Trust Me (42 page)

He swayed then braced his large
hands on the back of the chair and caught himself. Arrogance fell over his face
like a mask.

Jeanne’s throat ached. He was so
vulnerable. So alone.

Mrs. Cook motioned to the chair
Jeanne had vacated. “Sir, you better sit.”

The gentleman stared at the
matron—well, rather he
glowered
down his nose at her. “If you please, the
lady and I have some personal business to attend to.”

His eyes jerked from side to
side. At the alarming motion, Jeanne started. He seemed to lurch forward. She
looked down and saw his hands gripping the chair back. The knuckles were white.
The ache in her throat increased.

“Paul.”

Jeanne glanced back at Mrs. Cook.
The woman wrinkled her forehead. “Go fetch Dr. Miller.”

Paul walked to the door.

“Quickly now.” Mrs. Cook’s voice
carried urgency and she made a shooing motion.

A doctor.

Memories rose in Jeanne’s mind.
Her father screaming, his face contorted in torment as the doctor painted yet
another mustard plaster on his skin in an attempt to draw the poisonous humors
out. The endless purges and emetics. The excruciating blisters on his skin and
the agonizing dry heaves. None of it did anything to cure Papa’s mad fits and
mental lapses. And then finally, the insane asylum.

It is how they would deal with
this obviously touched gentleman. As though her stays had suddenly shrunk, her
chest constricted. No, no, it wasn’t her place to step out of her way to aid
this gentleman. He wasn’t her responsibility. She owed him nothing. Her
breathing came shorter, faster. It wasn’t safe to stick one’s neck out. And yet
the words rose. She tried to hold them back but they burst out, “There‘s no
need for a doctor.”

Mrs. Cook frowned deeper. “But he
called you Thérèse. That’s a French girl’s name, not yours.”

“He is calling me by my middle
name.” Jeanne held her breath and waited to see if this lie would be accepted.

Mrs. Cook blinked several times.
“You have a French middle name?”

“Yes. My mother’s mother was
French.” Another lie.

The matron’s eyes narrowed. “Just
how does this gentleman know you? He seems very well off to be on familiar
terms with a decent girl from around here.”

Jeanne caught herself biting her
lip. She quickly released it and gave the first answer that came to mind. “He’s
my cousin, on my mother’s side, twice removed.”

Again, Mrs. Cook blinked a few times
then her mouth twisted until she looked like she’d just tasted a particularly
sour lemon.

“My cousin is not well.”

“Apparently. More likely drunk as
a lord.” Mrs. Cook’s tone became sourer than her expression. “I don’t like
this.”

“Pardon me?” Jeanne tried for
genteel outrage.

Mrs. Cook’s tone became sharper.
“I have known you since you started coming here on Saturdays with your Papa. I
always thought you were such a dedicated daughter. A good girl. But I don’t
like having fancy pieces courting trade in my shop.”

“Mrs. Cook, this man is my
cousin.”

“A wealthy relation who didn’t
help you when your dear Papa was ill?”

“My cousin was out of the country
at that time—he was in India, making his fortune.”

Mrs. Cook looked from Jeanne to
the gentleman and back. Several times. “I don’t see any family resemblance.”

Jeanne swallowed against a
tightening throat. Could everyone hear the pounding of her heart? “I favor my
father’s side. He—he is my cousin.”

Her voice came out so strained
that she cringed internally.

The matron’s expression hardened.
“I think you met this gentleman under less than respectable conditions. Perhaps
in a place where you’re known by a false name, a fancy French name to make
yourself sound more interesting to wealthy gentlemen.”

Jeanne’s mouth dried and anxiety
twisted her insides. “That’s not how it happened.”

“I’d appreciate if you took your
cousin
and left. I’d also appreciate if you never came back. I run a decent shop here,
not a place of disorderly assignation.”

Jeanne sucked in a deep breath.
That had hurt. More than she wished to admit. This was her place of comfort and
respite when her isolation became too much. And she was a horrible liar. But
what else could she have done? Consigned this poor soul to Bedlam? Oh God.
She’d known he was dangerous. Why hadn’t she listened to that inner voice?

She glanced up at the gentleman.
He was gazing at her with an odd, confused expression. Might he be ill, instead
of insane? Surely, if he were that ill, he’d be in bed.

She reached a hand to him. “Let’s
leave.”

The gentleman released the chair
then took her hand and laced his fingers with hers as naturally as though he’d
always done so. “Come, Thérèse.”

They walked sedately out of the
coffee shop, just like that, with their hands intertwined.

The rain had let up yet the wind
still gusted. With her free hand, she readjusted her scarf. His hold remained
firm on her hand until they had traveled a block away. The strength of his grip
sent prickles of fear darting into her. He could easily overpower her, if his
insane whim so dictated.

He stopped just as they were
about to turn the corner, and he looked down at her. A slight smile softened
his mouth. “My darling.”

Dear heavens, he was such a
gorgeous man. But he was still a madman. Dangerous, utterly dangerous. Any
sensible person knew well to be frightened of the insane, she more than anyone.
She returned his smile but only to placate him.

“Are we headed in the proper
direction for the mews?” he asked.

“Yes, we are. They are just down
this street and to the right.”

“Esau has the carriage there.”

Well, there it was. She’d done
her part keeping him out of the clutches of an overzealous doctor. God and this
Esau fellow would have to watch over him now. She wasn’t about to get anywhere
near his carriage and risk him shoving her bodily into it.

She offered another, hopefully
warm, smile.

She must have succeeded for he
relaxed his grip on her hand and they resumed walking. As they rounded the
corner, she slipped her hand from his.

And ran.

“Thérèse!”

Her heart pounded and she ran
faster.

