His smile assured her she wasn’t being too forward. “Can I carry that for you?” he asked, holding out his arm at the same time. “So, what does a French count look like?”
She handed him the box. “He hasn’t arrived yet, so I won’t be able to tell you until tomorrow.”
“I’ll be waiting with bated breath.”
She bumped him with her shoulder to show him she knew he was teasing. “Did you arrest anyone today?”
He shook his head. “I did catch a little urchin taking nuts from a vendor. But I retrieved half the stolen property and let him go.”
“Why only half?”
“He was so thin. I let him eat half, then gave him a shilling, and sent him on his way.”
She gave him a side-glance. His blond hair shone like gold under the street lamp, and his profile now haunted her dreams. They were learning more about each other with each walk, but he hadn’t kissed her yet. Clara had to admit that, while she was disappointed, she was also happy that he was pursuing a slow courtship. Perhaps it boded well for their future? For Clara truly hoped they had a future.
“My grandmother asked what has put such a gleam in my eye,” he said as they took their usual route. “I told her about you.”
Her heart leapt. “What did you say?”
“I explained how we met, how my heart was lost the instant I saved your life.”
Clara’s head jerked up at the last part, and she saw him chuckling. She punched his arm, realizing he was teasing. “I heard you paid the driver to come galloping down the street so you could play the hero.”
His hand, and Pa’s lunch, went to his heart. “You wound me, my lady.”
When they reached Houghton Street, she slowed. Peering down the alley, she saw the window in their kitchen was dark. “Would you mind waiting until I have a lamp lit?” Clara wasn’t afraid of the dark, but her father had been acting odd recently. Always anxious, fidgety, as if something made him nervous or weighed on his mind.
“Is your father often away in the evening?” asked Mr. Norton, his hand absently patting the tipstaff under his greatcoat.
“He’s been working more hours lately. His deliveries take longer and longer.” Clara had hoped he would relax a bit with her new position bringing in money. Something was bothering him, but he refused to admit it whenever she asked.
Mr. Norton frowned. “Deliveries at night?”
She nodded and let herself in, fumbling in the basket by the door. Once the lamp was lit, the cozy room came into view. Clara busied herself with building a fire before she took off her coat. It was freezing in the small apartment, and her hand shook as she scooped some coal from the bin to the small stove.
A hand covered hers. “Let me do this for you. Sit,” said Mr. Norton. He deftly added kindling and took the flint box from a narrow shelf on the wall, next to a portrait. “Your mother?”
Clara nodded. It seemed so natural to have this handsome man helping her in such a domestic way.
“She’s a prime article,” he said, his back to her. “The resemblance is uncanny.”
A small blaze flared, then settled beneath the coals. He stood, turning to her. “I’d offer to stay, but it wouldn’t be appropriate. I could wait outside for a bit if you’d like.”
She shook her head. “Thank you, but I’m fine now that there’s light and a fire started.”
“Well, then I suppose I’ll be on my way.” He hesitated, staring down at her. Clara noted the gold flecks in the greenish-brown of his eyes. Never quite the same color, she thought.
Mr. Norton replaced his top hat, and she followed him to the door. “Will I see you tomorrow?” Say yes, say yes, say yes. Each evening replayed the same. He met her in Hatton Garden, walked her home, she asked the same question, and he gave the same answer. Yet each evening, she held her breath when she queried him, dreading a different answer.
“I would be honored to escort you home tomorrow night. When is your day off?” he asked, a crooked and oh-so-endearing smile on his face.
“Thursday and Sunday afternoons beginning this week.” The disappointment prickled when he only nodded without asking to see her either day.
Clara took off her cloak and hung it up, her fingers trailing the empty peg where her father’s coat should be. Trepidation skittered down her spine. Pa had been acting strangely—nervous, muttering to himself, distracted—and he wouldn’t tell her what was wrong. He avoided the blue ruin, never partook in whisky, only drinking ale. Gambling? Maybe.
It could be nothing or something innocent. A new lady friend? That would explain the distraction and possibly his unease. But a romance would make him happy rather than jumpy.
Clara sat down before the fire, rocking herself to sleep as she waited for her father. She woke to shouting.
