Hero Wanted

by Betina Krahn

  “I have no idea,” Lauren said, clearly just as puzzled as her aunt. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen any of them before.”

  “Have Weathersby tell them to go roost on someone else’s doorstep.” Amanda retreated to her lady chair and needlework.

  “I believe he’s already tried,” Lauren said with a scowl. “They moved across the street to the park but then sneaked back. When he demanded to know what they wanted, they peppered him with questions about whether I was home and what time Papa was expected to return.”

  * * *

  It wasn’t long before Lawrence arrived home in a cab, and the threesome below sprang into action. Pads and pencils came out.

  “Is it true?” one of the men yelled at him. “Is the marriage off ?”

  “Were you worried that she might drown when rescuing those women?” another demanded, pressing close enough to grab Lawrence’s arm. “What do you have to say about the Naked Angel of the River?”

  Then came the crowning question.

  “Do you believe Rafe Townsend is a coward?”

  Above the street, Lauren couldn’t make out much more than her name and Rafe Townsend’s but realized it probably had to do with that incident at the river. She grew alarmed by the way they jostled and tried to block her father’s entrance to his own house.

  But Lawrence Alcott was no easy mark. He demanded they get off his property or he would sic the law on them, and he strong-armed his way to the safety of the door Weathersby quickly opened for him.

  Lauren rushed down the stairs and arrived in the main hall just as her choleric father was handing off his hat and walking stick to their butler.

  “Papa! Are you all right? What did those men want?” She rushed toward him but stopped short because he brought up the rolled newspaper in his hand and pointed it at her.

  “They’re news hacks—reporters.” His eyes narrowed and nostrils flared. He was genuinely angry. “And they’re here about you.”

  He slapped the newspaper into her hands and strode off to his study with orders to Weathersby to show Horace Townsend into his study the minute he arrived.

  Lauren stared after him with an uneasy feeling and unrolled the newspaper. The Morning Post. She looked over the front page—entirely adverts—then opened it and inside spotted an article that had been circled. “Daring River Rescue.”

  “What is it, dear?” Aunt Amanda arrived downstairs and hurried to her side in time to see her face redden.

  “They’re calling me a heroine,” she said with a blink. “Saying I ‘saved’ those women. Apparently there was a newswriter nearby who saw what happened.” She smiled. But by the time she finished reading the article, her sense of vindication had evaporated. That sinking feeling was back as she stared at what followed her journalistic anointing as a heroine.

  “Naked . . . they say I was naked when I broke it off with Rafe Townsend.”

  * * *

  Horace Townsend blew through the front door like a typhoon run aground, and shortly after there were bellows and curses coming from her father’s study. It was a battle royal and the choice of weapons seemed to be the names Lauren and Rafe.

  Against Amanda’s advice, Lauren crept down to the hall outside her father’s study. But she didn’t have to press her ear against the door to hear the argument.

  “. . . disgraced my son in front of all of London!” Horace Townsend was spitting angry, demanding something be done. “Not just one gossip rag—now two! God knows how many more will pick up the story and spread it all over creation. You have to do something, Alcott. That daughter of yours—you have to make her take it back somehow.”

  “Take it back? You mean talk to those vultures hanging around my door and plead excuses for your son?” Her father gave a snort. She could imagine his rigid stance and narrowed eyes, the same expression he’d used with her last evening. “A denial from her would only make him look worse—like she felt she had to defend him because he can’t defend himself.”

  There was a tense silence as that thought settled between them.

  “She cannot treat my son, my family, with such contempt. Do something about it, Alcott, or the merger is off.”

  “The merger can’t be off, Townsend. You know better. We have to go through with it if we intend to survive the next few years. Ships beating ours through that damnable Suez . . . tariffs gobbling up profits everywhere . . . investors and capital drying up . . .”

  Another prickly silence, which meant Horace Townsend either wouldn’t or couldn’t counter that argument. Lauren was shocked.

