CHAPTER ONE #3
“Thank you,” she whispered, closing her fingers around the money.
“Go,” Mrs. Feather said brusquely. “Go to Curzon Street, to Doctor Damien Cole. Tell him I sent you and that I'll thank him to do this one favor for his old friend, Mrs. Feather.”
“To Curzon Street,” Darcie echoed, barely able to believe in her good fortune or her reprieve. Impulsively, she cast her arms about her sister. “Thank you…Abigail.”
Mrs. Feather squeezed her tight then pushed her out into the street.
“Don't come back,” she said, her voice strangely hoarse. “And mind, have a care of him. Dr. Cole. He is a hard man, a man to fear. Stay out of his way. Stay clear of his work. And keep your nose out of his secrets.”
Darcie gave a quick nod then hurried away, the shilling clutched in one hand pressed against her heart, her leather case tucked beneath her arm.
She had escaped the horror that awaited her, had been granted a reprieve from the fate that was her sister's.
Tears of relief stung her eyes. She would gladly scrub floors from dusk to dawn, scrub the steps, empty slops, anything, if she was but given the chance.
Armed with a name, Dr. Damien Cole, and the reference of her sister, the notorious madam, Mrs. Feather, Darcie forged onward. Her sister's warning swirled through her thoughts. A man to fear.
The words became a litany, spinning over and over in her mind as she pressed on. Soon she was beyond exhaustion, her mind numb to all but the need to reach Mayfair.
So blunted were her senses that she did not hear the rolling turmoil of horses' hooves on the cobblestone street, did not see the dark bulk of the carriage as it bore down on her.
At the last second a shout penetrated the fog that shrouded her awareness, and she turned to see four great beasts pawing the air above her head, their hooves slashing dangerously close to her face.
She threw herself to the side, landing with jarring impact on her right shoulder.
Stunned, she lay on the wet ground, staring at the horses as their driver brought them under control.
When they quieted, he climbed down from the seat and approached her where she lay.
“What's wrong with you, girl? Have you not eyes in your head? Or ears? Did you not hear me coming? If I'd been moving any faster—here....” The man crouched at her side and offered his hand. His words were bitten off in harsh tones, but focusing on his eyes, Darcie found only concern mirrored there.
“Is she hurt?” A second voice, mellifluous in both texture and pitch, washed over Darcie's shattered nerves like a soothing balm.
“I don't think so, sir. Maybe shaken up a bit,” the driver replied.
Turning her head, Darcie studied the second man, his confident stride bringing him into her line of vision. Her heart gave a hard, sharp kick against her ribs as she took in his long black cloak and polished boots, splattered with the mud of the road.
The fears she had entertained earlier that night on the mist-shrouded street echoed through her mind. Was this the same man who had followed her, the ominous presence that had caused her to hide in the shadowed doorway?
Panicking, she scuttled backwards, the memory of the threatening stranger on Hanbury Street fresh in her thoughts.
She stared at the man who approached her now, his long cloak and boots too similar for comfort.
Her pulse raced as she struggled for reason.
On Hanbury Street she had sensed evil buffeting her in great crashing waves that rolled violently from the stranger on the street, yet she sensed no such threat now, sensed no evil emanating from the man approaching her.
Her gaze shifted to his face, and what she saw made her eyes widen and her fear fade away, replaced by a surreal sense of resignation.
She had died, then. And here was the angel who'd been sent to guide her.
He moved closer, his stride graceful and sure, until he loomed over her.
With a negligent flick of his wrist, he set the wings of his long coat aside and hunkered down, close enough that Darcie could see the stormy gray of his eyes.
The hint of a frown shadowed his brow as he studied her with a long, slow perusal.
In the watery gray light of dawn, Darcie stared at him, her common sense telling her that he was just a man, surely no celestial being, despite her initial impression and despite the strange fascination that suffused her.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
She shook her head, afraid to trust the sound of her voice. Her body seemed to tingle in each place his gaze rested.
“Have we a blanket, John?” He glanced at the coachman, and as he turned his head, his burnished gold hair caressed his shoulder. Darcie had the strangest urge to touch it, to see if the honeyed strands were as thick and soft as they looked.
“I don't think so, sir.”
“I do not require a blanket. I'm fine,” Darcie managed, her heart drumming loudly in her ears.
“Are you?” The man turned a dispassionate gaze on her. Slowly, he raised one hand, reaching out to rest his fingers on the side of her throat. She jumped at the sensation of his warm hand against her chilled skin, at the feel of her pulse fluttering wildly against his touch.
“Y-yes,” she replied.
His brows rose. “How fortunate,” he finished dryly, and she felt bereft as he drew his hand away.
Rubbing her sore shoulder, Darcie lowered her eyes and pressed her lips together, uncertain of what to say. The stranger remained crouched at her side, his weight resting on the balls of his feet, arms folded casually across his bent knees. With a careless gesture, he motioned the coachman off.
“What day is it?” he asked, his gaze fixed on her.
Darcie stared into his eyes, caught by the intensity of his expression. “T-T-Tuesday,” she stammered. “At least, it was Tuesday last night. So I suppose it is now Wednesday.”
He offered a short nod, and the frown lines between his brows vanished.
“Well, you seem to be quite rational,” he observed. “No dizziness?”
Darcie shook her head.
He almost smiled, the barest curve of his lips. “This position is extremely uncomfortable and my leg is beginning to lose circulation. Would you mind terribly if we regained our footing?”
That said, he rose gracefully to his feet and offered his hand.
Darcie stared at it for a moment, her thoughts fuzzy and vague.
With a soft sound of impatience he twined his warm fingers through her icy ones and pulled her to her feet.
She stood before him looking straight ahead at the elegantly simple buttons of his waistcoat.
He was tall, she realized, more than a head taller than she was.
Tipping her head back, she found him watching her.
She had the strangest urge to smooth her bedraggled skirt and pat her hair into some semblance of order.
Suddenly, she realized that her hand remained linked with his, a warm bond in the chilly air of the breaking dawn. Embarrassed, she tugged her fingers from his grasp.
He glanced down, but made no comment.
Darcie bent forward and retrieved her leather folio from the ground, her movements slow and careful. Her fingers moved over the battered surface, quick, assessing little touches meant to determine the damage to her one worldly treasure. She released a tiny sigh when she found the case undamaged.
She looked up once more. He was watching her, cool gray eyes glinting like polished metal, his features reflecting only polite interest.
“I shall not ask what you are doing hurrying about on the outskirts of Whitechapel at this hour of the day. But I should like to offer the use of my carriage to take you to your destination.”
“Oh,” Darcie said, astonished by the offer. She closed her arms tighter around her folio, rocking it slightly like a baby. “Oh. I am looking for Curzon Street.”
“A somewhat distant but worthy place.” The man's brow furrowed questioningly. “Did you intend to walk there? Clear to the other side of town?”
At her single brief nod, his brows rose in surprise.
“Indeed. And whom do you seek on Curzon Street?”
Darcie glanced at the ground. How much to tell a stranger? And why was he even asking? She was clearly a woman beneath his touch.
As if reading her doubts and concerns, he spoke, “I ask only because I myself am for Curzon Street. It would be a matter of little difficulty to see you safely there.” His glance flicked over her, impersonal, assessing. “I suspect you will not make it if left to your own devices.”
The driver had returned to the coach. Darcie watched from the corner of her eye as he climbed up and took the reins. The horses shifted restlessly.