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  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."

  "It was my most successful work," Sara admitted modestly.

  "My wife and I have spent many an evening discussing our theories on the ending of the novel. Did Mathilda cast herself from the bridge to end her misery, or did she choose to seek atonement for her sins—"

  "Excuse me," said an icy voice from the bed. "I'm frigging bleeding to death. Mathilda can go tip a pike."

  Sara frowned contritely. "Oh, I'm sorry. Dr. Hindley, please see to Mr. Craven at once." She turned her gaze to Worthy.

  "Where would you like me to wait?"

  "In the next room, if you please. You're welcome to ring for tea and refreshments."

  "Thank you." As Sara went to the drawing room, she wondered what it was about Mathilda that always inspired such interest. The book's popularity never failed to amaze her. There had even been a recent stage production of the story. People tended to discuss the character of Mathilda as if she were a real person, seeming to enjoy endless debates concerning the novel's conclusion. After writing the story of a girl who had run away from the country and fallen into the sinful ways of prostitution,

  Sara had deliberately left a question as to the ending. On the last page, Mathilda was poised at the edge of London Bridge,

  faced with the decision to end her ruined life or commit herself to a selfless existence of doing good for others. Readers could form their own opinions about Mathilda's fate. Personally, Sara didn't think it important to know whether Mathilda lived or died ... the point was that she had learned the error of her ways.

  Discovering that her reticule was hanging forgotten from her arm, Sara delved inside and found her spectacles. She polished

  them on her sleeve until they shone, placed them on her nose, and located her notebook. "'Tip a pike." she mused, writing

  down the unfamiliar expression. She must ask someone to explain it later.

  Slowly she removed her cloak and draped it over the back of a chair. She felt as if she were trapped in a temporarily vacated lion's den. After walking to the windows, she pushed aside the heavy plum-colored drapes to reveal a view of the street. All of London was just outside these thin panes of glass, a world of busy people absorbed in their own lives. She turned to gaze at the gold mirrors adorning the walls, and the sumptuous furniture upholstered with painted white velvet. The tables, inlaid with semi-precious stones, were weighted with arrangements of fresh hothouse flowers. The room was beautiful, but too extravagant.

  Sara preferred the small cottage she and her elderly parents lived in. There was a kitchen garden in the back, and fruit trees

  that her father tended meticulously. They had a small yard and paddock, and an old gray horse named Eppie. The faded furniture in their small parlor was constantly filled with callers. Her parents had many friends. Nearly everyone in Greenwood Corners

  had come to visit at one time or another.

  This, by contrast, was a splendid and lonely palace. Sara stood in front of a vivid oil painting depicting Roman gods involved in some decadent celebration. She was distracted by a groan from the next room, and a curse from Mr. Craven. They must be stitching the wound on his face. Sara tried to ignore the sounds, but after a few moments, curiosity compelled h
er to investigate.

  Coming to the doorway, she saw Worthy and Dr. Hindley leaning over Mr. Craven's head. His lower body, covered with a white sheet, was still. But his hands were twitching at his sides, as if he longed to shove the doctor away from him.

  "We've given you all the laudanum we can, Mr. Craven," Dr. Hindley remarked, drawing another stitch through the cut.

  "Damn stuff ... never works on me. More whiskey."

  "If you'll just be patient, Mr. Craven, it will be done in a few minutes."

  Another pained groan erupted. "Damn you and everyone else in your stinking, bloodletting, bone-sawing, corpse-humping business—"

  "Mr. Craven," Worthy interrupted hastily. "Dr. Hindley is doing his best to repair the damage done to your face. He is trying

  to help you. Please don't antagonize him."

  "It's quite all right," the doctor said calmly. "By now I know what to expect from him." He continued to join the edges of skin

  with small, careful stitches.

  All was quiet for a moment, and then Derek gave a muffled gasp. "Bloody 'ell. I don't care what it looks like. Leave me alone—" He made a move to get up from the bed.

  Sara entered the room immediately. It was clear that Craven had a quick temper, but he must be coaxed into staying. It would

  be a shame not to let the doctor salvage what he could of his face.

