, too.

It had been Chastity who had taught Sara how to read.

And Gideon ... the first time her brother had ever killed anyone it had been because of Sara and that drunken dockworker who had tried to rape her. Gideon had been only fourteen.

Swallowing hard, Sara heard herself saying, “I will be back again in two weeks, Mum. Like always.”

As Chastity hugged her, Sara met Gideon’s eyes over her mother’s shoulder. He arched his brows in a look that was both mocking and sad. From across the room, he mouthed a single word.

Fool.

There was only one response to such a thing in keeping with Sara’s dignity. When Chastity was not looking, Sara thrust her tongue out at her brother.

Kissing her mother farewell, Sara left the apartment. Feeling equal parts frustrated and resigned, she was still thinking about all that had taken place in the flat when she reached the street.

It was a grave mistake to walk along woolgathering through the lanes of Bethnal Green and Sara knew better. But before she snapped to her senses, she was roughly shoved from behind, hands snatching for her reticule.

Sara clung to the thin strap, but events proceeded too quickly for any further response. A sly-faced boy with blond hair knocked her off balance, wrenching the purse from her grasp. Sara cursed as she recognized the taunting grin.

“Damn you, Davy. Give me that back before I wring your neck.”

“You have to catch me first,” her younger brother sang out.

Sara lunged for him, only to topple headlong into the muddy street. By the time she raised up onto her elbow, David had already darted between two buildings and disappeared.

“You little bastard,” Sara muttered. Struggling to rise, she felt a hand upon her arm, trying to help her.

Usually, they just stepped over you in Bethnal Green. Assistance was rare, the sight of the man who was offering it even rarer.

Sara blinked. She had never seen such a bright-striped waistcoat before, especially not worn with a bottle-green frock coat and skin-tight yellow breeches.

A high-crowned beaver was perched upon artlessly combed locks.

The man had a face that was pleasant rather than handsome, and vaguely familiar to Sara.

But she was too cross to do other than dismiss him as some dandy who had meandered into the wrong part of town, a complete idiot.

“Are you all right, miss?” he asked as Sara steadied herself on her feet.

“Do I look all right?” she snapped. She attempted to scrub some of the mud from her coat, but her glove was equally dirty.

“I am sorry about your purse,” the stranger said. “I could attempt to go after that young villain, but I doubt I would catch him.”

“I doubt you would either.” Sara was not about to explain to this fool that the rogue who had snatched her purse was her own brother.

David would return the reticule in his own sweet time, empty of course.

When he holed up somewhere in the back alleys and corners of Bethnal Green, the canniest Bow Street Runner could not ferret him out, let alone this toff in the fancy waistcoat.

Sara was in no humor to render thanks to any Good Samaritan. She wished the man would have the wit to take himself off, but he hovered by her side, regarding her gravely.

“I am glad to see you have taken no real harm, miss.”

No real harm? Her coat was ruined and there was no Mandell to buy her another.

He continued, “After you have had such a fright, I hate to scold. But it is obvious that you are a lady of Quality. It is very reckless of you to be wandering alone in such a part of town, without even a maid to accompany you. This is no place for a respectable woman.”

“And what about you? Strutting about Bethnal Green attired like some Macaroni!”

The man’s stern expression lightened. “Very true,” he said with a twitch of his lips. “But I must point out that it was not me who just had my purse stolen.”

“Go to—” Sara started to grate out, catching herself just in time. “Go away and leave me alone.”

“I will be happy to oblige when I am certain you are no longer in need of my services.” He tipped his hat in a brief bow. “Though the circumstances are somewhat unusual, allow me to introduce myself. Nicholas Drummond.”

Sara started at the name. Drummond. Mandell’s cousin. Of course, Mandell had never introduced her. My lord preferred keeping his mistresses well in the background of his life, but she had glimpsed the young man in the marquis’s company a time or two.

“And you?” Drummond prompted. “Have I seen you somewhere before? At the park or the theatre perhaps?”

“I don’t go out in society very much. I am Sara Palmer, Mrs. Sara Palmer lately of Yorkshire.”

“Well, Mrs. Sara Palmer lately of Yorkshire, your husband should take better care of you.”

“I am a widow,” Sara said, slipping easily into the familiar lie. “I have only recently come to London for a change of scene. I have been living here for two months now, taking in some of the sights in a quiet way.”

