He’d have liked to change his shirt, or at least wash up a bit, but the risk of being forestalled was too great. He hurried to the Savoy Hotel, where he knew he’d find a hansom cab or two waiting; he hired the first one he spotted, and called out his destination while leaping into the seat. The coachman flicked his whip and the carriage took off through the busy, dirty streets at a brisk pace, while Sinclair caught the first deep breath he’d had since hearing the news and debated how he would relay it all to Eleanor. He’d hardly had time, for that matter, to digest it himself.
His father, the earl, would probably be pleased; it would place Sinclair out of reach of the gambling dens and music halls and other expensive amusements of London, and, if he didn’t get his head blown off, return him to England with a reputation as a soldier instead of a wastrel. But ah, if only the earl knew where Sinclair was headed at present—to the humble quarters shared by a pair of impecunious nurses, on the top floor of a dilapidated boardinghouse. It would make the old man shudder, that much Sinclair knew, and if he were to be completely honest with himself, he would have to admit that he derived a certain enjoyment from that fact. The earl had been forever parading one plain aristocratic lady after another past him, hoping that Sinclair would find one of them sufficiently enticing, but Sinclair was a man who had always known what he wanted, instantly, and what he wanted was Eleanor Ames. He’d known it the moment he saw her closing the hospital shutters.
When the cab arrived on Eleanor’s street, Sinclair directed the driver to the boardinghouse, then tossed him some coins while stepping down. “If you wait, you’ll have the fare back again!” he cried.
The front steps were cracked, and the vestibule door had no lock. As Sinclair entered, he could hear a dog forlornly barking behind one flimsy door and a man bellowing about something at the end of the front hall. There was a musty smell on the stairs, which grew worse as he ascended, and as there was only one small window on each landing, it also grew darker. His boots made the floorboards creak, and as he approached Eleanor and Moira’s door, he saw some feeble sunlight spill into the narrow hall. Moira was holding the door open a few inches, waiting to see who it was, but once she had ascertained that it was Sinclair, she seemed to crane her neck to look behind him.
“Good afternoon,” she said, the disappointment evident in her voice. “You’ve come all on your own, then?”
She must have been hoping he’d bring Captain Rutherford along; Sinclair knew that they had seen each other on several occasions, though he also knew that Moira set greater store by those meetings than did Rutherford.
“Eleanor’s in the parlor.”
From previous occasions, Sinclair knew that the parlor simply referred to the tiny portion of the room that faced the street, and which was separated from the remainder of the room by a modesty curtain concealing the bed that Eleanor and Moira had to share. Eleanor was standing by the window—had she been looking down, waiting to see him arrive?—in the new pale yellow frock that he had, after some cajoling, persuaded her to accept. Each time they’d met, she’d worn the same simple forest-green dress, and though it was becoming on her, he longed to see her in something more gay and stylish. Though he knew nothing of ladies’ fashion, he did know that the bodice of the new dress was more generously cut, allowing for a glimpse of neck and shoulder, and the sleeves were not so puffed out as to obscure the line of her slender arms. He had been walking with Eleanor down Marylebone Street one afternoon, and he had seen her eye linger on the dress in the store window. He sent a messenger the next day to purchase it and deliver it to her at the hospital.
She turned toward him, blushing but pleased to let him see her in her new finery, and even in the sooty light of the London afternoon, she looked radiant. “I don’t know how you knew,” she said, gesturing at the dress. A border of white lace lay like new-fallen snow across her bosom.
“And we only had to take it in by an inch or two,” Moira said, bustling about behind the curtain. “She’s a regular dressmaker’s form, this ’un.” She reappeared, gathering a shawl around her ample shoulders and carrying a mesh sack. “I’m off to the market,” she said, “and shan’t be back for at least the half hour.” She all but winked at them before closing the door behind her.
Sinclair and Eleanor stood alone, still somewhat awkwardly. Sinclair wanted to take her in his arms, and beautiful as the dress was, divest her of it as quickly as possible…but he would not do that. Despite the inequality of their positions in society, he treated her as he would any of the wellborn young ladies that he met at the country-house balls or formal dinners in the city. For his more base appetites, there was always the Salon d’Aphrodite.
But instead of coming to him, Eleanor remained where she was, studying his face. “I fear I haven’t thanked you for the dress yet,” she finally said. “It’s a very beautiful present.”
“On you, it is,” Sinclair said.
“Would you like to sit down,” she said, indicating the two hard-backed wooden chairs that filled the entire space allotted for the parlor, “or shall we go out?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t much time for either,” he said, fidgeting in place. “Truth be told, I’m in breach of orders just being here.”