Eve Silver (3 page)

Suddenly, she realized that her hand remained linked with his, a warm bond in the chilly air of the breaking dawn. Embarrassed, she tugged her fingers from his grasp.

He glanced down, but made no comment.

Darcie bent forward and retrieved her leather folio from the ground, her movements slow and careful. Her fingers moved over the battered surface, quick, assessing little touches meant to determine the damage to her one worldly treasure. She released a tiny sigh when she found the case undamaged.

She looked up once more. He was watching her, cool gray eyes glinting like polished metal, his features reflecting only polite interest.

“I shall not ask what you are doing hurrying about on the outskirts of Whitechapel at this hour of the day. But I should like to offer the use of my carriage to take you to your destination.”

“Oh,” Darcie said, astonished by the offer. She closed her arms tighter around her folio, rocking it slightly like a baby. “Oh. I am looking for Curzon Street.”

“A somewhat distant but worthy place.” The man's brow furrowed questioningly. “Did you intend to walk there? Clear to the other side of town?”

At her single brief nod, his brows rose in surprise.

“Indeed. And whom do you seek on Curzon Street?”

Darcie glanced at the ground. How much to tell a stranger? And why was he even asking? She was clearly a woman beneath his touch.

As if reading her doubts and concerns, he spoke, “I ask only because I myself am for Curzon Street. It would be a matter of little difficulty to see you safely there.” His glance flicked over her, impersonal, assessing. “I suspect you will not make it if left to your own devices.”

The driver had returned to the coach. Darcie watched from the corner of her eye as he climbed up and took the reins. The horses shifted restlessly.

The man gestured at the fidgety beasts. “Come. My horses won't tolerate the delay.”

Without waiting for her reply, he strode to the waiting carriage, and Darcie found herself trailing behind him. In her exhausted state it would be sheer stupidity to refuse the ride. Hiking up her skirt, she paused, startled, as he offered his hand to help her into the carriage as though she were the finest lady out for a morning ride. Such courtesy for a common girl whom he'd nearly run down in the roadway. She was amazed.

She had barely settled on the seat when he climbed in and lowered his body down beside her, his shoulder pressing against hers in the confined space. He smelled clean and fresh, and Darcie was ashamed of her own state of disrepair. Likely he bathed every day, while she felt certain
she
smelled like the docks. Each morning she performed her ablutions as best she could, searching out a rain barrel, or any clean water that was handy. In her small, black cloth bag she carried a sliver of scented soap, a luxury she had splurged on in a moment of supreme foolishness. The soap was nearly gone now, melted by her attempts at personal hygiene. The money would have been better spent on food.

Dragging in a shaky breath, Darcie looked down at her hands, clasping the tips of her left fingers with her right. She pressed her lips together and cast a sidelong glance in the man's direction.

He had let his head fall back against the seat, baring the strong column of his throat. His golden hair fanned across the dark velvet upholstery. His eyes were closed and the curled sweep of his lashes formed dark crescent shadows against his skin. Everything about this man was beautiful. The sculpted angle of his cheek. The straight length of his nose, accented by the tiny bump at the bridge. Forcing her gaze away from him, Darcie turned to look out the side window, uncertain what to do, what to say.

The coach lurched and began to move, picking up speed as the seconds passed. Darcie stared out the window, watching the buildings move by in a blur. Tears pooled in her eyes. She was exhausted, hungry, and disgusted by the horror she had nearly been driven to. But the dormant flame of hope ignited in her breast because she had a name—Dr. Damien Cole—and a reference. So much more than she had started out with.

Unwanted, her sister's warning crept to the fore and echoed hollowly in her mind.
He is a man to fear. Stay out of his way. Stay clear of his work. And keep your nose out of his secrets.

 Shifting on the seat, Darcie looked straight ahead into the dim confines of the coach. With a start, she realized that there was a third person in the vehicle. A man was sprawled on the velvet upholstery of the seat across from her, his clothing coarse, his boots scuffed and worn. In the burgeoning light of morning he seemed unnaturally pale. Watching him for some minutes, Darcie frowned. There was something strange about the man, something odd about his posture.