  “How long do you think it will take for Ledbetter to seize on this debacle?’” Horace changed focus. “If he does, it will take my boy years—years to live this down. Ledbetter has arms that reach from here to Bombay!”

  Lauren frowned. Ledbetter. The name was familiar—oh, the Undersecretary of Commerce. She had met him once, at the Earl of Margrave’s birthday celebration. He was a fusty sort . . . beady, ferretlike eyes and an ever-pursed mouth that made him look as if he’d sucked on a lemon. What on earth did he have to do with—it struck her that there was more going on with her father’s business than she imagined. Did that mean there was more to her betrothal to Rafe Townsend than just settling her in a suitable match while giving East Anglia access to Townsend’s fleet of ships?

  The voices in the study lowered so that it was hard to hear what was said next, and she would never stoop to pressing her ear against the door. She would learn soon enough what price her father and Horace Townsend would exact from her.

  She made her way upstairs and sat for some time staring at her only printed companions, the Bible and Mrs. Beeton’s. She refused to pick up either of them. She’d gotten as far as Exodus, and the scriptures seemed to be chock-full of rules and people breaking them thither and yon, and she simply couldn’t bear another revisit to the virtues of turpentine and beeswax as floor-polishing agents. If only she had a copy of her beloved Ivanhoe.

  * * *

  The agreed upon solution, she learned later, when called to her father’s study, was every bit as dreadful as she feared. Her father handed her a copy of The Examiner, open to an article that called her “the Angel of the River” and reported that she’d called her fiancé a coward.

  Sweet Heaven Above. A second one?

  “You will appear in public with Rafe Townsend, fully clothed and behaving pleasantly, and thus declare to all and sundry that the betrothal is still on and that you greatly admire your husband-to-be,” her father ordered. “You will demure, if asked outright, and say that the nonsense at the river was misinterpreted. You are to be, in every way, a modest and devoted bride-to-be.”

  “But—but—I cannot marry that man,” she protested, gripping the arms of her chair such that her fingers turned white. “After this business in the papers, he will hate me in earnest. How could you condemn me to marry a man who hates my very liver?”

  “I doubt it is your liver he takes issue with,” her father declared, leveling a steely gaze on her. “No one has set a date for the wedding. If things go well—” he swallowed hard and forced the words out—“there may not have to be one.”

  That took a moment to register.

  “What are you saying?” A flicker of hope ignited in the gloom settling over her. She held her tongue after that.

  “Just that you are to appear with him frequently and congenially . . . to lay to rest all question of his reputation and yours . . . to salvage the merger. The more convincing you are, the shorter this betrothal will be.”

  “You mean I don’t have to actually marry him? Just put up a good front in public until everyone forgets about the ‘cowardly fiancé’?”

  “That, I believe, would be the most favorable outcome for all concerned . . . since you are being a stubborn twit and he is being a complete horse’s arse. The pair of you have gotten us into this mess, and the pair of you will have to get us out of it. The sooner the better.”

  She teetered between hope and hor
ror, imagining her erstwhile groom’s reaction to that same ultimatum. She couldn’t imagine how Horace Townsend would frame such orders so they would be acceptable to his arrogant offspring. She remembered her vengeful pleasure at his shock as he sat in the water, his dignity in tatters. Just as she had to deal with the consequences of her action, he would have to weigh the consequences of his. No man of pride could bear being thought a coward. No matter how distasteful, he would eventually have to accept his father’s ultimatum.

  Good Lord. What had she done?

  Five

  The next afternoon Horace Townsend appeared in their grand entry hall with his irritable-looking son. Lauren’s father had ushered her into the grand parlor, after looking her over like a heifer at a country fair and deeming her fit for slaught—er, company. If it were up to her, she would have greeted her erstwhile fiancé in barn boots and a bathrobe.

  Aunt Amanda stood by the door, watching, as the Townsends were shown into the parlor. There was a moment of silence, an awkward greeting, and then the fathers retreated to the hall, closing the great doors behind them.

