by Betina Krahn
She raised her skirts to stare at her stocking-clad calves and feet.
To imply that women were more delicate? Weaker?
Little did they know.
* * *
Barnaby Pinkum jammed the last glorious bite of beefsteak in his mouth and closed his eyes as he chewed, savoring the taste of his celebratory meal. He sat in a far corner of Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese just off Fleet Street, ignoring the rude camaraderie of his fellow hacks. He had just devoured most of his payment for the “River Rescue” story, which he managed to sell to two scandal rags in quick succession. He was feeling rather satisfied as he drained the last of his pint of stout and gave a belch that would have done a duke proud.
He was on the verge of ordering another pint when he looked up and spotted the second page editor of The Examiner ducking through the low entrance door. Barnaby’s eyes widened and he looked around for an escape route, but his habit of squirreling away in the corner nook had him trapped. Cigar-chewing Angus Harrell headed straight for him and arrived before he could bolt.
“There you are,” Harrell declared with enough volume to draw attention in the pub. Most of the regulars had sold him stories at one time or another and knew he seldom came out of his editorial den to visit the newswriters’ favorite haunt. He stopped in front of the corner table, blocking any exit and chewing the stubby end of his unlit cigar. His voice lowered to a growl. “Got a proposition for you, Pinkum.”
Barnaby sank warily back onto his seat when Harrell gestured to him to sit. He figured he was in for a trashing, owing to the fact that he’d sold the river story to Harrell and The Examiner only after selling it to The Morning Post.
“I–I meant to s-say—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Harrell said around his clamped cigar. “We got it second—some damnable arse got it to The Post ahead of us. But we did it better. Pictures, that’s what sells papers. And they bought ours in droves, my boy. Best sales we’ve seen in weeks. People want to read more about this ‘heroine’ of yours. Too much bad news lately—bankruptcies, tariffs, no jobs. Have to give ’em a change, and your girl is just the ticket.”
“Don’t know what more I can get. Old Man Alcott threatened me with the law when I tried to question him,” Barnaby said, quickly recalculating the odds of turning this bit of luck into a more substantial boon. Harrell clearly didn’t know he’d sold the story twice and now wanted him to write more for The Examiner. With a little ingenuity, he might get three or four more stories out of it.
“What else has she done?” Harrell paused for a moment. “A twitch like that, she’s got history—I’d lay money on it. See what people know about her. And if you can’t find anything, keep an eye out and make whatever does happen sound ‘heroic.’”
“And if I do—” Barnaby produced a cagey look “—will it go on the front page?”
The second page editor laughed. “News on the front page? Who the hell would buy that?” Then he thought for a moment and met Barnaby’s gaze. “If it’s good enough, it could lead the second page . . . above the fold, with illustrations and . . . maybe . . . a signature.”
A signature piece! Something seldom granted to even the most respected reporters. Barnaby grinned, and Harrell stepped back to wave him out of the corner. “What are you waitin’ for? Go get me a story for Wednesday’s edition.”
* * *
Rafe entered the bar at his club that evening to find a boisterous group of young scions gathered there. He sighed quietly, thinking he perhaps should seek liquid solace elsewhere, when he spotted his friend and sometime housemate, Barclay Howard, tucked into a corner table nursing a drink. Barr’s shoulders were rounded—if those broad planks of muscle and sinew could ever be considered round—and he wore a scowl on his sharply chiseled face. At the sight of Rafe, Barclay’s expression lightened, then drifted to the pack of well-dressed imbibers.
With a deep breath, Rafe sank to a seat beside Barclay. His friend raised a glass.
“Here’s to the bravest bastard in the room,” he said before tossing back the liquor.
“I take it you’ve heard about my misadventure,” Rafe said, signaling the barman to bring him a drink and another for his friend.
Barclay made a motion to the group at the bar. “We all have. It’s spread like wildfire.” He paused to search Rafe visually. “The girl really dumped you? You, the prince of propriety? The disciple of duty?”
“She tried. Apparently I’m harder to jilt than the average son of privilege. Family and business mixed. I fear we’re stuck with each other.”
Barclay studied him for a moment, glimpsing the gloom beneath his polished surface. “Maybe we should go somewhere else to—”
“Well, well. Look who’s here!” came the strident voice of a fellow swerving his way from the bar to their table with a handful of similarly inebriated fellows trailing behind. “The lily-livered bridegroom!”
“You’re pissing drunk, Fitzroy,” Rafe said, his jaw tightening, “as well as rude and annoying. I suggest you go home and sleep it off.”
