Chapter Six

When Charlotte’s rescuer had stepped into Sarah’s home Charlotte had felt her two worlds colliding. It was a cold, numb feeling, and she stood in the rain for the longest time in front of Sarah’s house, wondering what he was doing there.

She’d returned to her dismal room but had not been able to sleep. Why had he visited Sarah? Who was he?

By the morning she was convinced of two things: her rescuer’s presence at her best friend’s house was not a coincidence, and she must discover why he was there.

She waited for her moment and confronted Sarah while her friend was strolling through Hanover Square. To say Sarah was shocked to see Charlotte, especially dressed as she was, would be an understatement. But Charlotte had limited time before Sarah’s maid raised an alarm, so they spoke quickly and quietly.

“His name is Jacob Baker,” Sarah said. “He’s a solicitor. Your aunt tried to hire him to find you, but, smart man that he is, he wanted nothing to do with her. However, your story intrigued him, so he’s been doing a little investigating on his own and discovered our friendship.”

“You didn’t tell him anything, did you?” Charlotte asked as the panic built inside her. Her aunt was looking for her?

“I told him everything.”

But Charlotte knew that Sarah didn’t really tell this Jacob Baker everything. Because Sarah didn’t know the real story.

“He genuinely wants to help you,” Sarah said.

“He doesn’t even know me!” Charlotte had an overwhelming urge to flee, to run back to the rookery. To hide. Until now she hadn’t realized how safe she’d felt in one of the most unsafe places in the city. The mere anonymity of the rookery had saved her.

“I think you should go to him, Charlotte. I really feel you can trust him.”

Charlotte didn’t know who to trust, where to turn. What she did know was that while the rookery offered her protection, she couldn’t hide in there forever. She needed a plan. She needed help.

And Jacob Baker seemed to be the only person who wanted to help her. If Sarah was correct, Mr. Baker didn’t trust her aunt, and that was a plus for Charlotte.

So Charlotte found herself standing in front of his home—a stately, middle-class townhome—watching women promenade down the street in their fine gowns and fancy hats as she scratched a spot on her arm and shifted from one foot to the other.

Jacob Baker.

A solicitor.

She wasn’t exactly sure what a solicitor did, but thought it had something to do with the law.

Could he help her?

Should she trust Sarah?

She had been standing there for far longer than appropriate. Surely a neighbor would spy her and shoo her away. But something held her back.

What if Sarah was wrong? What if Jacob Baker couldn’t help her?

She needed to make a decision. Walk away or knock on the door? Walking away would put her right back where she was. Knocking on the door would give her some options, at least.

She climbed the narrow, well-tended stone steps and knocked. The door was answered by a stout woman with rosy cheeks, a small nose, and glittering blue eyes. Frazzled pieces of reddish hair stuck out from beneath a white cap.

The woman’s grin disappeared when she saw a bedraggled, filthy lad. She used the heavy door as a barrier, closing it enough that only her head stuck out.

“Go on, you,” she said. “We don’t give to beggars. Knocking on a respectable gentleman’s door like this. You should be ashamed. Get on.”

Surprised at the vehemence of the woman’s disgust, Charlotte took a step back. Her foot slipped off the step, and she windmilled her arms to catch her balance. She regained her footing and stood straight and tall, like her aunt had taught her to.

“I’m here to speak to Mr. Baker,” she said in as authoritative a voice as she could muster through her sudden fear. What if she couldn’t get past the door? What if Mr. Baker never knew she’d come looking for him?

“His lordship isn’t available for callers this late in the afternoon.”

His lordship?

Charlotte stumbled back to the next step. Sarah had never said anything about Jacob Baker having a title. The calling card Sarah had given Charlotte simply said Mr. Jacob Baker.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

“Go on. Get out.” The short little lady flapped her hands at Charlotte.

The last of her courage fled. Charlotte turned and bolted down the steps as hot tears flooded her eyes.

Why, oh, why had she thought Jacob Baker would help her? She should have stayed in the rookery. She should have never followed Mr. Baker—Lord Baker—like a lovesick, silly little girl.

“Stop!”

The cry came from behind her, and she picked up her pace. If she were caught and reported to the constable she could spend the night in Newgate.

She was damned if she would be arrested now.

“Wait! Please!”

Her foot landed in a puddle, and cold water oozed through her ill-fitting shoe.

“I just want to talk to you.”

