She feared if her eyes widened more, they might come right out of her head. A knife? What had she been thinking, venturing alone into the rookery at night? She was an idiot. She should be committed to Bedlam.
“Stand down, gentlemen.” A deep voice, all the more frightening because it was so calm and controlled, filtered around the bar patrons from the back of the room. “I’ll be taking the lady.”
Some of the men on the fringes resumed their seats, but the few right around Charlotte scowled and remained where they were.
A cloaked and hooded figure advanced, weaving between the tables. As he came, he tugged his muffler up to cover the lower part of his face. Digging into an inner pocket, he flicked a gold coin toward the bar. “Drown your disappointment, boys. I’ll shout a round for the house.”
This moved several more away, but Big Beard stayed planted in front of Charlotte.
The hooded man reached around him and plucked the knife from the door. It disappeared under the cloak. “Barney, didn’t the last time you crossed me teach you anything?” His voice dropped to a whisper that feathered across Charlotte’s skin.
She looked from one to the other. Were they going to brawl right here and now? And could she escape while they were thus engaged?
But the giant’s shoulders went slack, and he bobbed his head like an ox. “Sorry, Hawk.”
With a small flick of his fingers, the cloaked man motioned Barney aside, took Charlotte’s arm, and opened the door. Behind him, men crowded the bar, clamoring for their complimentary drink.
The man called Hawk—what kind of name was that?—steered her out into the cold darkness, his grip on her elbow firm.
“What on earth were you thinking? Are you lost, or have you merely misplaced your reason?” His voice remained muffled behind his scarf, but his breath puffed in clouds through the wool.
“Neither, sir. Unhand me.” She jerked her arm in his grasp, but he held on. “Let me go, or I shall be forced to scream.” Terror built in her throat.
“Then I should be forced to silence you.” He leaned close, and his breath brushed her cheek. “I’ve no intention of harming you, but keep quiet. You’ve drawn enough attention to yourself—and me.”
He sounded at least a bit educated, and … kind? Though impatient too. He set off the way Charlotte had come, his strides long and Charlotte trotting to keep up. The basket thumped against her leg with every step.
“Where do you live? From the look of you, it can’t be St. Giles. No St. Giles girl would be so foolish as to beard a public house full of strange men at night.” His tone said he thought she had pillow ticking for brains.
If he hadn’t just rescued her from such a ridiculous situation, she would’ve had more of an argument for him.
Without waiting for an answer, he hurried toward the Tottenham Court Road. For a few minutes she trotted at his side, but finally, out of breath and out of temper, Charlotte jerked hard to free herself from his grasp and stopped. The cold air seared her lungs, and her breath hung in silvery mist as she gasped.
“Sir, I am not a barrow to be shoved along the street.” She set the basket down and righted her cloak and hood, her hair still tumbling over her shoulders. “I thank you for your assistance back there, but I am quite capable of seeing myself home.”
“I doubt that. Any woman who would stroll into the rookery at night, when she’s clearly well out of her element, shouldn’t be trusted to find her way home again.” His voice came from deep within his hood, and his features, other than the glitter of his eyes, were obscured.
Charlotte bristled, a hundred hot words leaping to her tongue, but she remembered in time that he had rescued her and that her mouth had already gotten her in trouble more than once today. With an effort, she said, “Sir, I assure you, I am fine now.” She stooped to pick up the basket, realizing she hadn’t accomplished her mission at all. “Oh, slipslops and malaprops, I didn’t find Amelia Cashel’s house. Now I have to go back.” She jerked the basket off the cobbles, but the man halted her with his hand on her wrist.
“You’re not going back in there, not now, not ever. You have no idea how close you came to disappearing forever tonight. Now, come with me.” He took the basket from her and laced his fingers through hers, tugging her along, but more gently this time. Her hand warmed, nestled in his, even through his gloves. When they reached the main road, as if by a conjuring trick, a carriage appeared.
“Where to, sir?” the cabbie asked.
The man looked at Charlotte. “Well?”
“Portman Square,” she muttered.
She felt rather than saw the surprise in her rescuer’s expression. Because of her plain cloak, he probably thought she looked more like a housemaid than the daughter of one of the owners of a house at that prestigious address. Let him assume. He handed her up into the carriage, and before she could tell him that she had no money for the fare, he swung up beside her.
“Really, sir, there’s no need. I’m safe enough now.”
“I might as well finish the job.” He settled back against the hard wooden seat. No frills or plush squabs in this carriage. Tall as he was, he seemed to swallow up all the space inside.
When the carriage lurched into motion, he asked, “Why on earth were you looking for someone in the rookery at night?” He kept his face turned away from her, the muffler still covering the lower half, and the deep hood concealing the rest. He might be a common villain or the prime minister himself. Who could tell in the darkness like this?
She pressed her lips together. Disappointment and despair settled into her chest. She’d set out with such great hopes of meeting her sister. Of perhaps beginning a relationship … a friendship. She said nothing, knowing that it was foolish.
“Perhaps you’re just now realizing what a dangerous stunt you attempted? Good.” He tugged off his gloves, finger by finger, and bunched them in his hand, laying his fist along his thigh. The quality of his clothes was fine, the cloak thick, his gloves without a single hole, that she could see.
Odd that his fingernails were so clean, not at all like the other men in the public house. And his diction was better.
And he smelled better.
“If you must know, I was hoping to deliver a few things. I met—” Charlotte stopped, wondering. She supposed Amelia Cashel was a miss, since she’d never married, but she was old enough to be Charlotte’s mother. “Madam Cashel this afternoon, and I could see she was in need. I only sought to help her.” A blanket, some food, some candles, a shawl. Hopefully, none of the staff would notice these few items missing and report them to her parsimonious father.
The man actually grunted, as if barely comprehending her actions. “A noble thought, I suppose, though badly executed. If you leave the basket with me, I will see that it is properly delivered.”
“You would do that?” Suspicion laced her words. “You aren’t just trying to get your hands on the contents, are you?”
His silent offense was as cold as the February air. Finally, he asked, “What is your name?”
“Tell me who you are first.” She didn’t want to reveal her name, lest word get back to her father, so she stalled.
“Young woman, I have no need for such an exchange of information. If I put my mind to it, I will know your identity in less than twenty-four hours.”