The Address(40)

The squeak of leather, followed by the smell of cigar smoke, indicated that Mr. Camden was correct. The men’s voices rose.

“They’re running rampant.” The speaker had a grumbly wheeze. “Why, Mrs. Rutherford was almost leveled by one on Fifth Avenue the other day. Our carriage driver had to give the kid a good beating. No sense, those street children.”

“I wish we could put them on a boat and send them off somewhere,” answered another. “They make New York City a dangerous place.”

“Such generous souls,” muttered Mr. Camden, so quietly Sara could barely hear him. He picked up a knife that lay on a shelf about hip level. The long, single-edged blade ended in a pointed tip, and the hilt was decorated with gold and silver that had been hammered and patterned into swirls. “I’m sure the child would’ve loved to get his hands on one of these, show them what’s what. I know I would have. Pompous fools.”

“We shouldn’t touch anything.” She mouthed it more than said it.

A woman’s high voice broke through the men’s murmurs like shattering glass. “Mr. Rutherford, you can’t stay hiding in here. It just won’t do.”

Mr. Camden set the knife back down and Sara huddled closer.

“My dear Mrs. Rutherford, I should have known you’d find us.”

After more grumbling, the men shuffled out, leaving behind the fetid odor of cigar smoke.

They were no longer playing at mocking the rich, they were hiding out in Mr. Rutherford’s private library, eavesdropping, fingering his treasures. Mr. Camden had access to high society through his wife, but Sara was an absolute impostor. She’d been stupid to come. “They’re gone.”

Mr. Camden didn’t move. “Wait a moment, give them time to disperse.” He drew his hand up and lightly touched Sara’s cheek.

She held her breath, riveted by the steely look in his eyes.

“You’re lovely.”

The gesture’s power was as physical as if he’d crushed her in his embrace. Even though she lacked the wealth or standing of the other guests, Mr. Camden didn’t care. His own humble background meant that he understood Sara more than anyone else ever had. He saw her not as a servant or supervisor, but as a woman.

He touched his finger to her lips. “We must go back to the Dakota. Now.”



By the time they returned home, it was after one in the morning, the building quiet as a cathedral. Theo insisted Sara join him for a glass of sherry. In his parlor, she let the cape fall from her shoulders and placed it on a nearby chair while he poured their drinks. She’d never wear such a delicious dress again. So many temptations, all for such a short time. When the sun rose, she’d be back at work taking care of everyone else’s complaints. But the night was her own.

He returned and placed a glass in her hand, and they settled on the settee. “May I call you Sara?”

She nodded. “You may.”

“And will you call me Theo?”

“Of course. In private.”

He sighed. “We’re a couple of misfits, I know. The only reason a lowly architect is allowed to a ball is because his wife has standing, while you are the daughter of an earl and yet you must sneak in under an assumed name.”

“If you remember, neither of us is interested in that sort of life. Only to laugh.”

“But it bothers me, the thought of you toiling away in this prison, managing the likes of Mrs. Haines and Fitzroy. You deserve so much better.”

She laughed. “You call this a prison?”

“A magnificent prison.”

“We all have our own magnificent prisons, even the queen, I’d venture.”

“Now you’re getting all philosophical on me.” He sipped his sherry. “Do you know who you reminded me of tonight?”

She shook her head.

“Cinderella. At the ball, anonymous and beautiful.”

“If so, I seem to have left with both slippers and without my prince.” The intimacy was too much to bear. She set down her glass and rose to her feet. “Please, I must be going. I don’t want to keep you up any later than necessary.”

He stood and handed her the mask. “Will you keep this, as a remembrance?”

“I’d like that.” She smoothed the feathers. “Thank you, Theo.”

He moved closer.

Unexpected memories, horrible ones, filled her head. Of Mr. Ainsworth’s tongue, his hands on her, blood.

She braced herself, uncertain of what to do next. Theo stayed still as well, waiting, watching her.

“Tell me.”

“I can’t.” The darkness, the misery of what she’d done, almost made her weep.

She turned toward the fire, staring, watching the flames.

“Was it something I did?” Anguish in his voice.

“No. Of course not.”

“I hope you understand what a friend you’ve been to me, how much I’ve enjoyed having you near. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, and I apologize if I have. By being too close.”

“It’s not that. Not that at all.” If only she could explain.

“Then, what?”

She began speaking, uncertain at first what she’d reveal. “When I was young, I was sent to an apprenticeship for sewing. Mrs. Ainsworth was a horrible sort, and she’d keep us working late into the evening, when your eyes strained from the effort of properly stitching by candlelight. But where she was mean, her husband was jolly, sweet. He’d slip us butterscotch candies and praise our work. I didn’t realize that he was preying on the other girls. One by one, he’d get them alone. At the time, though, I thought his attention meant I was special.”