She placed her fingers on his. For the briefest second, she could swear she felt the heat of his blood beating even in that light touch. Then again, she’d always been too aware of Baynton. Too, too attuned to him.
However, Sarah had learned that, while she understood what men wanted from her, she was not a good judge of them. Oh, how she’d learned that lesson . . .
The duke climbed in behind her and said, “Where do you live, Mrs. Pettijohn?”
“On Bolden Street.”
“Bolden? I’ve not heard of it.”
“The driver will know.”
Baynton opened the door so he could lean out and say, “Take us to Bolden Street.”
“Are you certain, sir? No good comes from going to Bolden Street.”
“Is it that bad?” the duke asked.
“Worse than the devil’s cave,” came the answer.
The duke seemed to hesitate a moment, then knocked on the roof. “Let us go pay a call on the devil then.” He lowered back into the cab, shutting the door behind him.
The driver muttered something to his horse that Sarah could not hear, but the wheels began turning forward.
She and the duke sat side-by-side. Sarah tried to ignore him, which was difficult with his thigh right against hers and his body taking up most of the space in the hack’s narrow confines.
She expected questions. She knew he had them. He was Baynton, after all. The Supreme Being of the Truth. She knew exactly how she would put him in his place.
He didn’t ask.
Minutes stretched between them.
He shifted. The seats were hard leather but there seemed to be a dip beneath hers. She slid a bit closer to him. She tried to hold her breath so she wouldn’t drink in the scent of his shaving soap. She actually liked the scent. She’d forgotten how good a man could smell.
The duke seemed pleased to travel in silence, something she’d told herself she dearly wished for—except, his silence was unnerving. He had to have questions. Insisting on knowing what was going on was just part of who he was.
And finally, she could not take the stillness any longer. She turned on the seat to him. “I lost Mulberry Street. I was in arrears for the rent. And before you start nosing about for more information, Lady Baldwin’s daughter refuses to allow her to have anything to do with me and she must obey if she wishes a roof over her head.”
Sarah faced the front of the hack. “Apparently, her daughter believed—as did many others—that Charlene’s choosing another gentleman to wed was tantamount to jilting you, even though there was no true promise between the two of you as a couple. And I don’t know why everyone has an opinion on the matter,” Sarah continued, heatedly. “Whatever happened was between you and Charlene, not Charlene and all of London.”
“Perhaps I’m popular?” he suggested.
Sarah shot him a withering look, and he laughed, the sound gruff, as if he didn’t do it often.
She dropped her gaze to his jacket and fell into a disgruntled silence. His sleeves were so long, only her fingertips showed.
“You weren’t tossed out of Mulberry Street because of me, were you?” he asked, not unkindly.
“We had issues before you met Char. However, once your name was linked to hers, the landlord was willing to make allowances about the rent. He let us put it off. Then, when she married Lord Jack, there was a reckoning that did not go in my favor.”
“You could have come to me for help.”
“I don’t take charity.”
“Yes, but in a way I am fam—” He stopped short once he caught the look in her eye.
Sarah lifted the flap that was over the window on that side of the hack. “We are almost there.”
The duke glanced out, too. His frown deepened. “This is not a safe place, especially for a woman.”
