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simple mistrust of strangers? Perhaps this was the devil’s bargain the old woman had foretold. Alluding to a man’s “creature” could as easily be figurative as literal.
    She dug her fingernails into her palms as she tried to puzzle the outlandish offer. Was there more to it? As unusual as his pallor might be, he was still strikingly handsome enough to win the attention of any number of willing females. Unfortunately, she well knew that to some men, desire could only be provoked by unwillingness. Or helplessness. Perhaps the sanctuary had already turned into a trap.
    “If two pounds per week is insufficient for your needs, you may begin the negotiations. Or if you prefer, I’ll return you to wherever it is you call home.”
    She pulled herself together long enough to shake her head violently at this last suggestion. The bitter truth remained that she had nowhere to go. If there were coin involved—particularly that much coin—she would be ten times a fool not to take it. No matter what she must sacrifice. After she’d saved enough money to save her own neck, she could worry about her soul. But before she agreed to any sordid schemes, she wished to at least know the truth.
    “ Do you have a daughter?”
    Even the chill of Mr. Waldegrave’s harsh features could not hide the surge of warmth—and anguish—from his eyes. “I do.”
    So there was a daughter. A “creature” she had been warned to flee, lest she risk her very life.
    “Is she . . . contagious?”
    Hesitation flickered in his dark eyes, followed quickly by a glint of curiosity. “Do you consider yourself to be strong of character?”
    Violet did not miss the evasion. Fighting a sudden urge to run, she somehow kept a neutral expression fixed firmly on her face. “I do, indeed.”
    At that moment, the old woman arrived with strips of cloth. To Violet’s surprise, both men averted their gazes while her ankle was being bandaged. As soon as the servant woman took her leave, however, Violet was once again the object of Mr. Waldegrave’s scrutiny.
    He studied her so intently that she shifted uncomfortably against the hardwood pew.
    “Come,” he said, shocking her speechless when he offered his elbow as smartly as if he were a London lordling accompanying his ladylove to dinner. “It is late. And just moments ago, I was informed that my daughter is still very much awake. As I shall have to put Lillian abed anew, you may as well meet her and decide your future for yourself.”
    Lillian. The name on the grave. Violet’s heart pounded double-time.
    There was no daughter. He had lied.
    And yet, her best hope for food and shelter was to play along. To bide her time until escape was possible. Even as she slipped unsteady fingers between the heat of his body and the taut muscle beneath his shirtsleeve, she couldn’t help but suspect this new risk was far more dangerous than any she’d managed to live through yet.
     
     

CHAPTER THREE
     
    Violet allowed Mr. Waldegrave to help her rise from the edge of the pew. His manservant hovered just behind, holding aloft a freshly lit taper. Her limbs trembled as much from anxiety as hunger-induced frailty.
    In the corridor, Mr. Waldegrave kept her fingers tucked against the crook of his elbow. Although she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him—and in her current condition, she doubted she could throw so much as a breadcrumb—it was disconcerting to realize that this was the first time a gentleman had ever held out his arm for her. She despised her weakness at even noticing the solid warmth of his bicep beneath her fingertips. It was no doubt the novelty, and not the man himself, she found so intriguing. She hoped he realized any reliance on his aid was due to her swollen ankle, and not to any girlish fancy.
    But what fancy did he suffer? The warmth in his eyes when he spoke of his daughter had not been feigned. And yet, the name he had given matched that of the grave behind the abbey. Either her