He shook her hand. “Think nothing of it. When was the last time you had anything to eat?”
“Cor, not since yesterday.”
“I thought as much,” he motioned for her to come inside—through thefrontdoor. “Come.”
She started to, but then reason kicked in. She couldn’t go into a strange man’s house! “Oh, no, guv. I couldn’t possibly. You’ve been too kind already.”
“Nonsense. You’re hungry enough to steal, aren’t you? Why not take an honest meal when it is offered?”
“I expect your wife will have something to say about it…”
He turned, puzzled. “My wife?”
“The lady that got out of your carriage. The one you dropped off at the duchess’ ball.”
Realization dawned. Again, he almost smiled. “My sister, Ann.”
“Oh. Then I reckonshe’llhave something to say…”
“She doesn’t reside here. I live alone,” he explained. “I only dropped her at the Duchess of Bodlington’s on my way home from my club, so no more excuses. Come inside and fill your belly.”
Eliza followed him up the front steps of his four-story townhouse. A butler held open the door, giving her a curious eye.
Inside, the foyer was large and freshly polished. The black-and-white marble tiles shone in the lamplight and smelled like lemon and beeswax. To her right lay a drawing room. The stranger led her there.
He switched on the overhead lamp. Blimey! Electricity! The room lit up, casting the leather Chesterfield sofa and upholstered armchairs in bright white light. While she studied the space, he spoke quiet orders to his butler.
After a few minutes, he joined her by the windows, which looked out onto the street. The man reached overhead, drawing the silk draperies closed. He didn’t want anyone to see her.
He might be kind, but no one was immune to gossip. His neighbors might spot her and believe he’d brought home a prostitute.
“Please, sit.”
She sank into an armchair. It was soft and cozy. She imagined him seated by the fire with a novel—something exciting. A man who rescued scatterbrained girls from falling out of runaway carriages would appreciate a ripper of a story.
He took the sofa across from her.
No, not a thrilling novel by the fireside. Eliza pictured him stretched out on the cushions while a beautiful lady read aloud from a book of poetry. He would smile and yawn at her soft words. A lazy Saturday afternoon. She’d have to wake him for tea.
“Girl.”
She snapped back to attention. “Beg pardon?”
“I asked your name.”
He’d been speaking the entire time she’d been daydreaming. “Eliza.”
“Eliza who?”
She shrugged. “Does it matter? I could lie to you.”
“You could. Youshould.But I’ve welcomed you into my home under no small amount of trust. You might walk off with the family silver. The least you could do is tell me your true name.”
“Elizabeth Summersby—but I prefer Eliza.”
“It’s a pretty name.” He shifted in his seat. “I’m called Mark van Bergen. Now that we’re properly introduced, tell me, Eliza, what you intend to do with nearly two thousand stolen pounds.”
CHAPTER THREE
