Secrets of Sloane House(30)

“Why would you do this? Miranda is nothing to you.” She swallowed hard and removed the last bit of her pride. “I’m nothing to you.”

One of his eyebrows arched. “Does someone have to mean something to a person in order to do the right thing for them?”

His voice had turned haughty. In that moment, he was very much the wealthy society gentleman. His arched look, combined with the dizzying emotions running through her veins, caused her own voice to become painfully sharp. “I don’t know, Mr. Armstrong. I would usually say yes. Because though I might have been aware of all sorts of dangers women faced in the big city, until it was my sister I feared hurt, I never did anything. Do you often make it your business to help others?”

He looked away first. “No. But I want to help. And once more, I think you need my help. Let someone help you, Rosalind.” Lowering his voice to a mere whisper, he added, “Let that someone be me.”

His words were dizzying. The offer was tempting.

But more than that was the feeling for the first time that she didn’t have to be alone any longer. If she accepted his offer, she would have someone to discuss her suspicions with.

“Rosalind, now that I know, I fear I am already involved. I’m going to try to help you, with or without your approval. You might as well give in.”

He was right. It wasn’t like she had much of a choice. She could either give in gracefully or perpetuate the myth that she was strong enough to do this on her own.

“Thank you, Mr. Armstrong. I will appreciate any assistance you may give me.”

The faintest of smiles hovered on his lips. “I am glad you’ve seen things my way. Now, when is your next afternoon free?”

“Not for almost a week.”

“I’ll try to find a way to see you at Sloane House. And don’t fear, Rosalind. I will be nothing but proper at all times.”

The reminder of how precarious her job situation was made her stand up and back away. “Until then,” she said before turning and walking away.

And though the afternoon sun shone on her back, she had the strangest feeling that it was Reid Armstrong’s concern that was warming her insides.





CHAPTER 10

Unwilling to stop himself, Reid watched Rosalind walk back to the Sloane estate, bypass the front door, and walk to what must have been the servants’ entrance. Not for the first time, he reflected that the somewhat utilitarian dress should have detracted from her beauty. It was plain and loose fitting, so different from the current ladies’ fashions. Most women of his class were wearing bright satins and taffetas decorated with cords of ribbon and yards of lace.

But Rosalind looked as fresh and quietly pretty as many of the women of his acquaintance. Of course, the beauty he was thinking about wasn’t the result of fine textiles and ingenious design. Instead, it radiated from within.

This was not the first time he’d thought about her—or his attraction to her, he realized—since first meeting her at Sloane House. He’d found himself thinking of her at odd times and in odd places. He’d be speaking to one of the women at his church and he would notice the fine dusting of freckles on her nose . . . just like Rosalind’s. Or he’d overhear a person’s voice on the streets, the way they lengthened their vowels, and he would think they sounded like Rosalind.

He wasn’t sure what his preoccupation with her or his need to help discover what happened to her sister meant. All he knew was that there was a voice inside him that proclaimed she was important. Perhaps it was his conscience?

Maybe it was God, gently reminding him to do good works?

“Armstrong? I say, Armstrong, is that you?”

Startled from his musings, Reid turned in surprise. Almost as quickly, he attempted to hide his dismay. It was Eric Newhouse, one of his classmates from Lawrenceville, but unlike Douglass Sloane, Reid felt no sense of obligation or gratitude toward the man.

“Hello, Eric,” he said. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“I’ve been on the continent. Doing my tour before I settle into the family business.” He chuckled. “Unfortunately, it only lasted a year. You know how that goes, though.”

Reid actually did not know, but there was no reason to share that. Eric had been born into almost as prominent a family as Douglass had. Reid, who had not, was instead his parents’ calling card into high society.

“It’s been several years since we matriculated. Have you stayed here in Chicago this whole time?”

“I have. I’m running my father’s business with him.” Reid was pleased he could say the words without even flinching. When was he ever going to come to terms with his father’s failing health?