exceedingly gracious? I think I shall tell Papa to give that Nazareth Club of hers a huge contribution.”
“I believe it is called the Nazareth Society,” said Sidonie innocently. “And a donation, I am sure, would be most welcome. The society houses fallen women, you know, and sets them on the path to a better life.”
By the flickering light of the carriage lantern, she saw the girl blush. “Thank you, Madame Saint-Godard, for going with me tonight,” she said. “Mother always remarks how much my piano has improved since you took me on.”
Mr. Arbuckle’s footman had put down the steps and opened the door. The pavement glistened with recent rain. Sidonie stepped down, then made a pretense of waving them off as she searched for her key. The horses’ hooves rang sharply on the cobblestones as the carriage clattered down the street and around the corner. Sidonie closed her reticule, pulled her cloak a little closer, and set off down Bedford Place in the opposite direction.
Russell Square lay at the north end of Sidonie’s well-lit street, and the walk was but a short one. Lifting her skirts to avoid the damp grass, she circled the statue of Lord Bedford, saw no sign of Charles Greer, then slid into the shadows to wait. Inside the square, little light fell, but the gloom had to be braved. Servants, even good ones, had wagging tongues. It would do her career precious little good if her prospective clients should hear rumors she’d helped one of her students elope.
Sidonie drew her cloak snugger still and paced through the darkness. It must be past midnight already. It was quite possible, she considered, that Mr. Greer would not come at all. Perhaps he had not been sincere in his affections for Miss Hannaday. Or perhaps he was truly terrified of her father. Even if he came, perhaps he wouldn’t find Maurice’s offer of a position tempting. She paused and listened for a moment. There was nothing save for the faint sound of the traffic in High Holborn. In Russell Square, no living thing stirred. She would have sworn it.
Just then, she turned around, and walked straight into an immense, immutable wall. The wall grabbed her. Sidonie screamed.
“Good evening, Madame Saint-Godard.” Lord Devellyn’s voice rumbled deep in his chest. “A fine evening for a walk, is it not?”
Her heart was in her throat, and strong, solid hands were gripping her arms. “Devellyn!” she answered. “Dear God! Must you go skulking about in the dark, creeping up on people?”
The marquess chuckled. “I’ve been accused of many things, my dear, but being light on my feet is not one of them.”
“Your feet are not my concern,” she said. “But your hands are. Take them off me, if you please.”
In the dark, she could feel his eyes search her face. “Whatever virtue you possess, madame, is safe with me.”
“Whatever virtue—?” Sidonie considered kneeing him in the testicles. “What do you mean to suggest?”
In the gloom, it felt as though he leaned nearer, for she could feel the heat his big body radiated. “Well, oddly enough, I meant to suggest you kiss me,” he responded. “But I believe you’d slap my face.”
“And quite soundly, too.”
“Ah, always unlucky in love!” he said lightly. “No wonder I drink so much.”
Yes, he probably was drunk, thought Sidonie. He smelled of spicy soap and tobacco smoke and something which might have been brandy. Again, she tried to pull away. This time, he let her go, but very slowly, his heavy, warm hands sliding inch by inch down her forearms, his fingertips fleetingly catching hers. And then the touch was severed altogether, leaving Sidonie to feel inexplicably cold.
The marquess stepped back and lifted his gaze heavenward. He carried something—a black umbrella, she thought—hooked carelessly over his wrist. “I’m exceedingly fond of a late-night stroll myself,” he went on, as if their strange interchange had not just occurred. “I find the night air a
“I believe it is called the Nazareth Society,” said Sidonie innocently. “And a donation, I am sure, would be most welcome. The society houses fallen women, you know, and sets them on the path to a better life.”
By the flickering light of the carriage lantern, she saw the girl blush. “Thank you, Madame Saint-Godard, for going with me tonight,” she said. “Mother always remarks how much my piano has improved since you took me on.”
Mr. Arbuckle’s footman had put down the steps and opened the door. The pavement glistened with recent rain. Sidonie stepped down, then made a pretense of waving them off as she searched for her key. The horses’ hooves rang sharply on the cobblestones as the carriage clattered down the street and around the corner. Sidonie closed her reticule, pulled her cloak a little closer, and set off down Bedford Place in the opposite direction.
Russell Square lay at the north end of Sidonie’s well-lit street, and the walk was but a short one. Lifting her skirts to avoid the damp grass, she circled the statue of Lord Bedford, saw no sign of Charles Greer, then slid into the shadows to wait. Inside the square, little light fell, but the gloom had to be braved. Servants, even good ones, had wagging tongues. It would do her career precious little good if her prospective clients should hear rumors she’d helped one of her students elope.
Sidonie drew her cloak snugger still and paced through the darkness. It must be past midnight already. It was quite possible, she considered, that Mr. Greer would not come at all. Perhaps he had not been sincere in his affections for Miss Hannaday. Or perhaps he was truly terrified of her father. Even if he came, perhaps he wouldn’t find Maurice’s offer of a position tempting. She paused and listened for a moment. There was nothing save for the faint sound of the traffic in High Holborn. In Russell Square, no living thing stirred. She would have sworn it.
Just then, she turned around, and walked straight into an immense, immutable wall. The wall grabbed her. Sidonie screamed.
“Good evening, Madame Saint-Godard.” Lord Devellyn’s voice rumbled deep in his chest. “A fine evening for a walk, is it not?”
Her heart was in her throat, and strong, solid hands were gripping her arms. “Devellyn!” she answered. “Dear God! Must you go skulking about in the dark, creeping up on people?”
The marquess chuckled. “I’ve been accused of many things, my dear, but being light on my feet is not one of them.”
“Your feet are not my concern,” she said. “But your hands are. Take them off me, if you please.”
In the dark, she could feel his eyes search her face. “Whatever virtue you possess, madame, is safe with me.”
“Whatever virtue—?” Sidonie considered kneeing him in the testicles. “What do you mean to suggest?”
In the gloom, it felt as though he leaned nearer, for she could feel the heat his big body radiated. “Well, oddly enough, I meant to suggest you kiss me,” he responded. “But I believe you’d slap my face.”
“And quite soundly, too.”
“Ah, always unlucky in love!” he said lightly. “No wonder I drink so much.”
Yes, he probably was drunk, thought Sidonie. He smelled of spicy soap and tobacco smoke and something which might have been brandy. Again, she tried to pull away. This time, he let her go, but very slowly, his heavy, warm hands sliding inch by inch down her forearms, his fingertips fleetingly catching hers. And then the touch was severed altogether, leaving Sidonie to feel inexplicably cold.
The marquess stepped back and lifted his gaze heavenward. He carried something—a black umbrella, she thought—hooked carelessly over his wrist. “I’m exceedingly fond of a late-night stroll myself,” he went on, as if their strange interchange had not just occurred. “I find the night air a
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