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  This was all Georgie’s fault. His son’s talk about liking had gotten Tom thinking too much about things he’d banished from his mind years ago.

  This afternoon, though, an uneasy feeling crept up his spine—a few hours earlier, when he’d been going in the opposite direction, she’d been sitting on the same bench, with a portmanteau at her feet.

  Now she had a piece of paper in her hands, twisting it between her white-gloved fingers, and there was tension in the way she held her shoulders.

  In spite of being off duty, he pulled up Outlaw and called, “Cab, miss?”

  She seemed to be lost in thought, and he tried again.

  “Cab, miss?”

  She gave a start, but this time she looked up. “Yes, please.” The girl rose, and now that he could see her figure, it became obvious she was actually a young woman, at least twenty. She walked toward the cab, and he hopped down from the seat behind the vehicle and opened the door. She came to stand before him. She was petite—what men called a pocket Venus—the top of her head coming not even as high as his heart.

  “Your portmanteau?

  “Oh, yes. Of course.” But she left it there.

  Perhaps she was one of those women who expected the help to wait on her hand and foot. She’d seemed sweeter than that, but if Tom were wrong—if that were the case—it was a pity, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He strode to the bench and retrieved the portmanteau.

  “Where to, miss?” On closer examination, Tom could see her reddened eyes, her pale lips, and the tearstains on her cheeks. He helped her into the cab and put the portmanteau at her feet.

  “I’d like to go for a drive.” Her words were composed. She opened her purse, took out a handful of coins, and poured them into Tom’s hand. “Take me for a drive along the Sound River.”

  Tom didn’t know why a young and pretty woman would want to drive by the river on the east side of the island, which was rather odorous this time of the year, but he’d had odder requests. His job was to drive the cab, so he made sure she was comfortable, closed the door, climbed back onto his seat, and flicked the reins over Outlaw’s back.

  It didn’t take long to get from Gramercy Park to the path that ran along the river. Tom set the horse at an easy trot, going first a few miles to the south, then turning to go a few miles to the north, and then turning around once again to go back the way they had come. The young woman had given him more than enough coins to have him driving until midnight, but he didn’t want to wear out Outlaw going the whole sixteen miles.

  The tap on the trap door at the rear of the roof startled him; he’d been lost in the fantasy of taking the young woman on a picnic in the fairly new Central Park when he had some free time. He opened the trap door and peered down. “Yes, miss?”

  “Let me out here.”

  “Yes, miss. Whoa, Outlaw.” The gelding came to a halt and stamped a hoof, and Tom jumped down and opened the door.

  “There’s no need for you to wait.”

  “No, miss.” But Tom didn’t have to glance at the sky to know it was getting late—daylight was fast fading. He’d have to be a heartless bastard to leave a woman alone anywhere in New York City at night, much less a young, pretty one. Tom went to the gelding’s head and pretended to fuss with his hackamore.

  Meanwhile, the young woman walked to the river, leaving Tom concerned, especially since she was standing so close to the water’s edge that the slightest jostle would see her falling in. That could be dangerous, considering the yards and yards of fabric that composed her dress. They would weigh her down and—

  And then he realized the possibility of her being jostled was the least of his worries—she was going to throw herself in.

  He was away from the horse and beside her before she had a chance to take the final step that would send her into the swiftly-flowing river. “You don’t want to do that, miss.”

  Any woman from out west, or even from here in New York City, would have slapped his face for daring to touch her, but this young woman collapsed against his chest and wept her heart out.

  “It can’t be that bad.”

  “It…it is. It’s even worse.” She waved the paper she’d held all this time at him and looked up, her violet eyes—such pretty violet eyes—even more awash with tears. “I wish I were dead.”

  The few times Analeigh wept, her face had become red and blotchy. Not that that had stopped him loving her. He’d thought she looked adorable.

  This young woman, though…Her complexion remained pink and perfect, and for a moment he found himself lost in her beautiful eyes.

  Tom brought himself back to the present, took the letter from her, and shook it out. She buried her face in her hands and continued weeping while he stroked her back as comfortingly as he could.

  He ran his gaze over the cramped lines and gave a snort. George wrote in a neater hand than this.

  My dear Olivia,

  I fear I must say goodbye to you. Mother feels a connection between us would be inappropriate given our ages and social status, and quite frankly, I’ve come to believe she’s right. Mother knows best, don’t you think? We’re much too young to marry. I’ll always think of you fondly, and I wish all happiness to you.

  Regretfully,

  Barron Beauchamp, Esq.

  Regretfully? The son of a bitch had the nerve to write a letter telling this beautiful woman he was jilting her, and sign it regretfully?

  He must have made a disgusted sound.

  “You read it?” She hadn’t realized he’d taken the letter?

  “I apologize.” Tom felt bad.

  “What’s the point? But surely you see that I have no choice.” She remained against him, sobbing. “I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Taking your own life isn’t the answer.” Her bonnet had been knocked off to hang down her back by its pretty velvet ribbons when he caught her and swept her away from the river. It left her pale hair visible, and he couldn’t help himself—he ran his palm over it gently, letting it thread through his fingers.