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” Amanda touched Lawrence’s arm, looking concerned. “Leaving them alone together?”

  “They are stuck together for who-knows-how-long. They have to work out their differences in private before they confront the world together.”

  * * *

  Lauren watched Rafe cross the room toward her and she took a nervous breath. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and moved with an assurance undimmed by his current infamy. She didn’t offer her hand, reasoning that he probably wouldn’t take it.

  They stood facing, assessing each other. She could feel his gaze roaming her blue woolen day dress and had the fleeting thought that she should have worn something better . . . to emphasize the measure of what he had lost by his arrogance, of course. When his gaze rose to rest on her face, she felt her cheeks begin to flush. It was as if he was examining her, truly searching and seeing her for the first time.

  Best to get it over with, she thought, and when he straightened, she realized she had said it aloud and may as well continue. “I am here to fulfill my father’s promise and to undo whatever damage was done to the merger of our families’ enterprises.” She clasped her hands at her waist and hoped he didn’t notice how white and bloodless they were.

  “I am here,” he said, clamping his hands behind his back, “because my father insists my reputation can only be repaired by the very agent who damaged it.”

  “Me.” She squared her shoulders. “You should know, then: My opinion of your behavior on the river has not changed. Though I am willing to credit that my words may have had a more detrimental effect than intended.”

  “If that is an apology, it’s a pitiful one.” He gave her an arch look.

  “It’s the only one you’ll get.” She raised her chin a notch, with only glancing eye contact. “Your behavior was at the very least—ungallant.”

  “Ungallant ? That is what you expect of a man? Gallantry?”

  “A true gentleman bears chivalry in the very core of his being,” she responded. It was clear the result of the river incident had given him no pause for self-examination. She realized she expected it would have, and once again was pitifully optimistic concerning him.

  “Then, by deduction, I am not your notion of a gentleman at all.” He lifted his chin and looked down his nose at her.

  “I am glad you see it so clearly,” she answered in a frosty tone.

  He scowled at her blunt appraisal and fired back. “Then you should know that you are not what I consider a proper lady. You are without a doubt the most impulsive and irrational female I have ever encountered. Shedding your clothes and diving headfirst into unknown waters to haul complete strangers to—”

  “I was not naked. And I believe strongly in doing what is helpful to those in difficulty, even if it means shocking those with excessively tender sensibilities.” She hurled those last words like javelins. When they struck he pushed back the sides of his coat to plant his fists at his waist.

  “Oh, so, expecting one’s betrothed to remain fully clothed and in the safety of a boat makes my sensibilities prudish?”

  “When juxtaposed to two women’s lives, yes. Fair warning: I would strip off my garments and dive in again if no one else saw fit to act.”

  He looked as if he was collecting himself for a flaming condemnation of her unladylike determination. A moment later, as she searched his hazel eyes and ridiculously handsome jaw, she saw him exhale heavily and sensed he had come to a decision.

  “Fine.” He relaxed his stance and allowed his coat to fall together again. “If that is the way you wish to proceed, we will bear each other’s company in public. Just, please, do me the courtesy of letting me know in advance that you’re likely to strip off your clothes so I can be prepared with a horse blanket.”

  She stared at him for a moment as that image bloomed vividly in her mind . . . him chasing her half-naked form around with a horse blanket. She pursed her lips to contain a laugh.

  “Again the Townsend charm rears its scaly head,” she said tartly. “Perhaps it’s best if you don’t show much of that when we are in public.”

  “As long as you don’t revert to your penchant for exhibitionism, I believe I can rein in my devastating charm.”

  She narrowed her eyes and he smiled in a way that was intolerably smug. He’d scored in their duel of wits and he knew it.

  “Very well. We’re stuck with each other for a time,” she said, moving to the sofa and sitting down with emphatic grace. “I think it best we plan an outing or two . . . to be seen together . . . devoted bride and doting groom.” She made a gagging expression that widened his eyes.

