Page 63 of Nothing But a Rakehell
“Of course.”
“I wish we could keep this—this freedom and ease between us. The ability to say anything.”
“I would like that,” he whispered. Part of him screamed that it was not enough, would never be enough, but he shushed it.
“Then I will tell you.” Her head bowed. “But first you must answer my question, or at least a bit of it.”
“What question?”
“The girl. The street sweeper. She’s not lost in the filthy maze of Seven Dials, is she?”
He took a long moment before deciding to answer. “No.”
“You moved her. Took her somewhere safe?”
It went against all of his instincts to answer, but for her, he would bend a little. “Yes. Her and her mother.”
She let out a long sigh. “I’ll tell you, but you understand, it is an act of trust.”
He did understand, and he would do his damndest to be worthy of it. “It will be an honor to keep your confidence.”
She pulled her legs up and tucked her gown under her feet. Once, twice, he heard her draw breath as if to begin, but did not. After a moment, she tucked her forehead onto her knees, hiding her face.
“Here.” Keswick drew his flask from his pocket. He nudged her. “This might help.”
She took the flask. “What is it?”
“Some of Tensford’s finest brandy.”
She sniffed it and reared back a little.
“Go on,” he urged.
Cautiously, she sipped it. “It tastes like citrus, and other fruits. And something floral.” She choked suddenly. “Oh, it’s gone hot. I can feel the heat spreading along my ribs.”
“Have another.”
She did, a longer drink this time.
“There you go,” he said with approval. “It’s not gin, but it will lend you a bit of Dutch courage.”
She groaned. “It’s foolish, really. You probably won’t think it much at all.”
“It’s how it makes you feel that matters.”
Sighing deeply, she nodded. “You’d better take this back.”
He took the flask and she settled in. “All right.” She squirmed a little, so that she faced away from him and towards the spot where Poppy foraged. “It was a musical evening, held at a neighbor’s house near our home in Sussex. It was just past a year since my father’s death. We were just out of mourning and Hope was preparing for her Season in London. She and some other girls her age got the idea for the evening, so they could practice their drawing room entertainments. I was still under the care of a governess and thrilled to be asked to participate.”
“Despite not being musical?”
“Yes. I couldn’t sing or play an instrument, but it was my chance to come up with something else. My governess and I perfected the idea.”
“A theatrical piece.”
“Yes. I chose one of Puck’s speeches, fromA Midsummer Night’s Dream. I practiced endlessly. We worked out the blocking and movements so that it was lively and animated, but still within my abilities.” She lifted a shoulder. “Granted, my limp likely was more pronounced then. My foot dragged more noticeably, I believe. I’ve grown a little stronger with time.”
He nodded, encouraging her to continue.