“Then that would explain why you did not know that Bethnal Green is no place for ladies.”

“I would have to be blind not to realize that. I am not stupid, sir.”

“No, but you are bleeding.” He frowned, stepping closer, drawing out a handkerchief. When she started to shy away, he caught her chin, saying, “Hold still. I am not going to hurt you. You have scraped your cheek.”

He dabbed the linen carefully against her skin, his remarkable light grey eyes a study in concentration.

“There. Luckily, it is only a scratch. It would have been a shame if there had been ...” He seemed to lose the thread of his thoughts; his face close to hers. He stared as though seeing her for the first time.

Her bonnet was askew, her face likely dirty, but Sara knew enough of the power of her own beauty, how it could stun a man speechless. Yet Mr. Drummond did not look stunned.

He merely looked as though he liked what he saw, as though he liked it very much indeed.

“What are you doing here in Bethnal Green?” he asked.

She should have told him to mind his own damned business, but Sara found herself wanting to offer a reasonable excuse.

“I was bringing a basket of food and clothing to some of the poor families hereabouts. And you, Mr. Drummond?”

”I am a member of the House of Commons, ma’am. We have formed a committee to investigate some of the shocking conditions of the poor in these slums.”

“Does it not occur to you, sir, that the poor could use a little less investigating and a little more bread?” The tart comment startled her as much as him.

Had that really come out of her mouth? She had almost sounded as though she cared, when in truth the remark had been born more out of bitter memories of some of the hungry days of her own childhood.

She thought her blunt question would have insulted him, but he nodded in thoughtful agreement and stared at her. She was accustomed to men doing so, but something in Drummond’s steady regard unnerved her.

Sara squirmed and said crossly, “What are you gaping at now? Do I still have dirt upon my nose?”

“No, forgive me. I did not mean to be rude. But I have never met anyone quite like you. I have known charitable-minded women before, but they hold teas and collect funds. I have never known any to actually visit the slums, bringing comfort themselves.”

“I have always been a woman of action, Mr. Drummond. Now if you will excuse me, it is waxing late and I must find myself a hackney to—”

Sara broke off, recollecting her stolen purse. She bit her lip in vexation, realizing she would have to return to the flat and borrow back some of the money she had given to Chastity.

Mr. Drummond apparently realized her predicament at the same moment for he said, “Look, Mrs. Palmer. I hope you will not think this too forward or misinterpret my offer, but I have my own carriage near here. I would be only too happy to escort you home.”

Too forward? His offer came as a great relief. It would save her bothering her mother and get her safely home. Even if Mr. Drummond’s intentions were not what they should be, Sara would know how to handle that.

But she was a shrewd judge of men, and as she stared into those steadfast grey eyes, she was certain that Mr. Drummond was a gentleman.

She doubted he had ever harbored a wicked thought toward any woman in his life.

Naive, idealistic, a dreamer and a fool, he appeared to be exactly the sort of nobleman that Sara had always told Mandell she meant to find one day.

Sara caught her breath at the thought. Mandell’s own cousin?

No, she would never dare. She should not consider such a thing, even in passing.

Yet she caught herself looking at Nick Drummond, speculating and trying to remember anything Mandell had ever let slip about this cousin—the state of Drummond’s fortune, if he stood to inherit a title.

“Now I am beginning to think I am the one with a smudge on my nose,” Nick complained good-naturedly. At the same time, he looked endearingly self-conscious.

Sara forced her eyes down, trying to summon a blush. It came naturally for once. She affected a maidenly hesitation before saying, “Thank you so much for your chivalrous offer to take me home, Mr. Drummond. I fear I am obliged to accept.”

Drummond seemed quite pleased. When he linked his arm through hers, Sara’s heart pounded. She must be quite mad.

Sara knew full well the marquis’s opinion of any of his noble family marrying the likes of her.

If his lordship ever suspected that she might be courting his cousin .

.. She shuddered, being quite familiar with Mandell’s icy temper.

But she was only accepting a carriage ride from Drummond.

He might prove an unlikely prospect for her schemes.

As Nick escorted her down the street, she risked another glance at him. He was not a handsome man. But when he looked at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners that way, he possessed a charming smile.

And Sara found herself smiling back.

The devil fly away with Mandell if he had not done so already.