Darcie ducked her head and looked through the rain-dampened tendrils of hair that had escaped her pins, toward the man at her side. Her rescuer.

“Y-your friend is sleeping very deeply, sir.” The words jumped from her lips before she could restrain herself.

He opened his eyes, but kept the base of his skull resting against the seat back. When he spoke, he did not look at her, merely stared at the roof of the coach.

“He is not my friend.”

“Oh.” Darcie looked again at the sleeping man across from her. He half sat, half lay across the cushions of the opposite bench. He had not moved, had not made a sound. “That man…Is he ill? Or drunk?”

Her companion made a harsh sound. Darcie thought it might have been a laugh. She turned to face him and found that he was regarding her intently, the strangest expression in his eyes.

“No, he is neither ill nor drunk.” The words were low and soft. “He's well past the possibility of either.”

Darcie’s stomach clenched, not with hunger, but with an irrefutable certainty. A chill crawled across her skin, raising goose flesh. She drew a deep, shuddering breath. Unable to tear her gaze from the stormy depths of her rescuer's eyes, she whispered the question to which she already knew the answer.

“Is he dead, then?”

His expression did not change, betraying neither emotion nor concern. Darcie watched his lips form the words, though the rushing in her ears nearly obscured the sound of his reply.

“Oh, yes. He is dead. Has been for several hours. Anything more than that and the stench would chase us from the carriage.”

And he smiled most amiably as he said it.

Darcie swallowed against a rising nausea as she stared at her companion in dismay. She shared the coach with two men, one dead, and the other quite possibly mad.

Chapter Two

“Where did you say you wished to go?” The man at Darcie’s side shifted slightly as he spoke, bringing his shoulder in closer contact with hers.

She could feel the heat of his body crossing the space between them. Swallowing, she wondered how to conduct a conversation with a stranger while she sat in the company of a corpse.

Her companion waved a hand at the opposite seat and its macabre occupant. “He will not bite.”

Darcie stared at him, aghast. “Do you make light of his fate?”

“Not at all. I merely point out that he poses no threat. Now, if you would be so good as to answer my question…”

Seeing no alternative, Darcie said, “I go to Curzon Street, sir.”

“Yes, so you stated earlier.” There was a hint of wry amusement in his tone. “But where on Curzon Street?”

Her gaze slid to the body on the bench across from her, then away. She could not simply let the matter go. “Do you require a constable? To report the man’s death?”

“I see no need.” He shrugged, clearly dismissing the matter, leaving Darcie with a plethora of questions while he doggedly pursued the answer to but one. “Where on Curzon Street?”

“To the home of Dr. Damien Cole, sir. I'm to seek employment there.”

He was silent for a moment, and when at last he spoke his tone hinted at both surprise and curiosity. “The home of Dr. Damien Cole. And what sort of employment do you seek?”

“As a maid, sir.”

“Hmm. Have you references?”

She could feel his eyes on her now, his attention focused. If she had references, she would hardly have been compelled to knock on Mrs. Feather's door, she thought acerbically. But her tone was polite as she said, “I have none written, sir. Lost, they are. And the family I worked for has gone to India, so there's none to vouch for my character.”

“Rather inconvenient.” His face was half turned toward her, highlighted by a thin stream of light that filtered through the window. His gray eyes glittered as they sought hers.

Darcie waited for him to say more, and when he didn't, she continued, “But I have the reference of my sister, who says she is an old friend of the doctor.”

The man sat up and turned to face her fully. She had no choice but to return his gaze. He seemed to expect it. To do otherwise would be unforgivably rude, and in truth, she was glad to have a reason to look somewhere other than at the dead body across from her.

His perusal was intent, assessing. “Your sister is an old friend of the doctor?” He paused. “The doctor has few friends.”

So he knew Dr. Cole then. She wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or dismayed.

He narrowed his eyes in thought. “Who is your sister?”

Darcie shook her head. What to say to this man? She could hardly tell him who her sister was.

“Please, sir, just leave me at the house of Dr. Cole and I'll explain it all to him.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then the corner of his full mouth tipped up, the movement there, then gone, a fleeting hint of amusement. For some reason, she had the thought that he was man who did not smile often.

