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 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 that 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.”
Indeed. Arrogant man. She pressed her lips together, determined to give him no clues.
“Let’s see. Though you are plainly attired at the moment, you speak with an educated tone. Therefore you are probably genteelly born. Also, you haven’t the sense God gave a chicken, though come to think of it, that doesn’t narrow things down much. I’ve heard society ladies are a bit addlepated.”
She stiffened, as if poked with a stick, but she bit hard on the inside of her cheek in order not to rise to his baiting.
“However, I do know you live on Portman Square. There cannot be that many beautiful young ladies who call that prestigious address home. An empty-headed society miss shouldn’t be that difficult to identify. Though, you might be a governess, or a ladies’ maid? Perhaps a paid companion? Still, the list of occupants in Portman Square isn’t that large, so who you are won’t be difficult to diagnose.”
She fumed that he would think she had no sense, though she’d certainly behaved that way tonight. But she took satisfaction in the knowledge that he only thought he knew where she lived. She’d given a false address so he wouldn’t be able to find her later and so she wouldn’t bring any shame to her family.
No more shame than she’d discovered that her father had brought on them today.
The carriage rolled to a stop on the south side of Portman Square, and before he could stop her, she slipped out, leaving the basket behind, and hurried away.
As she ducked around the corner, she realized she hadn’t given him proper thanks, though after his insult to her intelligence, he didn’t deserve it.
Too bad she would never see him again. At least he’d been interesting to talk to. A rookery ruffian perhaps, but intelligent and capable of rescuing her from her own folly.
A unique man to be sure.
He also had one other uncommon opinion that predisposed her to favor him.
He had called her beautiful.