“Stop, please. For the love of
God!” His tone was hollow with desolation. Her sympathy panged her yet again.
Unwittingly, she glanced over her shoulder.

Wind whipped the gentleman’s dark
forelock. He leaned against a street lamp, one hand holding his side. He
appeared to be panting for breath, his expression a mask of loss and despair.

Just like Papa. She’d seen those
emotions on her father’s face too many times. But the expression appeared so
out of place on such an arrogant, masculine face. Her heart constricted. She
turned back to face the direction she was running and put all her energy into
it.

Something came between her foot
and the pavement. She lost her balance and fell forward. As the bricks rose to
meet her, she threw her hands out to brace her fall. She cried out then reeled
from the fall. Her arm began to burn like fire. She knew she wouldn’t be able
to run easily for much longer.

She hauled herself to her feet
and scanned the shop fronts.

Mrs. Mason’s Bakery.

Relief washed over her. Mrs.
Mason had always been friendly. She had even given her day-old bread on days
when she couldn’t pay.

She darted into the shop and the
scent of baking bread and spicy cinnamon and apples comforted her.

“Good day, Miss Darling!” Mrs.
Mason sang out. “What shall it be today?

“I think I’ll have whatever
smells of apples and spice.”

“You sit and I’ll bring it right
out.”

Jeanne sank into the nearest
chair. Moments later, Mrs. Mason brought hot tea and apple pie. But Jeanne
found the pie tasted like ashes and could only manage a few tiny bites. Unable
to stop twitching and fidgeting, she kept catching herself glancing back at the
window.

She jerked her head away.

No, don’t look. He is not your
affair.

She forced herself to focus on
Mrs. Mason’s steady chatter. The wind made a long, low, threatening howling
sound. Such a dreadful day. What about—

No, he isn’t your responsibility.

A loud crash seemed to rumble
through her body and shake her bones and resound in the pit of her stomach.

What happened? An accident? A
carriage trying to avoid a disorientated pedestrian and yet hitting them all
the same?

She jumped to her feet and rushed
to the window. Some crates had blown over. Men were shouting and running about.
The sky had grown darker.

Against all her caution, her gaze
was drawn back to the direction whence she had come.

Oh God, there he was, staggering
down the street in a wavering pattern. For such a stalwart-looking man, the
gentleman walked so oddly, so slowly. Had he been in the war perhaps and
suffered some irreparable head injury that had left him this way?

Almost completely in front of the
shop, he glanced up. He had that lost, desolate look.

Her throat burned.

His gaze sharpened. Homed in on
her.

Oh, damn. How stupid of her. Of
course, he’d seen her at the window. She stepped back several paces. But it was
too late. He began walking toward the door.

“Isn’t it just awful weather,
Miss Darling?” Mrs. Mason exclaimed. “My Ben can take you home in the gig
later, if you like. Come sit back down and have a chat.”

Jeanne didn’t answer, her gaze
was fixed on the gentleman as he reached for the door. He was coming in. And he
looked absolutely furious, in a cold, controlled way that was all the more
frightening. Her hand flew to her mouth to stop the cry of protest that sprung
from the depths of her and she backed away from the window.

The tiny bell tinkled as he
entered, an incongruously gay herald. His eyes blazed into hers. She gave a
little squeak and took several steps backwards until her bottom hit one of the
display cases.

As he approached, he looked down
at her arm. She followed his eyes. Long red scrape marks still oozed a little
blood. She drew it behind her, scratching it along her wool gown and the wounds
burned. She winced.

His expression softened. “My
darling, are you all right?”

“Dearie, is he bothering you?”
Mrs. Mason asked in her grandmotherly tones.

“We have something to discuss,”
he answered.

Jeanne inhaled sharply and gave
the first plausible explanation that came to her mind. “My father owed him
money. He thinks I can pay but I don’t have it.”

The gentleman gaped at her, his
eyes gone wide with shock that quickly transformed into raw-edged hurt.

His pain sliced into her. She
began rubbing her hands together. As though iron bands constricted her, she
could barely breathe, so greatly did sympathy overwhelm her. “Please, sir—”

She couldn’t think of what else
to say.

His expression hardened, his eyes
frosted.

“That’s just about enough.”

At the sound of Mrs. Mason’s
voice, Jeanne turned to the serving counter. The older woman narrowed her eyes.
She reached behind the counter and pulled out a small pistol.

Every hair on Jeanne’s body stood
on end and she gasped. “Oh, please don’t—”

“Don’t fret, dearie, I’ll take
care of this,” Mrs. Mason said as she leveled it straight and steady at the
gentleman.

“Please, Mrs. Mason, put your gun
away.” Jeanne forced the words past her tightening throat muscles. “I can
handle him.”

“I know how to deal with these
uppity nobs. They get two pence to rub together in their pockets, some fancy
clothes, and they think they are the lord of the manor.” Mrs. Mason said,
keeping her pistol aimed at the gentleman’s chest. “Mister, I think you better
leave.”

He frowned. “Madam, do you have
any idea to whom you are speaking?”

“To whom
am
I speaking?”
Mrs. Mason asked.

The gentleman stared at her
blankly. He lost that arrogant expression. He looked forlorn once more.

Jeanne’s chest tightened again.

“You forget yourself, where you
are at. You’re not among your type here, sir.” Mrs. Mason walked closer to the
gentleman. “I left my home in Pennsylvania over forty years ago when I married.
And I have lived here among the British and made my husband‘s home my own. But
I have never been settled to bow and scrape to your kind.”

“My kind?” The gentleman asked.

Mrs. Mason jabbed the gun into
his chest. “I am sixty-seven years old. I’ll be damned before I cower to one
such as you.”