Chapter 4
· · ·
Garret lunged forward, catching the thief right before she fell to the cobblestones.
She was far too light, and if he hadn’t spoken to her and seen her face, he might think she was little more than a child.
“Miss?” he said, looking into her face now.
Her skin was pale, and her eyes closed. Garret scooped her up, lifting her easily.
He turned back to the pawnshop, but the owner—a big man named John—shook his head.
“Oh no, sir. I don’t want trouble.”
“Then open the damn door before I kick it in.” The woman in his arms was limp and cold. Garret wasn’t about to argue with the pawnbroker. He’d been singularly unhelpful, refusing to answer Garret’s questions, and now he was refusing to help an unconscious woman.
“Take ’er to the coffee shop,” the pawnbroker said.
“I’ll take you to the magistrate.” The threat worked, and the pawnbroker swung the door open, allowing Garret to carry the chit inside.
“On yer way now!” the broker told the people who had begun to gather. “Ye’ll ’urt yer neck if ye stretch it further.”
Garret carried the woman to a table in the center of the shop, which was cool and dark. With a sweep of his arm, he cleared the bric-a-brac and laid her on the smooth wood.
“Oi! Ye’ll pay for that!” the pawnbroker said, closing the door and coming into the room. Garret ignored him. The woman’s white cap had come off her head, and her dark hair spilled over the edge of the table. She wore a drab brown dress with a clean white apron over it.
“Bring me a lamp,” Garret ordered.
“Ye think I ’ave oil to waste? She’ll be fine.” The pawnbroker stomped to the side of the table and peered down at her. “Piece of bread and a cuppa tea, and she’ll be right as rain.”
“Fetch it then.”
The pawnbroker began complaining about orders and coins, but Garret waved him away and put a hand to the woman’s forehead.
Her skin was cool to the touch, but her eyes fluttered.
“Do you know her?” he asked, interrupting the man’s ongoing complaints.
The broker hesitated a moment too long, and Garret glanced up at him.
“Of course you do. You lied earlier when I asked about her. What is her name?”
“I don’t want trouble. Ye can ’ave the earbob and the comb.”
Garret raised his brows. “So you do have the stolen items? I don’t want them. I want her name.”
The pawnbroker looked down at the unconscious woman. “She’ll ’ave my ’ead if I tell ye.”
Garret looked from the broker to the woman. She was at least a foot shorter than the merchant and twelve stone lighter. “I’ll have your head if you don’t.”
The big man sighed. “Tamsin Archer. She works for Mr. Brown.”
Garret raised a brow in question. The broker jerked his head in the direction of the lane. “Brown’s Coffee Shop.”
“If she works at a coffee shop, why is she half-starved?”
The man put his hand up protectively. “Ye’ll ’ave to ask ’er.”
“Fetch me tea and toast,” Garret said, extracting a few coins from his pocket to stave off the man’s protests. The broker took them and disappeared into the back room. A moment later Garret heard a door slam.
“Tamsin Archer,” he murmured to himself.
“You stole what must be for you a small fortune last night, and yet, you’re so famished you fainted.
Either that or the sight of me frightened you into collapse.
” Garret shook his head. He didn’t believe for a moment the woman who had brazenly kissed him last night would faint at the sight of him.
He spotted a fan among the pile of items he’d dislodged from the table and scooped it up.
Snapping the fan open, Garret began to waft air over her.
Wisps of brown hair fluttered at her temples and her eyelids blinked.
“Tamsin,” Garret said. “Open your eyes.”
She made a sound somewhere between a moan and a sigh.
Her eyes fluttered open then closed again.
“Wake up now, Miss Archer,” he said, still fanning her.
This time her eyes opened. Her pupils were so large he could barely make out the blue of her irises.
Her gaze was unfocused until she turned her head and looked at him.
Then she gave him the most beatific smile he’d ever seen.
He almost drew back from the sheer magnitude of that smile.
“You,” she whispered.
Garret had the urge to look over his shoulder. Surely, this smile couldn’t be for him. No one had ever looked at him with such obvious affection, save perhaps his parents.
She lifted a pale, trembling hand and placed it on his cheek. Her skin was cold and her hands rough, but he had the urge to cover her hand with his so she wouldn’t withdraw.
“Miss Archer, how are you feeling?”
