Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(3)

“Are you all right, sir? That is, are you able to walk?”

That produced a choking laugh. “Who the ’ell are you?”

Sara took a hesitant step in the direction of St. James, and he lurched along beside her. “Miss Sara Fielding,” she said, then added cautiously, “of Greenwood Corners.”

He coughed and spat a mouthful of blood-tinged saliva. “Why did you help me?”

Sara couldn’t help noticing that his accent had improved. He sounded almost like a gentleman, but the trace of cockney was still there, softening his consonants and flattening his vowels. “I had no choice,” she replied, bearing up underneath his weight. He clasped his ribs with his free arm and held on to her with the other. “When I saw what those men were doing—”

“You had a choice,” he said harshly. “You could’ve walked away.”

“Turn my back on someone in trouble? The idea is unthinkable.”

“It’s done all the time.”

“Not where I’m from, I assure you.” Noticing that they were straying toward the middle of the street, Sara guided him back to the side, where they were concealed in the darkness. This was the oddest night of her life. She hadn’t anticipated that she would be walking through a London rookery with a battered stranger. He peeled the handkerchief back from his face, and Sara was relieved to see that the bleeding had slowed. “You’d better hold it against the wound,” she said. “We must find a doctor.” She was surprised that he hadn’t asked about the extent of the damage. “From what I was able to see, they made a long slash across your face. But it doesn’t seem to be deep. If it heals well, your appearance might not be affected greatly.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

The remark sharpened Sara’s curiosity. “Sir, do you have friends at Craven’s? Is that why we are going there?”

“Yes.”

“Are you by any chance acquainted with Mr. Craven?”

“I am Derek Craven.”

“The Mr. Craven?” Her eyes widened in excitement. “The same one who founded the famous club and came from the underworld and…Were you really born in a drainpipe, as the legend says? Is it true that you—”

“Lower your voice, damn you.”

Sara couldn’t believe her good fortune. “This is quite a coincidence, Mr. Craven. As it happens, I’m in the process of researching a novel about gambling. That’s why I’m here at this time of night. Greenwood Corners isn’t a very worldly sort of place, and therefore I found it necessary to come to London. My book will be a fictional work which will include many descriptions of people and places significant to the gaming culture—”

“Jaysus,” he growled. “Anything you want—a frigging fortune—if you’ll keep your mouth shut until we get there.”

“Sir—” Sara tugged him away from a small pile of rubble, which he might have tripped over. Knowing that he was in pain, she didn’t take offense at his rudeness. The hand clenched at her shoulder was trembling. “We’re almost out of the rookery, Mr. Craven. You’ll be all right.”

Derek’s head swam, and he fought to keep his balance. The blow to his head seemed to have knocked his brains out of place. Tightening his grip on the small form beside him, he matched his shuffling footsteps to hers. He leaned over her more heavily until the fabric of her hood brushed his ear. A kind of dull amazement took hold of him. Blindly he followed the talkative little stranger and hoped to God she was leading him in the right direction. It was the closest to praying he’d ever come.

She was asking him something. He fought to concentrate on her words. “…should we ascend the front steps, or is there another way—”

“Side door,” he muttered, squinting from behind the handkerchief. “Ower there.”

“My. What a large building.” Sara regarded the club with awe. The massive building was fronted by eight Corinthian columns and seven pediments, and bordered by two wings. The whole of it was surrounded by a marble balustrade. She would have liked to have gone up the front steps and seen the famed entrance hall, filled with stained glass, blue velvet, and chandeliers. But of course Mr. Craven would not want to show himself like this in front of the club members. After she guided him to the side of the building, they descended a short flight of steps that led to a heavy wooden door.

Derek grasped the handle and pushed the door open. Immediately they were approached by Gill, one of his employees. “Mr. Craven?” the young man exclaimed, his gaze darting from the blood-soaked handkerchief clutched to Derek’s face, to Sara’s apprehensive eyes. “Good Lord—”

“Get Worthy,” Derek muttered. He brushed by Gill and made his way through the small panelled antechamber. The winding staircase led to his private apartments. Contemplating the six-flight climb, he motioned abruptly for Sara to join him.

Surprised that he would want her to help him up the stairs, Sara hesitated. She glanced at the young employee, who was already walking away from them, disappearing down a wide, carpeted hallway.

“Come,” Derek said gruffly, motioning for her again. “You think I ’as all night to stand ’ere?”

She went to him immediately, and he draped a heavy arm across her shoulders. Together they began the walk up the steps. “Who is Worthy?” she asked, sliding an arm around his hard waist to steady him.