  She stopped crying and looked up at him. “You’re mouthing platitudes.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Are you? That’s nice. Thank you,” she said absently and rubbed her cheek against his palm. “You just don’t understand. When my father learns what’s happened to me, he’ll throw me out of the house, and I’ll have no recourse but to throw myself in the river anyway. Why wait?”

  “Tell me your name.”

  “Olivia St. Claire.” She sniffled, and he took her purse from her, found a scrap of a handkerchief, and offered it to her. She took it and daintily blew her nose.

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Miss St. Claire. I’m Thomas Pettigrew.”

  “Mr. Pettigrew.” She backed away a step and gave a little curtsy.

  “Let me buy you a cup of coffee and you can tell me what’s happened. That is, if I’m not being too bold?”

  “Why not?” she asked morosely. “I’m already ruined.” She raised her handkerchief, then stared at it and seemed to think better of using it to dab at her cheeks, because she stuffed it into a pocket instead. Then she rubbed the sleeve of her coat over her face.

  “I promise you, I’m a gentle man.” To demonstrate, Tom took his own handkerchief from his pocket—fortunately it was clean—and gently dried her eyes.

  “That doesn’t say anything about…about anything. Barron is a gentleman. He’s my…my fiancé.” She looked down. “Oh, you read his letter. You know that.”

  “Hmm.” Tom didn’t think Miss St. Claire’s fiancé was a gentleman in the least, even if she thought so.

  “I…I thought he loved me. We were to be married as soon as I reached my eighteenth birthday.”

  Good God, she really is the girl I’d originally thought her! Tom suddenly felt ancient.

  “Barron promised,” she was saying, unaware of his dismay. “He came to tea one afternoon when I was alone—the servants were in the house, of course, but Father an
d my brother Lewis were away on business. I didn’t expect them home for another few days. Barron locked the parlor door and he…I told him no. I pleaded with him to stop, but he just laughed and told me I’d been teasing him since we’d got engaged and he knew I wanted it. He said I should just relax, that I’d like it. I didn’t, though—it hurt—but how could I make him stop? He kept saying it was all right, we were engaged to be married.” She gasped and buried her face in her palms. “Afterward, he righted his clothing and said that he would call on me the following day.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes. We were supposed to go for a carriage ride, but instead we…we wound up doing what we’d done the day before. We were going to marry.” She looked up at him beseechingly. “Surely God would have forgiven us for anticipating our vows?”

  “I don’t know much about God.” He remembered how happy she had been only a few weeks before.

  “I imagine I don’t, either. If God did forgive us, Barron wouldn’t have j-jilted me.”

  “I wouldn’t put this on God.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m more inclined to lay the blame on Beauchamp.”

  “Thank you, but…Father would be more inclined to blame me.” She sighed. “Father sent word he’d be home today, and I was certain he’d take one look at my face and know I was a fallen woman. All I could think to do was send Barron a message, telling him we had to get married right away, that I would meet him in the Park at our usual bench. Only he never showed up. I waited and waited and…and then this letter came.”

  “Pardon me for saying this, but you’re better off without him.”

  “You don’t understand. If he won’t have me, no one else will, not after they learn what we did.”

  “Why not?” Tom worried his lower lip. If, as she saw it, her only choice was the river, then she’d find another opportunity to end her life.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” She was becoming annoyed, and Tom was pleased to see that. “I’m no longer a virgin, and because of that, no decent man will have me.”

  “I think you’re wrong.”

  “You’re a man.”

  “You noticed.”

  She tipped her head back, giving him a look he’d seen society matrons use when they felt he hadn’t brought the cab close enough to the curb to avoid the nastiness in the cobbled street, and that pleased him even more.

  “Miss St. Claire, I assure you it doesn’t matter if you’re no longer a virgin.”

  “That was my most important quality.”

  Tom’s pleasure vanished. He didn’t like it, didn’t think it was fair—his own father, the best man he’d known, had raised him up to believe otherwise—but unfortunately, in this society, that was the way it was for women who’d been debauched, even through no fault of their own—the river or the whorehouse.

  “Oh my dear Lord!” she exclaimed suddenly.

  “What is it?”

  “I left Father a note. It wasn’t the cleverest thing to do, but I…I didn’t want him to worry. I thought all would be forgiven when I returned home wed to Barron.”

  “Do you want me to drive you home?”

  “I don’t have any more coins.”

  “You gave me more than enough to pay for the drive.”

  “Then thank you.” She shivered.

  “It’s getting cold.” He took her arm and led her back to the cab. He smiled down into her pretty face. “Now tell me where you live.”

  She raised her hands, settled her bonnet on her head, and gave him the address. It was in Gramercy, and that explained why she and Beauchamp had selected the park as their rendezvous spot.

  “Thank you, Mr. Pettigrew.”

  “You’re welcome, Miss St. Claire.” He helped her into the cab, then covered her legs with a lap rug. “That should keep you warm enough until I can get you home.”

  “I’m not—” She shook her head.

  He waited for a moment, but she didn’t seem inclined to continue, so he closed the door and climbed up to the driver’s seat.

