“I quite agree.” Mark had thought of Eliza’s plight many times since the night he met her. She was a thief by necessity. She was assaulted because food was scarce and competition for life’s basic necessities was fierce. “Solving the rampant poverty in London’s poorest districts should eradicate the criminality that thrives there. We are a modern, civilized metropolis. Starving children oughtn’t to be driven to kill for their next meal—yet they do, I’m told.”
Lord Revelstoke frowned. “Never expectedyouto have a bleeding heart, Sir Mark, but I suppose the young folk fancy that sort of thing nowadays.”
He wasn’t a benevolent campaigner for social reform. He believed in being honest, fair, and upright in all his dealings. Like Eliza, he had good intentions, though his colleagues in banking glared at him as though a radical had suddenly infiltrated their midsts.
Mark shrugged off their stares. “Lately, I’ve learned to see the world through different eyes.”
He couldn’t wait to return home to Eliza and tell her all about his evening.
Miss Hilda Prevost touched his sleeve with her delicate, gloved hand. “I think your lady friend sounds marvelous and so very brave, but you must warn her to heed your words. She cannot safely straddle the line between Covent Garden and Mayfair, just like I cannot be an Italian artist and a London debutante. It’s two feet forward into the breach or nothing!”
Her answer suddenly became of the utmost importance to him. “Which life would you choose, Miss Prevost, were the choice your own?”
“My heart belongs on the beaches of Sanremo, and I shall live there through my watercolors, but sun-drenched dreams won’t keep me warm, fed, and dry, so I must choose the safe bet every time.”
Inwardly, Sir Mark van Bergen did not wish to be any lady’s safe bet. He longed to be a risk—a daring leap of faith, a heart-pounding wager, a greedy grasp at that brass ring of happiness—which paid in spades.
Outwardly, he was no different than any of these judgmental, white-whiskered, overbearing men with whom he shared his occupation and his meal. What brave girl would take a chance on marryinghim?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mayfair was quiet at night. There were no shouting prostitutes or drunkards brawling on the pavements. She didn’t worry about anybody kicking in the doors or scrabbling up the trellises looking for a warm, dry place to lay their head. She was safe here. This was no cheap doss-house. This was Green Street and—for now—it washome.
All the lamps were switched off. The townhouse was dark. Eliza sat on the staircase with her nightdress tucked beneath her bare toes. She crossed her arms over her knees, letting her wild, loose hair tumble around her like a curtain, and hid her face in her lap.
She had learned that pose as a girl, when her nose was cold, and the coal bill had gone unpaid. Or when the landlord was banging on the windows and threatening eviction, and she had wished that she’d been anywhere else, just to avoid him for one night.
Eliza didn’t wish to escape, but she hated being alone. She didn’t know what to do with herself without somebody to run from, hide from, or dodge. There weren’t any pockets to pick and no need to scrounge for her supper. A feather bed awaited her upstairs, in her own bedroom, where she kept fifteen hundred pounds stashed atop the wardrobe. She had everything a girl could want. The only thing missing was Mark.
He was due home any minute—she’d counted down the hours on the big, hall clock.
Her breath puffed against her knees. She closed her eyes and wondered about Bank dinners. What was a dining room like where men were so rich that they could buy titles? How beautiful were the women who gave their favors to such fellows? She’d seen gentlemen and ladies strolling down Piccadilly in their silks, sables, and shiny top hats. She’d stood in the shadows of Covent Garden to watch the toffs climb in and out of their carriages and had imagined catching the eye of some handsome lord. But her gaze inevitably fell to their pocketbooks, and they wisely gave her a wide berth.
She had light fingers and swift feet, and somehow those particular skills had carried her to a faraway land. They had changed her life, and she would never worry about money again. But would she be welcome at the home of Lord Revelstoke? Would she ever attend a Bank dinner on Sir Mark van Bergen’s arm?
Really, how could a girl sleep stuck on the sidelines when she longed to be in the thick of things?
At last, she heard his key in the latch! Eliza looked up to spy him slipping over the threshold with his hat, stick, and gloves in his hands. His sharp, dark features—such a contrast to his starched white shirt—were smudged from a long night and too much champagne, making him soft. Making him smile sweetly when he saw her sitting on the stairs.
“You’ve stayed up late,” he said. “You must be exhausted.”
She shrugged. “I’m alright. How was your dinner?”
“Tedious, actually.” He deposited his belongings in the hall, and then sank onto the steps beside her. He sighed and said, “The food was delicious, but the conversation was very meager.”
Eliza smiled, feeling as warm and cozy as if she’d downed a pint of gin. She cuddled her knees and mooned at him. “What did you eat?”
“Let’s see…we were served Dover Sole doused with a large quantity of some creamy sauce. Very rich. Little wonder that most of the Court of Directors are hobbled with gout.”
“Do you fancy fish?” She fancied fish suppers when her purse was plump.
“I do, rather,” he replied.
This was good information to glean. Eliza pressed him further, asking, “Did you have a pudding?”
“Bombe surprise.”
“What’s abomb sou-preez?”The words tumbled over her tongue.