The voice was closer, gaining on her. Her heart pounded, and she could feel her legs slowing. Lack of food made her tired and lethargic. There was no way she could outrun whoever was behind her.

Defeated, she simply stopped and hung her head, gasping to drag in a lungful of air. There used to be a time when she could run and run and run and never get tired. When she’d been younger, living in the smog-free countryside with her papa.

The pounding footsteps drew closer, and she turned around to face her pursuer only to find that it was Jacob Baker himself.

He stopped, his chest heaving, dark whiskey-colored eyes assessing her. “I apologize for my housekeeper. She thinks she’s the dragon who guards the den. What do you need?”

Charlotte could hardly believe he was standing in front of her, talking to her. She could reach out and touch him if she wanted but remembered, just in time, that her fingers were dirty. All of her was dirty, and she was certain she reeked.

He had a nice voice. She recalled that now from when he’d saved her from the horse.

His brows drew together, and an adorable crease appeared between them. “Can I help you with anything?”

“I…” She had no idea how to start. What to say. Can I trust him?

“I’m Jacob Baker.”

She nodded, her throat closing up, the words stuck.

“Let’s go back to the house,” he said. “You look hungry.”

Her stomach turned over at the mention of food.

He tilted his head in the direction of his home. “We can talk where it’s warm.”

His voice was enticing, as warm as the house would be. His eyes were inviting, open, and sincere. She now knew why Sarah told her to trust this man, but should she? What if both she and Sarah were wrong?

In the end she knew she had no choice. Right now Jacob Baker was the only hope she had.

They walked side by side. He kept pace with her, but they didn’t speak.

Her mind whirled as her stomach churned in apprehension. She had no idea what to say to him. She’d not really thought about what words she would use.

Was she making a mistake? Sarah didn’t know the whole story. No one really knew the whole story, and Charlotte wasn’t sure if she could even tell it.

He opened the door for her, stepping back to let her walk in first. She hesitated, peering into the darkness of the entryway, looking for… She didn’t know what she was looking for.

Her aunt lurking in the shadows, ready to drag her back into that life.

“There’s no one in here except Mrs. Smith, my housekeeper.”

“She didn’t seem to want me here,” Charlotte said.

He appeared surprised when she spoke, and she wondered if maybe he thought her mute. Then she realized that he probably thought her an uneducated lad, and her voice revealed the opposite.

“She’ll be fine,” he said. “No need to worry about her.”

He stood there patiently, letting the warmth of the house seep into the chilled outdoors while she tried to decide if she wanted to go in. It didn’t seem to matter to Mr. Baker that she was taking a long time making a decision.

What did she have to lose? Maybe he could help her, and if he couldn’t she wouldn’t be any worse off than she was before.

He led her into a room devoid of any comfortable furniture. A large desk with a good view of the street was to one side. The pictures on the wall were landscapes, giving away nothing of the person who occupied this house.

He dragged the straight-backed chairs that had sat in front of his desk close to the fire, and as she sat he rang a bell, presumably for the angry Mrs. Smith, then he sat in the other chair. The fire felt deliciously warm, heating her cheeks. Surreptitiously she stretched her feet out, hoping to catch some of the warmth in her sodden shoes. It was going to be hard leaving all of this warmth and comfort when it was time to go. She would soak up as much as she could, while she could.

Mrs. Smith entered and pulled up short when she saw Charlotte sitting in the chair.

“Tea please, Mrs. Smith,” Mr. Baker said. “And maybe some of those delicious sandwiches you’re so good at making.”

Mrs. Smith’s gaze bounced between Charlotte and Mr. Baker before she nodded and left.

“I don’t think she likes me,” Charlotte said.

“She doesn’t know you.”

“Neither do you.”

He tipped his head toward her. “Why don’t you change that?”

“Maybe I don’t want to.” Her defenses were coming up because she was scared. Scared to tell him anything. Scared if she did it would all go awry.

“I think you wouldn’t have knocked on my front door if there wasn’t something you wanted from me.”

She lowered her chin and stared into the fire.

“How did you find me, Charlotte?”

Her head jerked up, and she stared at him, surprised. “How did you know my name?” she whispered.

“The disguise is good. Not great, but good. No one could tell at a quick glance.”

“You couldn’t tell when you saved me from the horse.”

He frowned. “Horse?”

He didn’t remember. That one moment had consumed her thoughts for days, and it had meant nothing to him. She wanted to laugh at her foolishness.

