Eliza sagged from the weight of it.
“Thank you,” she whispered so as not to wake the sleeping boy.
Mr. van Bergen nodded. “I told them to fill it with provisions. Eat your fill and share it with your friends in need. When you’ve finished with the hamper, it’s yours to sell, if you wish.”
He was a generous soul.
“You remember I’ve got fifteen hundred pounds now,” she replied as they walked to the servant’s entrance. “I might keep the hamper and fill it with all my new fine things.”
He smiled. She smiled, too.
After a moment, he opened the door for her and stepped out into the night. He pointed her toward the stairs to street level. “Best of luck to you, Eliza.”
“And to you, sir.”
With that, she shuffled down the passageway and left Green Street behind. When she felt certain that Mr. van Bergen was no longer able to see her, she turned the corner at Park Lane and crossed the wide, busy road toward Hyde Park.
She’d lied when she said she had somewhere to lay her head. She hadn’t, not really. Eliza could afford to rent a room for the night now that her pockets were fat, but she’d never be allowed to step foot in any Mayfair establishment.
And the hamper was heavy. By the time she found a secluded part of the park to hunker down for the night, her arms burned and her shoulders ached. Eliza tucked her weary body against a tree trunk and tried to rest.
She really ought not to have offered him her body. He was such a nice fellow. He probably disliked wanton women—she wasn’ttrulywanton, just lonely.
Eliza sighed into the moonless night. She wished she was a lady like Mr. van Bergen’s sister, dressed in clean, fashionable clothes. Eliza wished she could take tea with a handsome man in his drawing room without saying anything crass or off-putting.
She wished when men like Mark van Bergen passed her on the street, they didn’t pity her. As she fell asleep on the hard, damp ground without so much as a blanket for cover, Eliza wished she did not pity herself.
***
Mark watched until she climbed the stairs and disappeared around the corner. When he could not see her any longer—nor could he hear her boot heels echoing off the pavements—he returned inside.
He locked the kitchen door behind him and slowly made his way upstairs.
Truth be told, he worried about Eliza. She was a resourceful girl, and had got on well without him, but she now carried a dangerously large sum of money in her skirt pocket. Grown men were killed for less.
How could she, a young woman living on the streets of London, protect herself from those who’d think nothing of slitting her throat for their next drink of gin?
Ah, well, she wasn’t his problem anymore. He’d done what his conscience had required—he’d given her supper, offered her a bath, and supplied her with more than enough provisions. He had even turned down her body.
She was out of his hands now. He only hoped the next man she set her sights on was a good chap, and not the sort to take advantage. Though he doubted Eliza would allow anyone to take advantage of her…
Smiling to himself, Mark switched off the lamps in his corridor and the overhead light in his drawing room. He closed the shutters and checked all the locks, just to be safe.
He climbed the stairs to the upper floors. On the landing, he turned toward his bedchamber. He’d never noticed how quiet the house was this late at night. Every creak, every groan, every clang of pipe bounced off the walls. No, not quiet.
Lonesome.
He’d never noticed howlonesomethe house was this late at night.
Stepping into his bedroom, he closed the door behind him. Mark stripped out of his clothes, not bothering to ring for Cabot, his valet. It was late, he was tired. He wanted to crawl into bed without any formalities.
He sank on his large, pillowy mattress listening to the sounds of the house settling. A breeze rattled the window panes. Somewhere below, a tomcat shrieked. In the distance, rang the siren of the fire brigade.
Through it all, he lay awake, wondering what Eliza was doing.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mark sat in his office overlooking Threadneedle Street. The morning had been filled with meetings and tasks, endless responsibilities that—thankfully—moved the day along quickly. He’d taken his luncheon, and no sooner than he had settled back into his desk chair, a clerk rapped upon the open door.
