Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(12)

Sara would have liked to exchange a few friendly words, but she knew from her previous experiences with prostitutes that they needed a fair amount of friendly reassurance before they would converse with someone like her. Out of deference, contempt, or shame, they usually avoided looking a “good woman” in the eyes.

“Tabitha,” Worthy said calmly. “What is the matter?”

“Lord F again,” came her indignant reply. “The cheap old rutter! ’E took to Molly last ewening an’ said ’e’d pay for the ’ole night. Now ’e wants to leave without paying!”

“I’ll take care of it,” Worthy said calmly. He glanced at Sara, who was taking notes. “Miss Fielding, would you mind very much if I left you here for a few minutes? The gallery to your right is filled with many beautiful paintings in Mr. Craven’s private collection.”

“Please, go right ahead,” Sara urged.

Suddenly Tabitha became very animated. “Is she the one?” she asked Worthy. “That’s Mathilda?”

“Oh, no,” Sara said. “I wrote the novel entitled Mathilda.”

“Then ye knows ’er? She’s a friend of yers?”

Sara was nonplussed. “Not really. You see, Mathilda is a fictional character. She’s not real.”

The comment earned a chiding glance from Tabitha. “Not real? I read all about ’er. An’ I knows a girl who met ’er. They worked the same street after Mathilda was ravished by Lord Aversley.”

“Let me explain it this way—” Sara began, but Worthy shook his head as if it were no use, and ushered Tabitha down the hall.

Smiling thoughtfully, Sara wandered to the picture gallery. The walls were covered with paintings by Gainsborough, a horse and rider by Stubbs, two florid works by Rubens, and a magnificent Van Dyke. Drawing closer to a magnificent portrait, she stared at it curiously. The painting featured a woman seated in a large chair. Her young daughter stood nearby, a small hand poised on her mother’s arm. The two were remarkably beautiful, with pale skin, dark curly hair, and expressive eyes. Touched by the tender scene, Sara spoke out loud. “How lovely…I wonder who you are?”

Sara could not help but be aware of the difference between the sparkling allure of the woman in the portrait and her own average attractiveness. She guessed that Mr. Craven was accustomed to very beautiful women—and she knew there was nothing exotic or remarkable about her. What would it be like to have the kind of looks that men found irresistible?

Although there was no sound behind her, a sixth sense caused her nerves to tingle. Sara whirled around. No one was there. Cautiously she straightened her spectacles and told herself that she was being foolish. Wandering further into the gallery, she looked closely at the sumptuous paintings. Like everything else in the club, they seemed to have been chosen for their ability to impress. A man like Mr. Craven would probably spend his life collecting valuable artwork, elaborate rooms, beautiful women…They were all earmarks of his achievement.

Slipping the notebook back into her reticule, Sara began to wander from the gallery. She thought of how she might describe the club and its fictional owner in her novel. Perhaps she would romanticize him just a bit. Contrary to those who assumed he was completely without grace or virtue, she might write, he concealed a secret love of beauty and sought to possess it in its infinite forms, as if to atone for—

All at once a powerful grip compressed her arm, and the wall seemed to open in a blur before her eyes. She was pulled off her feet, dragged sideways, so quickly that all she could do was gasp in protest as the unseen force yanked her from the gallery into a place of stifling darkness…a secret door…a concealed corridor. Hands steadied her, one wrapped around her wrist, one clamped her shoulder. Blinking in the darkness, Sara tried to talk and could only make a fearful squeak. “Who…who…”

She heard a man’s voice, as soft as frayed velvet. Or rather, she felt his voice, the heat of his breath against her forehead. She began to tremble violently.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“Mr. Craven,” she whispered shakily. “I-its very dark in here.”

“I like the dark.”

She fought to catch her breath. “Did you really f-find it necessary to give me such a start?”

“I didn’t plan to. You walked right by me. I couldn’t help myself.”

Sara’s fear gave way to indignation. He was not at all sorry he had frightened her…He had intended to. “You’ve been following me,” she accused. “You’ve been watching me all morning.”

“I said last night I didn’t want you here.”

“Mr. Worthy said it was all right—”

“I own the club, not Worthy.”

Sara was tempted to tell him how ungrateful he was, after what she had done for him last night. But she didn’t think it wise to argue with him while she was trapped here. She began to inch backward, toward the crack of light where the secret door had been left ajar. “You’re right,” she said in a subdued voice. “You’re absolutely right. I-I believe I’ll go now.”

But he didn’t release his grip on her, and she was forced to stand still. “Tell me what made you decide to write about gambling.”

Blinking in the darkness, Sara tried to gather her wits. “Well…there was a boy in my village. A very nice, intelligent boy, who came into a small inheritance. It would have been enough to keep him comfortable for many years. But he decided to try and increase his wealth, not by honest means, but by gambling. He lost it all in one night. At your club, Mr. Craven.”