“You feel so real,” she whispered. “I don’t want to wake.”
“You fainted. I sent Mr.—er, John to fetch something for you to eat.”
Her brow furrowed, and her eyes cleared slightly.
“Why are you half-starved? I’m told you work at the coffee shop.”
Her gaze slid away from him. “George tripped me,” she said, which made absolutely no sense. “Where am I?”
“The pawnbroker’s shop. You fainted just outside—”
She snatched her hand from his face and bolted upright. Garret caught her before she could tumble off the table. “Whoa, now. Take it slow.”
She gaped at him. “You’re real. I thought—never mind what I thought. I must get back.”
“Not until you eat something. I won’t have you fainting again.”
She made a face. “I never faint.”
In the back of the shop, the door opened and closed.
“I beg your pardon, but you fainted just a few moments ago. That will be the broker with tea and toast.”
“I don’t need it,” she said, pushing him back and throwing her legs over the side of the table. She slid off it and almost collapsed on the floor. Garret reached out an arm at the last moment and held her up. “What is wrong with me?” she asked, more to herself than to him. He answered anyway.
“You’re starving.”
She looked at him, seemed to realize just how close they were, his arm about her waist, and tried to back away. “Steady now. Hold on to the table.”
She grasped the table with a white-knuckled grip, and he stepped back, not wanting to crowd her. Still holding the edge of the table, she moved around it, putting the furnishing between them. “I am sorry about last night, Mr. Garret. Please don’t call the magistrate.”
Garret felt a zing of surprise shoot through him. “You know my name?”
“I beg your pardon. I forgot your surname. My head is fuzzy.”
“Ye want this toast?” came a deep voice from the back room.
“Yes!” Garret called.
“No!” Miss Archer replied. The pawnbroker grumbled.
“My surname is Kildare, and I won’t call the magistrate if you tell me why you really stole those items from the duchess.”
She opened her mouth, and he could tell before she uttered a sound that she was about to lie to him again. He held up a hand. “Don’t spout some rubbish about your mother or sister being sick.”
She closed her mouth again.
“This tea is turning cold,” the pawnbroker called.
Miss Archer cocked her head toward his voice. “I was hungry. Starving, as you say.”
Garret folded his arms across his chest. “Then why didn’t you steal food?”
She closed her eyes. “I—er—”
“Tell ’im about Snoozer,” came the voice from the back.
“Stubble it, Big John.”
“What is a snoozer?” Garret asked.
“Nothing. Listen, thank you for your concern. Call the magistrate if you must, but if I do not return to the coffee shop right away, I’ll be out on my arse.”
“Tell ’im about yer mother,” the man called Big John offered.
Miss Archer turned and glared at the closed door to the back room. “I said stubble it!”
Lifting her skirts, she rounded the table and tried to sweep past him. “If there’s nothing else—”
He caught her arm. “We are not finished, Miss Archer. If you don’t want me strolling into Brown’s Coffee Shop and asking Mr. Brown for a moment of your time—”
“You mustn’t!”
“—then you had better meet me tonight to explain what’s really afoot.”
She yanked her arm out of his grip. “It’s nothing that concerns you or that you’d care about.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Now, you’d better be waiting for me at eleven in front of this shop.”
“Oi, now! Don’t involve me,” came Big John’s voice.
“Behind the coffee shop,” Miss Archer said. “There’s a yard where we hang washing. I’ll meet you there.”
“At eleven.”
“Eleven strokes of the clock. Yes.”
“If you are not there—”
“You’ll ruin my life. Yes, I understand. I must go.”
“I must insist you eat that toast. I’ll go out the front.
You go out the back but eat something before you leave.
That’s an order, Miss Archer.” Garret turned on his heel and stalked across the shop, opening the door to let himself out.
A few people milled about the front of the shopwindow, but a dark look from him scattered them.
He took his hat from under his arm and placed it on his head then made his way along the lane, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder to see if Miss Archer had emerged yet.
What a strange and fascinating creature.
She seemed to need his help desperately and yet made every effort to refuse it.
He’d thought if he found her again that he’d have his questions from the night before answered.
But now he had even more questions. How had she known his name?
Why was she starving? Why had she taken such a risk by stealing from the Duchess of Belgrave, when she had a position and presumably wages?
And why did he care so much?