  “Is there anything about you that is normal?” he asked, coming to stand before her with feet apart and arms crossed . . . a colossus of decorum and rectitude.

  “If by ‘normal’ you mean ‘ordinary,’ I am afraid not.”

  “Did you have a strange or alarming childhood? Were you repeatedly dropped on your head or locked in a dark wardrobe?”

  “Absolutely not. I recall it as a rather pleasant time.”

  “Remarkable.” He took a deep breath and said, as if to himself, “Delusions that strong are rare.”

  Her cheeks burned and she clamped her lips tighter. Remaining civil was going to take more effort than she thought.

  “Do be seated.” She waved a hand at the chairs facing the settee. “Your hovering is most unpleasant.”

  To her surprise, he sank onto the settee beside her. She drew back, hoping her dismay wasn’t too obvious. Did he have to sit beside her?

  “I shall need some information in order to plan our public romance.” He said the last word with excessive emphasis. “I don’t suppose you ride.”

  “I am good with horses. I learned to ride when I was four.”

  He seemed oddly disappointed.

  “Are you fond of music? The opera? Do you dance?”

  “Yes, no, and yes, happily.”

  He nodded as he sorted those answers.

  “Are you frightened of heights?”

  “Heights?” She frowned. “I have no idea. But I suggest we avoid finding out the hard way.”

  His mouth quirked up on one side, and she began to think that planning their itinerary was something she should have a hand in.

  “Do you read, Mr. Townsend? Other than racing forms and scandal sheets, I mean.”

  “I do read. Quite a bit, actually.” He ignored her barb.

  “I don’t suppose you have ever read Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe?”

  “No.” He looked pensive. “Isn’t that a novel? I avoid novels.”

  “Not surprising,” she said, ranging ahead in her thoughts. “Do you support a charity? Have a favorite foundling home or hospital to help?”

  “I leave such things to wild-eyed reformers.”

  “Do you attend Sunday services?”

  “Rarely.” At least he was h
onest about that.

  “It shows,” she said, finding herself gazing at his face—elegantly cut features and full lips—and feeling an alarming, twiddly sensation in her middle. She resettled herself on her seat. “In the interest of fairness, I believe we should take turns planning outings to demonstrate our renewed betrothal. You take one day, I’ll take the next.”

  “We have to see each other every day?” His voice was strangled, as if those words were a sentence handed down under black silk.

  “The sooner we convince society and those wretched gossip papers that we have mended our differences, the sooner they will lose interest and leave us alone,” she reasoned aloud. “After a week or two we can reduce to two or three days a week and the occasional dinner party . . . then once a week. . . .”

  “I see where this is going,” he said flatly. “And we can’t reach that destination too quickly, as far as I am concerned.”

  “Tomorrow is Sunday. I attend services at eleven o’clock at the Church of St Ambrose, so you could—”

  “Not be there,” he broke in, moving to the edge of his seat.

  “I’ll be too busy sleeping off a bugger of a hangover that will last until Monday morning. Hopefully, that will be enough time to prepare myself for another encounter with you.”

  He rose and strode for the doors, where he paused while opening them. “There is an exhibition of Machinery for Innovation at Upwell Hall. I’ve been meaning to take it in. There are recent improvements in power mechanics and machinery that could help a project I am working on.”

  She rose, wondering what sort of project would interest a man who was so thoroughly self-absorbed. The fact that she was curious about that should have given her pause, but she reminded herself she had to spend time with him in public, and knowing more about him might be useful.

  “I shall call for you at ten on Monday,” he said, tugging on his vest.

  And he was gone.

  She hurried to the door in time to see him accept his hat, gloves, and walking stick from Weathersby, then stride out the door. Long, graceful strides of long, powerful legs. She had to pull her gaze away. Why were women’s legs always “limbs,” when men got to use the more anatomical “legs”? Men’s and women’s appendages weren’t all that different, were they?