Now it was Sarah’s turn to be silent, and she was a bit pleased to see her stubbornness bothered him as much as his annoyed her.
She recognized the corner of Bolden Street and reached up to knock on the roof. The hack rolled to a stop. She opened the door and hopped out, anxious to shut the door, but Baynton blocked her action with his arm.
The hour was well past midnight. A group of loud young men, obviously in their cups, stumbled their way up the steps of a nearby building and knocked on the door. Light spilled into the street as they were laughingly admitted among female calls of welcome.
The hack’s lamplight highlighted the lines of concern on the duke’s face.
“Thank you, Your Grace. You may go on your way now.”
Sarah started walking. Of course, he followed, and she knew she had no choice but to let him.
Gavin was more than concerned about Sarah Pettijohn’s lowered circumstances. He was alarmed. Even in the dark the buildings appeared derelict. The atmosphere seemed more ominous than he could have imagined.
“Shall I wait, sir?” the driver asked, sounding decidedly nervous.
“Yes,” Gavin shot over his shoulder. He hurried to follow Mrs. Pettijohn, thankful for the light material of her skirts so that he could see her in the darkness.
She rounded a corner and then stepped into an alley between buildings. From somewhere, a man moaned. Her step didn’t flag and neither did Gavin’s. They moved through the narrow corridor to a set of stairs at the rear of one of the buildings. She stopped and took off his jacket, thrusting it toward him.
“I live here. You don’t need to follow me further.”
“I’ll see you to your door,” he insisted doggedly.
Mrs. Pettijohn made an impatient sound but didn’t put up further protest. Instead, she climbed the stairs leading to first one floor and then the next.
Gavin was aware of her graceful form moving ahead of him. Her hips were at his eye level. She did not look back.
On the topmost floor, she followed a railed walkway to a door. Two cats had been preparing to fight. They dashed off with yowls of protest as Sarah approached. She stopped in front of a door and he heard the scrape of metal as she found the key she’d hidden.
“You should keep that on your person,” he warned her.
She turned to him. He couldn’t make out her expression in the dark, but he had the sense she childishly stuck out her tongue at him. The key turned in the lock.
“See? I’m home,” she said, the words flowing out of her in dismissal. “Thank you, Your Grace. It was a pleasure to see you again. Good night.”
Mrs. Pettijohn would have shut the door, except Gavin pushed his way into her rooms. Hades could not be as dark. “I’ll wait until you light a candle.”
“You are annoying,” she lashed out. But he heard her fumbling for what she needed. A beat later, a spark was struck, then another. The tinder caught flame. Her hands carried it to a candle that only she could see.
At last, a warm, yellow light brought the room into focus.
Gavin looked around. He couldn’t help himself. He knew she would disparage him for it, but he was human.
He had actually been quite fond of the atmosphere in her house on Mulberry Street. It had been rather shabby but genteel and with a good amount of personality. He’d always found the house welcoming. Of course, he had been quite enamored of one of its occupants, Lady Charlene . . . but he’d also noticed Mrs. Pettijohn as well. Or at least, he had been a touch more than aware of her. Her eyes had captured his attention at first. They were the color of emeralds. Unusual eyes with the spark of intelligence.
This room was unworthy of her. It was bare save for a table, two rickety wooden chairs, and a pallet on the floor. A few bandboxes were in a corner beside a neatly stacked tower of paper that was as high as the table. There wasn’t even a hearth to provide heat in the space.
Layers of hardened tallow wax spread out on a corner of the table. She melted a portion of it with her candle and then stuck it upright there, a makeshift candlestick. The glow fell upon the meager remains of a meal: stale bread, a hunk of cheese, a small pitcher. She did not eat well. No wonder she was thinner than he remembered.
“Are you pleased now?” she said. “Will you let me be?”
“This is beneath you,” he murmured, taking a step toward those papers, curious about what they were.
As if seeing where he was heading, she quickly blocked his path, even putting a hand out as if to stop him. “I am safe. You may go now.”
“What are those papers?”
“My work,” she said.