“You pulled me from beneath the horse’s hooves on Regent Street the other day.”

His frown cleared, and a beautiful smile erupted. “Yes! I remember. That was you? Good God. If I’d only known. All this time looking for you and you were literally right under me at one point.” He laughed, a rich, deep sound that was as warm as the fire. “I’ll be damned. Excuse the language.” He tilted his head and studied her. “It took more than a quick glance to see it was you, and…” His voice trailed off, and her attention sharpened on him.

“And?”

“I’ve been looking for you.”

He reached into his pocket and produced a folded piece of paper.

She opened it to find herself—her old self—looking back at her. It was a charcoal drawing, a quick sketch that she remembered sitting for so long ago, right before her papa died. He’d wanted to have her painted but had died before he’d had a chance.

“Where did you get this?” she asked from a tight throat.

“Lady Morris.”

Charlotte handed it back to him and wiped her hand on her trousers. Jacob watched the motion as he took the paper from her.

“Tell me about the picture,” he said. “When was it drawn?”

“A lifetime ago.”

“You don’t look that young in it.”

“Trust me. That’s another person in that drawing. That’s not me. Not anymore.”

He tucked the picture back in his pocket. “It’s the same eyes, the same lips. The hair is a bit different.”

Self-consciously she smoothed her shorn hair, trying to tuck it behind her ear, but the curl sprang back. “Why are you looking for me?”

He hesitated. “That’s a complicated answer.”

“I have a feeling I can grasp the answer if you use simple words.”

His lips twitched, but he did not smile, although his eyes were smiling.

Mrs. Smith entered with a tray of teacups and sandwiches. She placed the tray on the table between Charlotte and Jacob.

“I’ll pour, Mrs. Smith. Thank you. It looks delicious.”

Mrs. Smith shot Charlotte a curious look before leaving.

“See?” Jacob said. “She’s already warming to you.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes and pretended to ignore the delicious-looking finger sandwiches. There were so many of them. A tower of them.

Jacob poured some tea, then put a few sandwiches on a plate and handed it to her.

Charlotte hesitated. She could feed her and Suzette for two whole nights with these sandwiches. She should put them in her pockets, but she also wanted to devour every one of them.

“Go ahead,” Jacob said. “Take it.”

Because she didn’t want to seem rude she took the plate and stared at the sandwiches. The crusts had been cut off. What had Mrs. Smith done with the crusts? Did she throw them away? Feed them to a cat warming itself by the kitchen fire?

“Don’t be shy. Eat.”

She took a sandwich and tried to remember her manners, but her stomach got in the way, and before she knew it the sandwich was gone, barely chewed, and another was heading toward her mouth.

Embarrassed, she tried to put the plate back on the table.

“You can finish it, Charlotte. And if you want more you can have more.”

Suddenly her vision blurred.

“Are you crying? Did I say something wrong?”

She shook her head as a tear dripped down her cheek. Hastily, she swept it away and sniffed. A white handkerchief appeared in front of her, and she took it to mop up her eyes, then crushed it in her fist.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked.

He sat back and contemplated her. He had a lean frame. His fingers were long and thin with square fingernails. But his eyes arrested her attention: warm and caring. They were her undoing, those compassionate eyes.

“Because I want to help you.”

“I don’t think you can help me.”

“If you thought that you wouldn’t be here right now.”

“Maybe I wanted finger sandwiches and hot tea.”

“Then you can have all the finger sandwiches and hot tea that you want.”

“You’re a strange man, Mr. Baker.”

He grinned. “You’re not the first one to call me strange.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I can’t help people I don’t know? I guess all those charities out there should close their doors then.”

She didn’t know how to act around him or how to react to him. He wasn’t at all what she’d expected. He was irreverent, kind, quick-witted.

“Mrs. Smith referred to you as your lordship,” she said.

“Yes, well, that’s a recent development.”

She raised a brow. “I’m not following.”

His grin was self-deprecating. “Trust me, neither am I.” He took a deep breath, and it seemed he mentally straightened his shoulders. “I have recently come into an earldom. Quite unexpected.”

“Unexpected and, I gather by your hesitation, unwanted?”

He appeared surprised at her astuteness. “Let’s just say it’s taken me a bit of time to warm to the idea.”

“Interesting.”

“Interesting how?” he asked.

She shrugged. “You don’t seem to want your life to change, and I desperately need mine to change.”