“It’s true I am here for a reason.” He nodded. “But it is nothing to warrant animosity. I would like to extend my gratitude for coming to my aid. Had you ignored my calls for help, I might have had my throat slit for my efforts. So, thank you.”
She simply gawked, shocked that he knew it was she who had helped him in the street.
He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, his expression animated. “I cannot fathom what you were doing in Whitechapel, but I’ve asked myself many times if maybe you are actually an angel come to earth.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I thought the same the first time I heard talk of the Whitechapel Angel, and then when we collided outside the church, I knew you were real enough. And yet, you were there when I needed help. A lady in the rookery. What are the odds?”
Helena recovered from her surprise and narrowed her eyes at him. What game was he playing? She didn’t believe for one moment he had come to thank her.
“I don’t concern myself with odds, my lord. I’m not a gambler.” And she never would be. Having watched her father lose everything, she couldn’t even bring herself to play a game of whist with no stakes attached.
“You’ve been gambling your reputation—your very life—by entering the rookery. What are you about, Lady Prestwick?”
She pushed from her seat and stood behind it, creating a barrier between them. She rested her hands on the cresting rail. Her fingers betrayed her frazzled nerves by repeatedly skimming the ornamental details carved into the wood. “I will ask you once more what it is you want from me. An honest answer, or I will have Fergus toss you from the premises.”
***
Sebastian frowned. Was there no one to believe in his honor? What sort of gentleman would he be if he demanded payment for his silence? “You seem set on being blackmailed. Why don’t you tell me what it is I should demand?”
Her mouth dropped open, but no sound came out. When she issued a resigned sigh, he eased back against his seat.
“Very well,” she said tersely. “If I have misjudged you, I beg your forgiveness.”
“If?”
She ignored his protest and barreled on. “But a gentleman doesn’t waylay a lady at a ball, insinuating he knows something untoward about her, then arrive at her home in the middle of the night for no reason.”
He wanted to argue that she had invited him, but she had a good argument. The rub of it was he didn’t know why he had come. She had been plaguing his thoughts morning to night ever since their first encounter. For some unexplainable reason, he couldn’t walk away without knowing what she was doing in Whitechapel.
“Tell me what you were doing, and I will go. There will be no need to summon your ill-tempered servant.”
She clamped her lips together, and he thought for one moment he was no match for her stubbornness. “I am searching for someone. My—my servant’s sister.” She waved her hand as if shooing a fly. “Not Fergus’s sister. Another servant. One who isn’t here, so do not ask to speak with him—her.”
She had told the truth when she said she wasn’t a gambler. She was the worst liar he had ever met, but at least she was talking.
“Fergus and I tracked her to Whitechapel, to a brothel.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Couldn’t he have searched alone? Perhaps during the day?”
She shook her head and crossed her arms. “He has never seen her. What if he brought back some woman pretending to be Lavinia? She could have come to search for valuables at the town house and report her findings to her associates. I’ll not place the servants’ lives in danger.”
“Only your own. Not to mention your footman’s.”
“Fergus can take care of himself.” She hugged her arms around her waist as if trying to hold herself together. “Really, Lord Thorne. This conversation is pointless. I won’t be returning to Whitechapel, so you may set your worries aside. If indeed you are worried.”
He blinked in surprise as the realization hit him that he had been concerned for her. She was a woman alone in the world, and breakable despite her iron will. Her skin was pale and smooth like porcelain, the bones in her face delicate. And she was small. Not a robust woman accustomed to fighting back. Only she had, hadn’t she? Someone had taught her to defend herself, but her luck wouldn’t hold forever.