Chapter 6
1023 Words
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 w***e!” 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, though.
“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.”
“Thank you. But what about your horse. Outlaw, I believe you called him?”
“Yes. I’ll need to stable him—it’s been a long day.”
“And I’m keeping you away from your dinner. I’m sorry.”
“Miss St. Claire, an apology isn’t necessary.” He smiled down into her pretty face.
She leaned forward, raised her hand, and rested it on Tom’s chest. “Thank you, Mr. Pettigrew.”
Tom felt his heart stutter. He hadn’t felt like this since Analeigh…He kissed Miss St. Claire’s hand, closed the door, and climbed up to the seat. George was going to love her.
He shook out the reins. “Home, Outlaw.” He gave the situation plenty of thought as the gelding clip-clopped through the streets to the East Village.
Having fallen in love with Analeigh at first glance and been deliriously happy with her, he trusted his judgment.
He smiled and settled his bowler hat on his head. He knew what he was doing, and once again he would be happy.
They would be happy—George and Miss St. Claire and him.
- Writer
