Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(4)

“Factotum.” Derek’s ribs seemed to cut through his innards like dull knives. His face burned like fire. He heard himself talking, all the years of tutoring dropping away to reveal his thick cockney accent. “Worvy…does ewerything…’elps me run the club. Trusts ’im…wiv my life.” He stumbled on the landing and gave a whimpering curse.

Sara tightened her arm on his waist. “Wait. If you fall, I couldn’t stop you. We must wait for someone strong to assist you the rest of the way.”

“You’re strong enow.” He began the next flight, his arm gripped around her shoulders.

“Mr. Craven,” Sara protested. Clumsily they ascended another two flights, Sara was terrified that he might faint and fall down the stairs. She began to encourage him, saying anything she could think of to keep him moving. “Almost there…Come, you’re stubborn enough to climb a few more…Stay on your feet…”

She was breathing hard from exertion as they mounted the last step and came to the door of his private apartments. They crossed the entrance hall and came to a drawing room decorated with acres of plum velvet and rich brocade. Her astonished gaze took note of the gilt-embossed leather on the walls, the regal parade of French windows, and the splendid view of the city outside. Following Mr. Craven’s mumbled directions, she helped him to the bedchamber. The room was lined with green damask and elaborate mirrors. It contained the largest bed she had ever seen in her life. Blushing deeply, Sara reflected that she had never been in a man’s bedroom before. Her embarrassment was washed away in concern as Mr. Craven crawled onto the bed, boots and all. He sprawled on his back with a gasp and became very still. The arm clamped over his ribs relaxed.

“Mr. Craven? Mr. Craven—” Sara hovered over him, wondering what to do. He had fainted. His long body was unmoving, his large hands half-clenched. Reaching down to his throat, she unknotted his stained cravat. Carefully she unwound the cloth and pulled the handkerchief away from his face.

The slash went from his right temple, across the bridge of his nose, and down to the edge of his left cheekbone. Although his features were blunt, they were strong and even. His lips parted to reveal startlingly white teeth. Coppery smears of blood covered his swarthy skin, crusting in the thick lines of his brows and in his long eyelashes.

Spying a washstand across the room, Sara hurried to it and found cool water in the pitcher. After pouring a few inches of liquid into the basin, she brought it to the bedside table. She dampened a cloth and pressed it to his face, wiping away the blood and dirt. As she cleaned his eyes and cheeks, the water revived him, and he made a hoarse sound. His thick lashes lifted. Sara paused in her task as she found herself looking into intense green eyes, the color of grass on a cool spring morning. There was a strange sensation in her chest. Pinned in place by his gaze, she couldn’t move or speak.

He raised his hand, touching one of the locks of hair that had fallen from her pins. His voice was hoarse. “Your name…again.”

“Sara,” she whispered.

Just then two men entered the room, one of them small and bespectacled, the other elderly and tall. “Mr. Craven,” the smaller one said soberly. “I’ve brought Dr. Hindley.”

“Whiskey,” Derek croaked. “I’ve ’ad the piss knocked out ow me.”

“You were in a fight?” Worthy bent over him, his mild face wreathed in surprise. “Oh, no. Your face.” He stared disapprovingly at Sara, who stood by wringing her hands. “I hope this young woman was worth it, Mr. Craven.”

“I wasn’t fighting ower ’er,” Derek said, before Sara could intervene. “It was Jenner’s men, I think. Two ow ’em armed wiv a neddy jumped me in the street. This little mouse…pulls out a pistol an’ shoots one ow the bastards.”

“Well.” Worthy regarded Sara with a much warmer expression. “Thank you, miss. It was very brave of you.”

“I wasn’t brave at all,” Sara said earnestly. “I didn’t stop to think. It happened very quickly.”

“In any case, we owe you our gratitude.” Worthy hesitated before adding, “I am employed by Mr. Craven to deal with disturbances on the floor, as well as”—he glanced at Craven’s bloodstained body and finished lamely—“any other matters that require my attention.”

Sara smiled at him. Worthy was a very nice-looking man, with small, neat features, thinning hair on top; and gleaming spectacles perched on his pointed nose. There was an air of patience about him that she guessed would not be easily shaken. Together he and the doctor bent over the bed, removing Craven’s shoes and clothes. Sara turned away, modestly averting her gaze. She began to walk from the room, but Craven said something gruffly, and Worthy stopped her. “I think it would be best if you didn’t leave yet, Miss—”

“Fielding,” she murmured, keeping her eyes on the floor. “Sara Fielding.”

The name seemed to awaken his interest. “Any relation to S. R. Fielding, the novelist?”

“Sara Rose,” she said. “I use my initials for the sake of anonymity.”

The doctor looked up from the bed with an expression of startled delight. “You are S. R. Fielding?”

“Yes, sir.”

The news seemed to animate him. “What an honor this is! Mathilda is one of my favorite novels.”