“I’m sure he will adapt.” Living alone could be daunting. It had taken her months to sleep through the night and not wake thinking every creaking board was an intruder. “Is that the reason you’re avoiding female company?”
“I’m not avoiding your company.” He smiled as his gaze raked over her body. “And you’re every bit a woman, Miss Darrow.”
“And you’re a scoundrel who lives to tease me.”
“I’m merely helping you forget your troubles.”
He had certainly done that.
“Then there is a more efficient way to spend your time. Gather anything of value. Fill a drawer with gloves. Search for bolts of material. We must take everything we can carry.”
Putting distance between them would prevent Eleanor from falling into his arms again. Salvaging the small things might pay for a ticket to Boston. A modiste who had dressed the haute ton would easily find work overseas.
“I shall pack a valise and fetch the villain’s book.” She gestured to the sprinkling of buttons on the floor. “These will fetch enough to cover a few months’ rent.”
She didn’t linger on the first floor but hurried upstairs.
Mr Chance’s soothing scent seemed to follow her, though it did little to prevent the wave of despair when she saw the devastation in her bedchamber. Clothes lay crumpled and scattered everywhere. The bedclothes had been torn from the mattress and now trailed forlornly across the floor. Amidst the chaos, she searched desperately but couldn’t find the patchwork blanket her mother had made—the cherished blanket she had clung to all these years.
Suppressing the need to cry, Eleanor dropped to her knees by the loose board. She brushed the mound of clothes aside and raised the plank.
Her heart sank.
The hollow space was empty.
No leather-bound book.
No record of those who had paid her to deliver their missives.
It wasn’t enough that the intruder left her feeling violated. He had stolen her only means of putting an end to this nightmare. How could she deliver his note? Mr Pickering knew to accept a specific book.
Eleanor tried to recall the title.
It was something obscure, like Falkirk or Falkland.
She could not locate another copy, not in time to deliver it to Mr Pickering. A different book would have to suffice, along with an explanation.
She stuffed garments into a valise and hurried from the room, keen to assist Mr Chance and leave the premises before the silversmith came prying. A quick peek inside the adjacent chamber confirmed it was a shambles, too. It looked like a whirlwind had whipped up the contents.
Stemming her tears, she made for the stairs.
That’s when she heard a creak behind her and felt a sudden breeze. A hard shove in the back made her lose her balance. She cried out, her valise slipping from her grasp as she went tumbling down the stairs, hitting her head on a wooden step and landing with a thud.
Chapter Seven
The thumping sound above stairs had Theo straightening. “Miss Darrow,” he called. He thought he’d heard a sharp cry. Perhaps she had stubbed her toe amid the chaos upstairs or kicked the door, annoyed at herself for kissing him again. “If this is part of our game, know I am up to my elbows in ladies’ gloves.”
Silence.
Not a faint chuckle.
Not a teasing or flirtatious remark.
Theo dropped the bale of gloves onto the glass counter, strode into the hall and gripped the newel post. “If this is a ploy to lure me to your bedchamber, know I would come willingly.”
Silence.
Theo might have returned to the mundane task of glove sorting, but a pang in his gut forced him to mount the stairs two at a time. He knew his fears were founded when he reached the landing and saw Miss Darrow lying on the floor.
Saints, have mercy!
Theo froze.
Her face was as pale as a cadaver, her legs akimbo.
Her eyes were shut as if the darkness was her solace, too.
A childhood memory assaulted him. A shrill scream had brought his sleepy-eyed brothers racing out of the bedchamber. Four years old and tripping over his nightshirt, Theo had peered around Aaron, desperate to witness the spectacle at the bottom of the stairs. The image of his mother’s awkward pose—the blood streaking her golden hair, the bulging whites of her eyes—haunted him to this day.
Gathering his wits, Theo stepped over her heavy valise, dropped to his knees and tried to rouse the lady. Panic assailed him. Blood trickled from a tiny cut on her hairline. Even a minor head wound could have disastrous consequences.
“Miss Darrow.” Theo’s hands shook as he stroked her limbs to ensure none were broken. He checked her pulse, relieved to feel a gentle pounding beneath his fingers. Gathering her into his arms, he uttered, “I’m going to move you now.” He’d been powerless to save his mother, but he’d be damned if he’d let Miss Darrow die. “Hold on to me.”
She lay limp in his arms, her breath barely a whisper.
Theo held her close and descended the stairs.