“Ooooh,” Fitzroy crowed with a well-lubricated sneer. “That takes bollocks, tellin’ me to go home—when it’s your presence that fouls the company.” He tossed a glance over his shoulder at his followers. “Hear that, my good fellows? The coward thinks you an’ me should go home.” Rafe rose, ignoring Barclay’s insistent grip on his arm. He knew where this was headed, and some part of him welcomed it. Counting the odds—five to one—he scarcely noticed Barclay pushing up with a muttered oath to stand beside him. He took a deep breath and started around Fitzroy, who laughed harshly and gave him a shove. Rafe caught his balance. A second later he straightened and turned back . . . his fist aimed dead-center for Fitzroy’s face.
Six
Monday morning came sooner than Lauren wished. She rose early, breakfasted in her room, then set about selecting something suitable to wear for ogling machinery. Nothing too frilly or too plain. She must look as if she was trying to please her groom-to-be. Though God knew what sort of female apparel would suit Mr. Tall, Fair, and Arrogant.
She emptied her wardrobe, holding garment after garment to her and examining their potential in the cheval mirror. Dresses, skirts, and blouses were strewn all around her bedroom when Aunt Amanda appeared.
“What on earth?” She looked around at the chaos.
“What do you think? I have to look nice but not overly stylish, feminine but not flirtatious.” She scowled and rubbed her forehead. “Machinery.” She paused. “Anything with ruffles or lace is definitely out.”
When Amanda didn’t say anything Lauren turned to look at her.
“I’m so sorry you have to go through this,” Amanda said with a rueful expression. “Stuck with that man for days . . . having to put a good face on it. I tried to talk to Lawrence, but . . .”
Lauren felt a tug of something uncomfortably like guilt.
“It’s my fault for spouting off when I should have been more discreet. I don’t give a fig about Rafe Townsend’s pride, but I know now how much Papa is counting on this merger. The other night, when I heard them talking, he and Mr. Townsend both seemed to believe it is critical.” She halted and gazed at the garments strewn around.
“At least these outings get me out of prison.” With a flash of inspiration, she picked up a royal-blue woolen jacket with a tailored peplum and paired it with a pale golden skirt trimmed in matching blue cording. “There.” She held the items to her for Amanda’s inspection. “What do you think?”
“If you’re not careful, you’ll charm Rafe Townsend into second thoughts.”
“It’s not him I need to charm,” she said wryly. “It’s whoever might be watching us.”
* * *
Rafe braced as he stood in the entry hall at Alcott House and forced himself to focus on the grace of the marble floor, the smoothly carved banisters, and the pedestal table in the center, set with an arrangement of pink and white flowers. What he recalled of their parlor was equally pleasant. The Alcott
s didn’t go in for gaudy, Louis XIV gilding or the dark faux Tudor interiors in vogue with the just-monied class. It was a relief to find himself surrounded by clean, Hepplewhite-style furnishings, and to realize that someone here favored damask drapes that actually admitted light through the house’s large windows.
Though, at the moment, he could have used a bit less light. His head was pounding and his eyes—caught on a figure at the top of the stairs.
Her hair was up and capped by a blue, swallow-shaped hat. He forced his eyes wider to take in the stylish, two-piece ensemble that was tailored closely to her noteworthy figure. The color of her jacket brought out the blue of her eyes and the gold of the skirt seemed to echo the highlights of her chestnut hair. Every perfectly groomed strand of her appearance was braided into an air of confidence.
His swollen eye throbbed from the effort of concentrating. . . or her impact. Whatever the cause, he couldn’t take his aching gaze from her.
“I hope this machinery of yours won’t be dirty,” she said, floating down the last few steps, readying her gloves. “This is my favorite skirt.”
“Good morning to you, too.” He tried to shake off that fascination.
“Whether it is a good morning or not is yet to be—” She halted a few feet away to don her gloves and looked up. Her eyes widened. “Your eye.” She edged closer, inspecting his face. “And your lip. What happened to you?”
She seemed genuinely concerned, but he remained silent.
“You have a black eye, a swollen cheek, and a cut lip.” She stepped closer, examining him and coming to the all-too-accurate conclusion: “You were in a fight.”
He summoned the explanation he had planned.
“I ran into some old boys from school.”
She searched his injured face and after a moment landed her gaze on his. He could see her arranging facts into questions.
“I take it spirits were involved. Were you injured elsewhere? Ribs? Hands?” She reached for his hand and studied the bruising on his knuckles.
“I am perfectly fine. We should be going. This exhibit—”
“Can wait,” she declared, removing the one glove she had donned. Before he could react she was touching his face, testing the bruising. He winced but didn’t draw back. Her fingers felt cool and oddly welcome.
“We have to do something about this,” she said, taking him by the arm and pulling him toward the parlor.
“I’ve already done beefsteak,” he grumbled, surprised by the force she could summon. “It will be fine in a couple of days.”
“We don’t have a couple of days. If reporters see you like this”—she hesitated for a moment—“they’ll probably write that I did it.”
