“There but for the grace of God.” Mr Hawke watched a barefoot child cling to her mother’s skirts as she sold flowers from a broken wicker basket. “Many on these streets won’t survive the winter.”
He rapped on the roof, vaulted from the carriage as it rolled to a stop on the crowded street, and crossed the road without a word to his coachman.
Daphne wasn’t sure how much money he gave the woman, or what he said to the child as he crouched and pressed something shiny into her hand, but he returned with the entire basket.
She might have commented on the kind gesture, but she was too busy trying to breathe evenly and ignore the ache in her heart.
The scoundrel.
Why could he not be cutting and cruel?
Why offer a glimpse of the man beneath the facade?
To make matters worse, he said, “A gift for Mrs Haggert.”
Just as she felt the prick of rejection, he found the only white rose in the basket, brought it to his nose, and handed it to her. “For you, Miss Harland.”
Warmth bloomed in her chest. She should toss it back and accuse him of mockery, but her fingers closed around the stem.
Good Lord. He was the devil.
An enticing devil.
One who knew how to soften a romantic’s heart.
“No man has ever given me a rose.”
“Perhaps they feared you might slap their face with it.”
“Only if the gesture were insincere.”
He smiled, but it faded as the vehicle turned into Little Earl Street and stopped at the entrance to Monmouth Court, a narrow passage hemmed in by smoke-dark walls.
He took her arm, not her hand, and helped her alight. “What’s said here remains between us. If you want to live at Shadowmere, trust is the only currency that counts.”
She nodded. To profess too much might make her sound desperate for his approval. “Of course.”
The two boys blocking the entrance to the passage knewhim. Though they stood firm in their boots, like soldiers guarding a general’s tent, they doffed their caps.
“Looking sharp as ever, Mr Hawke,” one said with a cheeky grin.
Daphne silently agreed.
The other was already wiping his sweaty palm on his trousers, anticipating the sovereign Mr Hawke would toss his way.
“Give this basket to Mrs Haggert and tell her I request an audience. It can’t wait. I need to leave London today.”
The warning note in his voice had her curling her hands into fists against her skirts. She scanned the street behind her, the rowdy laughter from the drunken men outside the tavern setting her nerves on edge.
Had she been in the company of a gentleman, she might have slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. As it was, she didn’t dare touch Mr Hawke. Not if she hoped to keep her sanity.
The older of the two boys narrowed his eyes at her. “Mrs Haggert will want to know you’ve brought company. Pretty company, at that.”
“Tell her I’m here with Miss Harland.”
That sufficed. The younger boy scampered away with the basket, careful not to drop the flowers, and disappeared into a house at the end of the passage.
That’s when Mr Hawke touched her again, his long fingers grazing her elbow as he bent to whisper in her ear. “Mrs Haggert won’t mince words. Hold your nerve. But be respectful.”