  "Sir," she said briskly, "I know it is uncomfortable, but you must let the doctor finish. You may not care about your appearance now, but you might later. Besides ..." She paused and added pointedly, "a large, strong man such as yourself should be able to

  bear a little pain. I assure you, it's nothing compared to the suffering a woman endures in labor!"

  Slowly Derek eased back to the mattress. "How you do know?" he sneered.

  "I was present at a childbirth once in Greenwood Corners. It lasted for hours, and my friend bore the agony with hardly a sound."

  Worthy looked at her pleadingly. "Miss Fielding, you would be more comfortable in the next room—"

  "I'm distracting Mr. Craven with some conversation. It might take his mind off the pain. Wouldn't you prefer that, Mr. Craven?

  Or should I leave?"

  "Do I have a choice? Stay. Flap your gums."

  "Shall I tell you about Greenwood Corners?"

  "No." Derek clamped his teeth together and stifled a grunt. "About yourself."

  "Very well." Sara approached the bed, taking care to preserve a discreet distance. "I am twenty-five years old. I live in the country with my parents—" She paused as she heard Mr. Craven's panting groan. The stitch-taking was hurting him.

  "Go on," he said sharply.

  Sara searched frantically for more to tell him. "I-I'm being courted by a young man who lives in the village. We share the same fondness for books, although his tastes are more refined than mine. He doesn't approve of the fiction I write." She crept closer

  and stared at Craven curiously. Although she was unable to see his face, she had a good view of his chest, which was covered with a great amount of dark hair. The sight was startling. The only male chests she had been privileged to view before now

  were those of hairless Greek statues. Above his lean waist and midriff, his chest and shoulders were powerfully muscled, and splotched with bruises. "Mr. Kingswood—that's his name—has been courting me for almost four years. I believe that his

  proposal will come soon."

  "Four years?"

  Sara felt mildly defensive at his jeering tone. "There have been a few difficulties. His mother is a widow, and she relies on him

  a great deal. They live together, you see. Mrs. Kingswood doesn't approve of me."

  "Why not?"

  "Well... she doesn't consider any woman quite good enough for her son. And she dislikes the subject matter I have chosen for

  my novels. Prostitution, poverty ..." Sara shrugged. "But they are issues that need to be addressed."

  "Especially when you makes money off 'em?"

  "Enough to keep my parents and myself in a comfortable style," she admitted with a smile. "You're a cynical man, Mr. Craven."

  His breath hissed through his teeth as the needle pierced his skin. "You would be too, if you knowed anyfing about the world outside your stinking village." The ordeal was making his accent slip again.

  "Greenwood Corners is a very nice place," Sara said, mildly provoked. "And I know a great many things about the world."

  Derek held his breath for a moment, then let it burst forth. "Dammit, 'ow much longer—"

  "A few more," the doctor murmured.

  Derek struggled to keep his mind on the conversation with Sara. "Writing books about whores ... I'll bet you newer ... joined giblets wiv a man in your lily-white life."

  Dr. Hindley and Worthy began to reprove him, but Sara smiled quizzically. "'Joined giblets?' ... I've never heard it put that way before."

  "You 'asn't been long enow in the rookery."

  "That's true," she said seriously. "I must make several more visits there before my research is complete."

  "You're not going back." he informed her. "God knows 'ow you lasted this long. Bloody little fool, traipsing through the rookery

  at night—"

  "This is the last stitch," Dr. Hindley announced, carefully tying off the thread. Derek sighed in relief and fell silent.

  Worthy left the bedside and came to Sara, smiling apologetically. "Forgive Mr. Craven. He's only rude to the people he likes."

  "Will he be all right?" she whispered.

  "Certainly. He's a very strong man. He has survived worse than this." Worthy looked at her closely, his expression softening

  into concern. ''You're trembling, Miss Fielding."

  Sara nodded and took a deep breath. "I suppose I'm not used to so much excitement." She hadn't realized how rattled she was until now. "Everything happened so quickly."

  "You must rest for a little while," Worthy urged, "and steady your nerves with some brandy."

