He stopped just as they were about to turn the corner, and he looked down at her. A slight smile softened his mouth. “My darling.”
Dear heavens, he was such a gorgeous man. But he was still a madman. Dangerous, utterly dangerous. Any sensible person knew well to be frightened of the insane, she more than anyone. She returned his smile but only to placate him.
“Are we headed in the proper direction for the mews?” he asked.
“Yes, we are. They are just down this street and to the right.”
“Esau has the carriage there.”
Well, there it was. She’d done her part keeping him out of the clutches of an overzealous doctor. God and this Esau fellow would have to watch over him now. She wasn’t about to get anywhere near his carriage and risk him shoving her bodily into it.
She offered another, hopefully warm, smile.
She must have succeeded for he relaxed his grip on her hand and they resumed walking. As they rounded the corner, she slipped her hand from his.
And ran.
“Thérèse!”
Her heart pounded and she ran faster.
“Stop, please. For the love of God!” His tone was hollow with desolation. Her sympathy panged her yet again. Unwittingly, she glanced over her shoulder.
Wind whipped the gentleman’s dark forelock. He leaned against a street lamp, one hand holding his side. He appeared to be panting for breath, his expression a mask of loss and despair.
Just like Papa. She’d seen those emotions on her father’s face too many times. But the expression appeared so out of place on such an arrogant, masculine face. Her heart constricted. She turned back to face the direction she was running and put all her energy into it.
Something came between her foot and the pavement. She lost her balance and fell forward. As the bricks rose to meet her, she threw her hands out to brace her fall. She cried out then reeled from the fall. Her arm began to burn like fire. She knew she wouldn’t be able to run easily for much longer.
She hauled herself to her feet and scanned the shop fronts.
Mrs. Mason’s Bakery.
Relief washed over her. Mrs. Mason had always been friendly. She had even given her day-old bread on days when she couldn’t pay.
She darted into the shop and the scent of baking bread and spicy cinnamon and apples comforted her.
“Good day, Miss Darling!” Mrs. Mason sang out. “What shall it be today?
“I think I’ll have whatever smells of apples and spice.”
“You sit and I’ll bring it right out.”
Jeanne sank into the nearest chair. Moments later, Mrs. Mason brought hot tea and apple pie. But Jeanne found the pie tasted like ashes and could only manage a few tiny bites. Unable to stop twitching and fidgeting, she kept catching herself glancing back at the window.
She jerked her head away.
No, don’t look. He is not your affair.
She forced herself to focus on Mrs. Mason’s steady chatter. The wind made a long, low, threatening howling sound. Such a dreadful day. What about—
No, he isn’t your responsibility.
A loud crash seemed to rumble through her body and shake her bones and resound in the pit of her stomach.
What happened? An accident? A carriage trying to avoid a disorientated pedestrian and yet hitting them all the same?
She jumped to her feet and rushed to the window. Some crates had blown over. Men were shouting and running about. The sky had grown darker.
Against all her caution, her gaze was drawn back to the direction whence she had come.
Oh God, there he was, staggering down the street in a wavering pattern. For such a stalwart-looking man, the gentleman walked so oddly, so slowly. Had he been in the war perhaps and suffered some irreparable head injury that had left him this way?
Almost completely in front of the shop, he glanced up. He had that lost, desolate look.
Her throat burned.
His gaze sharpened. Homed in on her.
Oh, damn. How stupid of her. Of course, he’d seen her at the window. She stepped back several paces. But it was too late. He began walking toward the door.
“Isn’t it just awful weather, Miss Darling?” Mrs. Mason exclaimed. “My Ben can take you home in the gig later, if you like. Come sit back down and have a chat.”
Jeanne didn’t answer, her gaze was fixed on the gentleman as he reached for the door. He was coming in. And he looked absolutely furious, in a cold, controlled way that was all the more frightening. Her hand flew to her mouth to stop the cry of protest that sprung from the depths of her and she backed away from the window.
The tiny bell tinkled as he entered, an incongruously gay herald. His eyes blazed into hers. She gave a little squeak and took several steps backwards until her bottom hit one of the display cases.
As he approached, he looked down at her arm. She followed his eyes. Long red scrape marks still oozed a little blood. She drew it behind her, scratching it along her wool gown and the wounds burned. She winced.