Page 47 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
“I am sorry about your purse,” the stranger said. “I could attempt to go after that young villain, but I doubt I would catch him.”
“I doubt you would either.” Sara was not about to explain to this fool that the rogue who had snatched her purse was her own brother. David would return the reticule in his own sweet time, empty of course. When he holed up somewhere in the back alleys and corners of Bethnal Green, the canniest Bow Street Runner could not ferret him out, let alone this toff in the fancy waistcoat.
Sara was in no humor to render thanks to any Good Samaritan. She wished the man would have the wit to take himself off, but he hovered by her side, regarding her gravely.
“I am glad to see you have taken no real harm, miss.”
No real harm? Her coat was ruined and there was no Mandell to buy her another.
He continued, “After you have had such a fright, I hate to scold. But it is obvious that you are a lady of Quality. It is very reckless of you to be wandering alone in such a part of town, without even a maid to accompany you. This is no place for a respectable woman.”
“And what about you? Strutting about Bethnal Green attired like some Macaroni!”
The man’s stern expression lightened. “Very true,” he said with a twitch of his lips. “But I must point out that it was not me who just had my purse stolen.”
“Go to—” Sara started to grate out, catching herself just in time. “Go away and leave me alone.”
“I will be happy to oblige when I am certain you are no longer in need of my services.” He tipped his hat in a brief bow. “Though the circumstances are somewhat unusual, allow me to introduce myself. Nicholas Drummond.”
Sara started at the name. Drummond. Mandell’s cousin. Of course, Mandell had never introduced her. My lord preferred keeping his mistresses well in the background of his life, but she had glimpsed the young man in the marquis’s company a time or two.
“And you?” Drummond prompted. “Have I seen you somewhere before? At the park or the theatre perhaps?”
“I don’t go out in society very much. I am Sara Palmer, Mrs. Sara Palmer lately of Yorkshire.”
“Well, Mrs. Sara Palmer lately of Yorkshire, your husband should take better care of you.”
“I am a widow,” Sara said, slipping easily into the familiar lie. “I have only recently come to London for a change of scene. I have been living here for two months now, taking in some of the sights in a quiet way.”
“Then that would explain why you did not know that Bethnal Green is no place for ladies.”
“I would have to be blind not to realize that. I am not stupid, sir.”
“No, but you are bleeding.” He frowned, stepping closer, drawing out a handkerchief. When she started to shy away, hecaught her chin, saying, “Hold still. I am not going to hurt you. You have scraped your cheek.”
He dabbed the linen carefully against her skin, his remarkable light grey eyes a study in concentration.
“There. Luckily, it is only a scratch. It would have been a shame if there had been ...” He seemed to lose the thread of his thoughts; his face close to hers. He stared as though seeing her for the first time.
Her bonnet was askew, her face likely dirty, but Sara knew enough of the power of her own beauty, how it could stun a man speechless. Yet Mr. Drummond did not look stunned.
He merely looked as though he liked what he saw, as though he liked it very much indeed.
“What are you doing here in Bethnal Green?” he asked.
She should have told him to mind his own damned business, but Sara found herself wanting to offer a reasonable excuse.
“I was bringing a basket of food and clothing to some of the poor families hereabouts. And you, Mr. Drummond?”
”I am a member of the House of Commons, ma’am. We have formed a committee to investigate some of the shocking conditions of the poor in these slums.”
“Does it not occur to you, sir, that the poor could use a little less investigating and a little more bread?” The tart comment startled her as much as him. Had that really come out of her mouth? She had almost sounded as though she cared, when in truth the remark had been born more out of bitter memories of some of the hungry days of her own childhood.
She thought her blunt question would have insulted him, but he nodded in thoughtful agreement and stared at her. She was accustomed to men doing so, but something in Drummond’s steady regard unnerved her.
Sara squirmed and said crossly, “What are you gaping at now? Do I still have dirt upon my nose?”
“No, forgive me. I did not mean to be rude. But I have never met anyone quite like you. I have known charitable-minded women before, but they hold teas and collect funds. I have never known any to actually visit the slums, bringing comfort themselves.”