  "Yes ... perhaps a splash, in a cup of tea." She twined her fingers together. "I'm staying with friends of my parents, the

  Goodmans. The hour is late ... they might worry ..."

  "As soon as you're ready, we'll have a private carriage convey you anywhere you wish."

  "Worthy!" Derek's disgruntled voice interrupted them. "Stop that bloody whispering. Give the country mouse some money

  and send 'er back where she came from."

  Worthy began to reply, but Sara stopped him with a light touch on his arm. Squaring her small shoulders, she approached the

  bed. "Mr. Craven," she said calmly, "you're very kind to offer a reward, but I have enough money to suit my needs. However,

  I would be grateful if you would allow me to tour your club, and perhaps ask a few questions of your employees. As I mentioned earlier, I'm writing a novel, and you could help me—"

  "No."

  "Mr. Craven, it is a reasonable request, considering the fact that I saved your life tonight."

  "Like 'ell you did."

  Sara was taken aback. "But those two men were trying to kill you!"

  "If they'd wanted that, I'd be dead now."

  "Then ... their purpose was to ... to deliberately mark your face?" She recoiled in horror. "But why would anyone want to do

  such a thing?"

  "Mr. Craven has many enemies," Worthy remarked, his round face troubled. "In particular a man named Ivo Jenner, who

  owns a rival club. But I wouldn't have expected Jenner to do something like this."

  "Maybe not." Derek muttered, closing his eyes. "Maybe it was someone else. Worvy ... take 'er out of 'ere."

  "But Mr. Craven," Sara protested.

  "Come," Worthy said, shushing her gently. He urged her away from the bedside. Reluctantly Sara followed him to the next room.

  Left alone, Derek gave a soft laugh threaded with bitterness. "Damn you, Joyce," he whispered, and raised a hand to touch the stitches on his face.

&nbsp
; * * *

  After Dr. Hindley departed, Worthy rang for tea and stirred the fire in the grate. "Now," he said pleasantly, sitting in a chair

  near Sara's, "we may talk without interruption."

  "Mr. Worthy, could you try to make Mr. Craven understand that I wouldn't be a nuisance, or inconvenience him in any way?

  All I want is to observe the activities at the club, and ask a few questions—"

  "I will talk to Mr. Craven," Worthy assured her. "And I'll allow you to visit the club tomorrow while Mr. Craven is indisposed." Worthy smiled at her obvious excitement. "It is a privilege rarely granted to women, you know, except on assembly nights.

  There was only one other lady who has even been allowed to cross the threshold."

  "Yes, I've heard of her—they called her Lawless Lily. She was Mr. Craven's paramour for a number of years, wasn't she?"

  "Things are not always what they seem, Miss Fielding."

  They were interrupted by a maid bearing a tray of tea and delicate sandwiches. Efficiently Worthy poured Sara's tea and added

  a liberal amount of brandy. Balancing the cup and saucer on her lap, Sara nibbled on a sandwich, feeling as if she were slowly awakening from a nightmare. She stretched her damp feet toward the warm fire, taking care not to expose her ankles.

  "There is only one condition I must ask of you," Worthy said, settling back in his chair. "You must not approach Mr. Craven, or

  ask him any questions. In fact, I insist that you take care to avoid him. You will be free to talk to anyone else at the club. We

  will all try to be as accommodating as possible."

  Sara frowned in disappointment. "But Mr. Craven could be of great help to me. There are things I would like to ask him—"

  "He is an intensely private man who has spent his life trying to escape his past. I assure you, he will not want to talk about himself."

  "Is there anything you could tell me about him?" She sipped her tea and watched the factotum hopefully.

  "He's not easy to describe. Derek Craven is by far the most complicated individual I've ever met. He is capable of kindness,

  but ..." Worthy drank some brandy and contemplated the rich amber depths in the glass. "I'm afraid that all too often Mr. Craven reveals himself as a man of ruined potential. He comes from a world more savage than you could begin to comprehend, Miss Fielding. All he knows about his mother was that she was a prostitute who worked at Tiger Bay, a dockland street where