Gregori held up a wad of cloth. “I’ll wrap your wrist now.”
She offered her hand, not bothering to sit up.
She must have been in more pain than she let on, but still, to not make more than a shout...
Not for the first time, Renard wondered about her life, her family. The scenario in the alley earlier said something about her status, along with her ragged clothes and hairstyle. But she was educated. Her speech was impeccable, her posture board-straight, and her face... There wasn’t a chance others hadn’t taken note of her beauty.
She’d looked conflicted when he’d offered her assistance, looking in the direction of one of the other rookeries. Her home? Someone waiting for her?
The idea of a husband sent scalding acid churning in his stomach. He ignored the thought, pushed it down. She couldn’t be married. No self-respecting man would be stupid enough to win a woman as fine as her and not keep her safe and off these streets. The man would have been an idiot, and Miss Forthright didn’t strike him as a woman who suffered fools.
Gregori set the extra cloth on a side table after a quick snip of his shears. “Done.”
He left her resting on her side and stopped beside Renard. “There’s a canister of water under the table,” the eccentric man said.
Renard watched Miss Forthright’s lashes flutter, exhaustion winning over.
“I’m not thirsty,” he said.
“I didn’t mean for you.”
Renard glanced at Gregori’s direct glaze and quirked mouth. His brain caught up. The crackpot had been right there and could have offered her a drink easily.
Instead, Gregori had offered the chance to him.
His brain flew ahead, suspecting the crass statements and delayed ministrations had been for his benefit as well.
Renard clapped him on the back and took back almost every violent thought he’d had for the other man over the past hour. “You’re a good man.”
Gregori snorted. “I pay attention.”
“Meaning?”
“She doesn’t like you,” he said.
Renard felt the words like a hammer to the gut. “Obviously.”
“But she’s attracted to you.”
Renard eyed him. Had he not seen the death glare she’d been giving him all night? “When was the last time you spoke to a woman?” He glanced around at the scattered tools and trays of pub food, delivered by one of Hamish’s other associates, no doubt. “When was the last time you opened a bloody window?”
Gregori snorted. “I study things for a living, Your Grace. I don’t need toexperiencean emotion to identify it.” He glanced at where Miss Forthright fought sleep and offered him a rare chuckle. “You’re an idiot, even for a duke.”
“Thanks.”
Gregori walked to the back of the warehouse, where a small cot was tucked away in the corner.
Renard had a sneaking suspicion the callous words had been the crackpot’s strange version of inducement.
*
Turned out theencouragement wasn’t necessary. Seconds later, after offering Miss Forthright the canister of water, it became evidently clear the woman more thandislikedhim.
“I don’t want anything from you,” she spat.
Even half-asleep and lying down, the woman was ready to spar.
How he’d found anything about her warm or endearing must have been a credit to the excellent Ballantine at the start of the evening. He dropped the water can down on the table beside her, surreptitiously pleased when some sloshed out the top and splashed across her face.
