Chapter 5
Chapter Five
F or a moment Keynsham stared after her. “Hellfire!” he swore under his breath, as he watched her walking away.
Could she be any more determined to get herself into trouble? She was the most stubborn lady he’d ever met… and he’d met his own sister, so that was saying something.
She kept going, her shoulders bravely squared, without even a glance back.
“Wait.”
She didn’t stop.
“Madam! I said wait !”
This time she hesitated and half-turned. He hurried toward her—conscious, as he did so, that his usual air of dignity and authority had deserted him. “Tell me—is there any history of madness in your family?”
Now they were under a streetlight. He found himself noticing the way her dark lashes contrasted with her lighter brown hair. She scowled up at him but didn’t answer.
“Well. Since it is apparent that nothing I say will deter you, I will agree to accompany you so that you do not get yourself into more trouble—on one condition.”
“ Condition? ” Her tone was dangerous. “I did not ask you to come with me in the first place. You need not make conditions .”
He ignored this. “The condition is that if we find your pocketbook—which we will not—you will let me do the talking. In fact, let me do the talking no matter what happens. Do we have an understanding?”
There was a stubborn set to her mouth, as though she might argue, but then she appeared to think better of it. “Very well… sir.”
“Ah. That reminds me. Of course, it is highly irregular for a gentleman to introduce himself to a lady. But as I do not see anyone in this neighborhood who seems able to do it, I hope that you will allow me. I am Keynsham. Mr. Charles Keynsham.” He bowed—and saw a spark of amusement in her eyes.
It had been some time since a lady had found him entertaining. Usually they—and their mamas—were too busy assessing his future title and estate to be at all interested in whether he was dull or witty—though they laughed immoderately at the most commonplace things he said anyway.
“How do you do, Mr. Keynsham?” She glanced at the gutter and curtseyed carefully. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” Yes—there was a definite gleam of humor in her eye. “I am Miss… Ryder.”
“Charmed, I am sure.” He offered her his elbow. “Well, Miss Ryder—shall we?”
And, just as if they’d been strolling through the gardens of Holland Park at the most fashionable hour of the day, they set off down the narrow, dark, rubbish filled, reeking street.
He hadn’t asked her how she planned to find the pocketbook. It was clear to him—as it would be to anyone with the slightest acquaintance with London—or, indeed, reality—that she would not.
But it seemed to have somehow become his duty to ensure that she didn’t come to harm while she looked for it. And his chest seemed to hold a rising bubble of… mirth? This was by far the most unexpected thing that had happened to him in months. Years.
Miss Ryder was the oddest young woman he’d ever met. Her smart bonnet was contradicted by her dowdy pelisse. She had an unusual sense of humor. And he seemed to have no way to predict what she’d do next. Also, she was pretty.
Also, she’d introduced herself as “Miss.”
“Ha’penny? Ha’penny, milord?” A thin, dirty child appeared from the shadows to seize his coat sleeve with a grubby hand. Within seemingly moments, a small gang of ragged children had surrounded them, hovering just out of fist’s reach and following them down the narrow street.
“Be off with you!” He raised his hand threateningly. The boy let go and the other children fell back.
“But he only asked….”
“They’re pickpockets. All of them. They work in gangs. They may be young, but they’re far from harmless.”
He felt her stiffen. “Surely if they were fed and—and washed, and taught their letters, they might grow up to be honest men.”
“You have no experience of these urchins if you think so.”
“But they are only children!”
He was about to retort when she pulled away and stopped dead. “There it is! My pocketbook!”
He followed the direction of her gaze. She was staring into the dimly lit—and dirty—window of a shop just opposite them.
By the three golden balls hanging above the door, it was a pawnshop. A large, hairy hand could be seen behind the small panes of the window. The hand was placing something in the middle of the display. Even from across the narrow street and through the smudged glass he could see that it was a blue leather pocketbook.
Keynsham felt the universe spin around him.
No. It simply wasn’t possible. Did this girl somehow exist outside of the realm of probability?
By all systems of logic and reality, Miss Ryder ought never to have seen her pocketbook again. And yet, there it was—as though she’d conjured it into existence by the sheer force of her determination. She let go of his arm.
“Wait!”
But it was too late. She darted across the street without looking first—narrowly avoiding a nightman’s passing cart—and disappeared into the shop.