want you to have this.’
‘Keep it.’ He closed her fingers back over the glittering stones. An innocent like her could never conceive of the consequences, if he were to accept. Her father would accuse him of stealing, no matter that it had been a gift.
‘If you’re planning to keep watch over me, then you’ll need a reason to return.’ She placed it back in his palm.
He hadn’t considered it in that light. ‘You’re right.’ The necklace did give him a legitimate reason to return, and so he hid the jewellery within his pocket.
‘Return in a day or two,’ she ordered. ‘And I’ll see to it that you’re rewarded for your assistance, whether or not it’s needed.’
He wouldn’t accept any compensation from her, though his funds were running out. ‘It’s not necessary.’
‘It is.’
In her green eyes, Michael saw the loss of innocence, the devastating blow to her future. Yet beneath the pain, there was determination.
She crossed her arms, as if gathering her courage. ‘I won’t let my father destroy my future.’ Her expression shifted into a stubborn set. ‘And I won’t let him destroy yours, either.’
The older woman wandered through the streets, her crimson bonnet vivid in the sea of dark brown and black. Michael pushed his way past the fishmongers and vendors, minding his step through Fleet Street.
Mrs Turner was lost again. He quickened his step, moving amid sailors, drovers and butchers. At last, he reached her side.
‘Good morning,’ he greeted her, tipping his hat.
No recognition dawned in her silver-grey eyes, but she offered a faint nod and continued on her path.
Damn. It wasn’t going to be one of her better days. Mrs Turner had been his neighbour and friend for as long as he could remember, but recently she’d begun to suffer spells of forgetfulness from time to time.
He hadn’t known about her condition until he’d returned to London last November. At first, the widow had brought him food and drink, looking after him while he recovered from the gunshot wounds. He’d broken the devastating news of her son Henry’s death at Balaclava.
And as the weeks passed, she began to withdraw, her mind clouding over. There were times when she only remembered things from the past.
Today she didn’t recognise him at all.
Michael tried to think of a way to break through to her lost memory. ‘You’re Mrs Turner, aren’t you?’ he commented, keeping up with her pace. ‘Of Number Eight, Newton Street?’
She stopped walking, fear rising on her face. ‘I don’t know you.’
‘No, no, you probably don’t remember me,’ he said quickly. ‘But I’m a friend of Henry’s.’
The mention of her son’s name made her eyes narrow. ‘I’ve never seen you before.’
‘Henry sent me to fetch you home,’ he said gently. ‘Will you let me walk with you? I’m certain he’s left a pot of whisky and tea for you. Perhaps some marmalade and bread.’
The mention of her favourite foods made her lower lip tremble. Wrinkles edged her eyes, and tears spilled over them. ‘I’m lost, aren’t I?’
He took her hand in his, leading her in the proper direction. ‘No, Mrs Turner.’
As he guided her through the busy streets, her frail hand gripped his with a surprising strength. They drew closer to her home at Peabody Square, and her face began to relax. Whether or not she recognised her surroundings, she seemed more at ease.
Michael helped her inside, and saw that she was out of coal. ‘I’ll just be a moment getting a fire started for you.’ Handing her a crocheted blanket, he settled her upon a rocking chair to wait.
After purchasing a bucket of coal for her, he returned to her dwelling and soon had a fire burning.
Mrs Turner huddled close to it, still wearing her bright red bonnet. He’d given it to her this Christmas, both from her love of the outrageous colour, and because it made it easier to locate her within a crowd of people.
‘Why, Michael,’ she said suddenly, her mouth curving in a warm smile. ‘I didn’t realise you’d come to visit. Make a pot of tea for us, won’t you?’
He exhaled, glad to see that she was starting to remember him. When he brought out the kettle, he saw that she had hardly any water remaining. There was enough to make a pot of tea, though, and he put the kettle on to boil.
‘You’re looking devilishly handsome, I must say.’ She beamed. ‘Where did you get those clothes?’
He didn’t tell her that she’d loaned them to him last night, from her son’s clothing. Bringing up the memory of Henry’s death would only make her cry again.
‘A good friend let me borrow them,’ was all he said. When her tea was ready, he brought her the cup, lacing it heavily with whisky.
She drank heartily, smacking her lips. ‘Ah, now you’re a fine lad, Michael. Tell me about the ball last night. Did you meet any young ladies to marry?’
‘I might have.’ The vision of Lady Hannah’s lovely face came to mind. ‘But they tossed me out on my ear.’
She gave a loud laugh. ‘Oh, they did no such thing, you wretch.’ She drained the mug, and he refilled it with more tea. ‘I’m certain you made all the women swoon. Now, tell me what they were wearing.’ She wrapped the blanket around herself, moving the rocking chair closer to the fire.
While he answered her questions about the Marquess and his vague memory of the women’s gowns, he tried to locate food for her. Scouring her cupboards, he found only a stale loaf of bread. Beside it, he saw a candle, a glove and all of the spoons.
He searched everywhere for marmalade, finally locating it among her undergarments in a drawer. He was afraid to look any further, for fear of what else he might find. Ever since she’d begun having the spells, he’d found all manner of disorganisation in her home.
He cut her a thick slice of bread and slathered it with marmalade. God only knew when she’d eaten last.
Mrs Turner bit into it, sighing happily. ‘Now, then. Who else did you meet at the ball, Michael?’ She lifted her tea up and took another hearty swallow.
‘A foreign gentleman was there,’ he added. ‘Someone from Lohenberg.’
The cup slid from Mrs Turner’s hand, shattering on the floor. Tea spilled everywhere, and her face had gone white.
Michael grabbed a rag and soaked up the spill, cleaning up the broken pieces. ‘It’s all right. I’ll take care of it.’
But when he looked into Mrs Turner’s grey eyes, he saw consummate fear. ‘Who—who was he?’
‘Graf
