Just the memory of her was enough to cause his body to tighten with need as though she sat across from him.
Everything within him had gone on heightened alert when he’d seen the man approaching her after she’d left the tavern. It hadn’t been his intent to spy on her but because she didn’t appear to belong in Whitechapel, he’d wanted to assure himself that she wasn’t fool enough to walk the streets alone late at night. But it seemed she had a protector—a husband or a beau—and once Beast had acknowledged that she was in no danger, he’d slipped farther into the shadows and headed home.
Home. A strange word for a place where women earned their keep on their backs. Over the years he’d managed tofind other employment for many of them, until he had only half a dozen remaining. But they needed to learn other skills and to be buffed to a polish if they had any hope of leaving this life behind.
Until they left it behind, he couldn’t leave it behind.
Because he wouldn’t abandon the women who’d been under his care, wouldn’t leave them at the mercy of men who had no fear of harming them. He owed it to Sally Greene. She’d put her faith in him, and in the end, he’d let her down.
After tossing back his drink, he set the glass aside and stared at the flames writhing on the hearth. The last of his charges needed to be as poised as the tavern maid who had served him tonight—although she was no doubt the product of a lifetime of refining that had begun the moment she was placed in the cradle. Every single aspect of her indicated that the minutest detail of her had warranted attention; no facet of her had been left to chance. If he had to guess, he’d say she’d had dozens of tutors. The elegant way she moved her hands, the calm with which she set down his glass, her hair—
Her hair had been a rather lopsided mess, no doubt because she’d not been tutored on how to style it. She’d had a maid to do it for her, and that maid was no longer about to ensure every strand remained where it needed to be. He’d like to remove the pins and watch the heavy tresses tumble around her shoulders.
He recalled the skewing of her mouth, the quick burst of air, as she tried to control the rebellious hair that had no desire to behave. He doubted she’d ever done that in Mayfair. It was pure Whitechapel, possibly the only thing about her that was.
Had she been embroiled in a scandal? Was there some handsome swain who stole her heart and then did wrong byher? Had she fallen in love with a commoner, cast aside the world for which she’d been prepared? Was he the man who’d come for her tonight, the one whose arrival had pleased her so damned much, brought her such relief?
Why was she even bombarding his thoughts? It wasn’t as though she’d have any role in his life other than bringing him his favorite libation when he visited his sister’s tavern.
Perhaps he should take one of the women with him the next time he went. Show the bawd how gracefully every aspect of her moved in tandem, how perfect her posture, how calm and steady her mien—
He’d have to explain mien and tandem. It wasn’t enough for them to observe. They needed to be shown how it was done, how to acquire that level of inherent confidence. They needed a tutor. Where the devil was he going to find one of those in one of the poorest areas of London? It wasn’t as though these streets were teeming with the posh.
Settling back, he picked up his glass and studied the way the flames created dancing light over the cut crystal. Whitechapel wasn’tteemingwith the posh. But it did have one.
And he knew exactly where to find her.
Chapter 2
It was after ten when Althea felt him walk through the door. Her back was to it as she set two tankards on the table, and yet she knew with every fiber of her being that when she turned, he would be there. Tall, broad, bold, with his gaze homed in on her.
Still, she was surprised when she finally spun around to see that he hadn’t moved beyond the entry, as though he’d been arrested by the sight of her. To say her gaze slammed into his was putting it mildly. What was it about him that made her feel as though he was brushing up against her, and not at all in the objectional way Jimmy had been touching her the night before, but in a manner that made her nipples pucker? Damned rebellious things.
She was the first to break eye contact, heading to the bar to collect the drinks for a table of four.Don’t sit at my table. Do sit at my table. Don’t. Do.
He did. He took the same table at the back that he’d had the night before, and it suddenly occurred to her that she’d never seen anyone else sit there. Was it a rule of the establishment that it was always to be open for him?
“Scotch,” she said to Mac when he brought her the last tankard for the table of four. Quickly, she delivered the beer, returned to the bar, snatched up the tumbler, and headed to the table at the back.
It wasn’t exactly a smile he gave her when she set the glass before him, but she detected a slight movement of his lips as though he was tempted to grin. It caused a funny sensation behind her ribs, as though a thousand butterflies had taken flight.
“You remembered my preference in drink.”
“It wasn’t that difficult. You were here only last night.” Had she left her lungs with Mac? Why was she finding it a challenge to draw breath? “Jimmy apologized.”
Leaning toward her, he cocked his head slightly, in the manner that many of the customers did, so an ear was more directly facing in her direction. As usual, the tavern was crowded, hardly an empty seat to be had. With the cacophony of all the various conversations, laughter, scraping of chairs, pounding of fists on tables, it was difficult to catch all the words when anyone spoke. She often engaged in the same maneuver.
“I beg your pardon?” he said.
She raised her voice to be heard over the din. “Jimmy apologized—quite profusely, actually.”
“Good.”
“He was rather insistent I let you know.”
He merely nodded.
“Do you often threaten to break fingers?”
