She glanced at the opposite seat, wishing she could look into her reflection again. Had she really been happy? Had she been surrounded by people who loved her? Was that a vision of her true future, then, and not the abysmal one she imagined?
Or had the drug made her delirious, too?
“Give me your address,” the stranger said.
“You mustn’t take me home. If you do, someone will see.”
“I didn’t want to rescue you,” he said. “Since I did, I’ll see it to its conclusion. You won’t walk home alone.”
Something sounded in his voice, some emotion that summoned her curiosity. For a moment, she pushed it away. Curiosity had been at the root of this disaster. Despite herself, she glanced at him. His returning gaze was shuttered, flat, as if he felt nothing.
People were never without emotions.
She closed her eyes, sent her Gift reaching toward the man opposite her. She stilled, clearing her mind, and immediately felt something. He was impatient and irritated; but beneath both emotions, surging like the tide, she felt his anguish, so sharp it felt like a knife slicing through her.
In that moment, she almost asked why he was so troubled, halted only by the memory of Uncle Bertrand’s words. How many times had he lectured her?
“Veronica, you must not tell people everything you feel. They’ll label you a candidate for Bedlam. I have my position to maintain, and it will do me no good to have my niece rumored to be daft.”
“I’m not daft, Uncle Bertrand,” she’d said. “I cannot help what I feel about people.”
“Your mother encouraged you too much, girl. There is no such thing as your Gift.”
What had she said in response? Something about not wishing to hear anything bad about her parents. Or had she simply remained silent, knowing any rebellion, however small, was simply not worth the effort?
No doubt she was fortunate not to be locked up in a third-floor attic somewhere, or relegated to an out-of-the-way place, labeled the slightly odd woman who felt the emotions of others.
“Well? What’s your address?”
She opened her eyes, slowing turning her head to face the man who, inwardly, was so troubled. Outwardly, however, he was taciturn, impatient, and supremely annoyed at her.
“If I give you my address,” she asked, “have I your word you’ll simply let me leave the carriage? That you won’t feel it necessary to escort me to the door and let my employers know what’s transpired?”
He was looking at her that way again, as if he skewered her to the seat with his disapproval.
“When I’ve determined you’re safe, yes.”
Resigned, she gave him Uncle Bertrand’s address, praying her uncle and the entire family would be asleep.
He transmitted the address to the driver, then settled back against the seat.
In a matter of minutes, they were approaching her uncle’s house. She’d had a story prepared before she left this evening should anyone see her returning to the house. She’d simply gone for a bit of air. She missed the solitude of Scotland. Oh, but that was the truth, wasn’t it?
One good thing about being a poor relation was that she hadn’t had a season, wasn’t going to have a season, and didn’t venture out often. The only time she did leave the house was to perform an errand for Aunt Lilly or Uncle Bertrand. None of the shop owners lived in the neighborhood. Therefore, the chances of her being seen and recognized were almost nil.
When the carriage slowed, then stopped, she reached for the door. Before she could leave the carriage, her rescuer leaned forward.
“Promise me you’ll use a little more sense in the future than you demonstrated tonight. I don’t know what they paid you, but no amount of money is worth such degradation.”
“No one paid me,” she said.
“Then why were you there?”
“I was curious,” she said. That was all the explanation she was going to divulge.
“A damn dangerous place to be curious.”
She nodded and opened the carriage door. Gripping the too-long robe with both hands, she stepped to the pavement, feeling the cold seep through the bottoms of her feet. What had happened to her shoes?