“How extraordinarily convenient for you,” he said. “I am Dr. Damien Cole.”

“Oh.” Oh, dear. Her heart began to dance in an erratic rhythm as she realized that her erstwhile savior was her potential employer. A wry amusement overcame her. She should have learned by now not to be surprised by the strange twists and turns of life.

“Now, tell me. Who is this mystery woman who claims to be friend to me?”

There was no help for it. “My sister said to ask you, sir, if you would please do this one favor for your old friend Mrs. Feather.”

She could feel the sudden tension in his thigh where it pressed against hers. The carriage rolled onward and Dr. Cole sat rigid, the silence stretched taut in the small space.

So, he
was
acquainted with her sister. Darcie felt an inexplicable sadness in a corner of her heart when she thought of this man and the ways he might know Mrs. Feather. Dr. Cole had been kind to her. Surely he could not frequent her sister's dark domain.

“When did you last eat, Miss Feather?”

Darcie jerked, startled by the sound of his voice. The content of his question confused her as she couldn't imagine how he could possibly know—or why he should care—that she was so very hungry.

“Oh, no. Not Feather. I don't know why she chooses to use that name. Finch. Darcie Finch,” she blurted.

“When did you last eat, Darcie?” The sound of her name spoken in his deep, warm voice made her shiver.

She pressed her lips together, using the time to ponder his motives. Seeing no harm in it, she replied honestly. “I'm not certain. Two nights ago. Maybe three.”

“You will begin your duties tomorrow. Today you will rest. And eat.”

“Then you'll take me on,” she whispered, astounded by the good fortune that had come upon her.

“I find myself in urgent need of a maid-of-all-work,” he replied, pausing for a mere second before continuing in a sardonic tone. “It seems my last one has disappeared rather suddenly.”

Darcie wondered what he meant by that, but hadn't the nerve to question him. Likely the girl had run off. It was not uncommon.

 “Fourteen pounds per year,” he continued, “and an allowance for tea, sugar and beer.”

Darcie's head spun with the sum. She thought the position warranted less than ten pounds per year. Dr. Cole was a generous man. She glanced at him once more, not trusting that generosity. What hold could her sister have over him that he took her on so easily, without reference or even a cursory conversation as to her qualifications?

“I'll work hard, sir. Thank you, sir.” She meant those words with all her heart. He would not be sorry that he had given her a chance.

Resting her elbows on the leather folio that now lay across her lap, Darcie pressed her palms together, twining her fingers, trying to contain the wave of joy that crashed over her. Then she thought about his offer. An allowance for tea, sugar and beer. Regardless of her current status, she'd been raised in a genteel household, raised with proper values and morals. She could almost hear her mother's voice telling her that avoiding the truth was just the same as telling an untruth.

“I don't drink beer,” she said with blunt honesty.

He raised a brow and inclined his head. “An allowance for tea, sugar and beer,” he repeated. “If you have no wish to drink the beer, spend the extra on”—his gaze flicked over her, grazing over the worn and well-mended cloak—”on something pretty. A ribbon, perhaps.”

Darcie felt heat creep into her cheeks, though she couldn't say if she was flushed with pleasure, or mortification. Pleasure at the thought of buying something as frivolous as a ribbon when she'd not had enough to buy a crust of bread in a very long time. Mortification that he'd mentioned her lack, though he hadn't seemed unkind when he said it.

The exchange proved to hold the last of his interest, and he turned his face from her to stare out the side window. Her gaze returned in morbid fascination to the dead man slumped on the seat across from her. Pressing her palm hard against the center of her forehead, she wondered if it was her fatigue that made the whole of it seem so frightening and macabre, of if any sane person would question the events of this night and the strangeness of her fellow passengers. Before she could fashion an answer, the coach swayed and rocked to a halt.

“Ah, here we are.” Dr. Cole stepped from the carriage and, to Darcie's amazement, turned to help her down.

Gingerly placing her hand in his, she stepped down from the coach, wary of his manners and his intent. She thought of her near-encounter on her way to Mrs. Feather’s, the genuine fear that had chilled her, and she could not help but wonder at Dr. Cole, with his impeccable etiquette, cool demeanor, and lifeless companion.