  “All right, Outlaw.” Tom shook out the reins. “Git up.”

  Chapter 6

  Tom pulled up in front of an elegant townhouse and hopped down once again to help Miss St. Claire out of the cab.

  “Thank you again.” She smoothed the fingers of her gloves, fussed with the placement of her bonnet on her head, tied and retied the ribbons.

  “Do you want me to wait for you?”

  “That…” She swallowed. “I’ve already kept you. That won’t be necessary.” She forced a smile, held out her hand to shake his, then turned, gathered up her skirts, and hurried up the steps. She paused at the door, seemed to straighten her shoulders, then let herself into the house.

  Tom went to Outlaw’s head and scratched the spot under his chin that had the gelding closing his eyes in bliss. He really was a much happier horse. “Should we stay for a bit, do you think?”

  The gelding made a wuffling sound and nudged Tom’s chest with his head.

  “No, I reckon you’re ready for your feed, and I could do with some grub, too.” He patted the brown and white neck and went back to climb up onto his seat. The door to the cab had been left open, and as he was about to close it, he noticed the portmanteau still on the floor. He grabbed it, strode up the steps Miss St. Claire had mounted minutes before, and raised his hand to knock on the door.

  Before he could, he heard a woman cry out.

  He yanked open the door and rushed in.

  “You stupid whore!” a masculine voice thundered throughout the house. “You had him! Why do you think I made sure you were alone with him? You would have finally done something of use by linking our family with the Beauchamps. How could you let him slip through your fingers? You’re good for nothing!”

  “Father, no!” Her protest was followed by the meaty sound of a palm hitting flesh.

  Tom dropped the portmanteau and followed the vitriolic tirade to a parlor at the rear of the house. He burst in just as an older man with Miss St. Claire’s fair hair reached down to drag her to her feet by her hair, his hand raised to strike her again.

  “Take your hands off her,” Tom snarled.

  The man shied away, obviously taken aback to find a strange man in his parlor. “Who are you? What are you doing in my house? Leave at once or I’ll summon the constabulary!”

  Tom ignored him and went to the young woman. “Miss St. Claire, let me help you up.”

  She held out her hand, and he took it. His lips tightened when he saw the vivid palm print on her cheek.

  Meanwhile, her father must have regained his composure. “This is a family matter, and I’ll thank you to leave.”

  “So you can beat her more? We’ve got a name for men like you where I come from, but it’s not fitting for a lady’s ears.”

  “She’s no lady.” He narrowed his eyes and curled his lip. “Is this why Barron is refusing to marry you? Have you been carrying on with this…this—”

  “Horse master? Horse wrangler? Honest, hard-working man?” Tom was tempted to knock the bastard down.

  St. Claire ignored him, once again turning his rage on his daughter. “You’ve betrayed Barron’s trust! You’ve disgraced our name by mingling with this—You!” he barked as he pointed a shaking hand at Tom. “Get out of my house this instant, and take that slut with you.”

  She turned sorrowful eyes to Tom. “I told you.”

  “You did, and I’m sorry I brought you here. Come. I’ll take you somewhere safe.”

  St. Claire continued growling and snapping, but Tom had run across blowhards like him before and didn’t pay him any heed. He retrieved the portmanteau and offered Miss St. Claire his arm.

  When she was tucked in the cab again, he lingered before closing the door.

  Her big violet eyes looked scared. “As I told you earlier, I don’t have any money to pay you.”

  “Not necessary, miss.” As he’d hoped, she gave him a faint smile. It didn’t last long, th
ough.

  “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

  “Would you care to have dinner with me? We can hash it out then. And I’m sure it will help if you have something in your stomach. My landlady makes Irish stew on Wednesdays, and she’s a very good cook.” He smiled at her. “And I’d like you to meet my son.”

  “Won’t your wife object to you bringing a…a fallen woman home?”

  “My wife passed away seven years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. You couldn’t know.”

  “Are you sure you even want to be seen with me? I’m…I’m soiled goods.” A single tear trickled down her cheek, and Tom wiped it away carefully with his thumb.

  “First let me assure you it’s not printed on your forehead. If you don’t tell anyone, how are they to know?”

  “But surely my husband would.” A crease appeared between her brows. “I’m not exactly sure how, but Aunt Hester told me I had to keep myself pure for my wedding night.”

  “Your aunt and not your mother?”

  “Mother passed away five years ago of cholera. She was visiting family in Chicago and she never came home.”

  Miss St. Claire would have been about twelve when she lost her mother. Tom wondered if Mrs. St. Claire would have protected her daughter from her husband’s plan.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “As you said, you couldn’t know.”

  “Well, men aren’t as astute as you may have been led to believe.”

  She sighed, and Tom ran his fingertips over the back of her hand. “What do you say to dinner?”

  “I…I think I’d like that.”

  “I’m very glad.”

  “You’re very kind.” She pressed a hand to her cheek and winced. “Father doesn’t know his own strength.”

  Tom gritted his teeth. “A man who strikes a woman is no man. I’ll see about getting some ice for your cheek.”