He had to credit that. His face hurt when he smiled.
She led him to the settee and ordered him to sit—which he surprised himself by doing—before she left the room. He heard her talking to someone, and she returned minutes later with a tray containing a bowl of hot water, what smelled like brewing tea, and some linen.
“What the devil is that?” He peered into the bowl.
“It will reduce the swelling.” She dumped the soaked tea leaves onto the thin cloth, then gathered the folds around it to form a poultice of sorts.
“Tea? You’re putting tea leaves on my eye?”
“You’re going to put it on your eye. I’m just preparing it.” She put the bag into his hand and then bent his arm to bring the poultice to his eye.
It was hot at first, but he quickly got used to it, and when she tucked a pillow behind his head he let her urge his head back onto it. There was a rustle of skirts and then all was quiet. He opened his good eye and found himself alone. What brought about this sudden surge of compassion toward him? He had half-expected, half-hoped she would refuse to be seen with him in such a condition in public. He closed both eyes and relaxed.
Sometime later he started awake with the cooled poultice on his face and sat up abruptly. The poultice dropped and scattered damp tea leaves all over. He looked up to find her seated nearby.
“I . . . must have dozed off. It fell . . .”
“I doubt it will stain.” She knelt on the rug beside him to collect the linen and as many of the damp leaves as she could. “How is your eye feeling?”
He sat forward, dusting stray tea leaves from his coat, and had to admit it seemed less swollen. It certainly was easier to open.
“I believe your remedy may have some merit,” he said.
She paused on her knees beside him and looked up. Her eyes seemed bigger and softer than he had ever seen them. He was drawn into her gaze and felt a strange, warming sensation, akin to the effects of a draught of strong whiskey spreading through him.
* * *
Lauren sank back onto her heels, looking up at him, unsettled by his gaze. Those beautiful hazel eyes . . . just now seemed less guarded.
She had spent the last quarter of an hour watching him, trying to make sense of his battered condition. Someone had given him a good trouncing. She had found her hands curling into fists and her protective instincts rising. Then she looked to his damaged knuckles and realized he must have dealt a few blows himself. Imagine him fighting.
Now she was staring into his eyes in a way she had never done with a man before. Searching and being searched. It was alarmingly intimate.
She pulled back, and her knees trembled as she rose and emptied her hands onto the tray. As she wiped her hands with a damp cloth, she looked up to find him standing close and staring at her.
“We should be going. That machinery won’t admire itself.” Something—embarrassment, or a new sense of vulnerability—made her add, “It’s not a Townsend after all.”
She caught a quick glimpse of his frown as she turned to head for the hall. When Weathersby opened the front door for them moments later, she felt more in control . . . until she saw their conveyance: an enclosed, two-person cab. She would have to sit cheek-by-jowl with him.
“Just where is this Upwell Hall?” she asked.
“Near the shipyards.”
She paused for a moment. “Unlikely to be reporters there. We shall have to go someplace more public afterward. I assume you have made reservations for luncheon.”
* * *
It was all Rafe could do to contain a groan. Was she going to be like this all day? Terse. Focused. Vaguely dismissive. But the moment she started down the front walk, he found himself staring fixedly at the small bustle swaying with each step she took. Not extravagant, it was just enough to seize his gaze and raise a memory of that very derrière outlined by clinging wet linen.
He stood, transfixed, until she reached the door of the cab.
“From now on we shall take our carriage and make certain the top is down,” she said.
As he settled in the cab beside her, she produced a book from under her arm and thrust it into his hands.
“What’s this?” He turned the book over in his hands with a frown.
“A book you should read,” she answered with an emphatic look.
The smooth leather cover and the disturbed edges of the pages said it had been read before . . . repeatedly . . . probably by her. He looked at the spine. Sir Walter Scott. Ivanhoe.
“I’m not interested in fairy tales.” He tried to hand it back.
“There is not a single fairy in it.” She pushed the book back to him. “You may find it enlightening.”
Still frowning, he opened the cover, and on the third page was a color plate of a handsome knight on a fine destrier, charging off into battle. A knight. He gave a quiet huff of sufferance and wedged the book on the seat between them, sensing that whatever it contained was probably the opposite of what she considered him to be. Was this a taunt?
Damned cheeky female.
* * *
Barnaby Pinkum waited until they were settled in the cab and crept around the brick-and-ironwork fence to spring for the rear of the cab. His favorite form of travel . . . hitching rides on the rear of cabs paid for by unsus
pecting swells. It was times like this that he was grateful for his small stature. Neither the cabbie nor his quarry realized he was there.
* * *
The exhibition Townsend intended to subject her to was held at Upwell, an old shipwrights’ guild hall in the Docklands. It was a large, dreary brick building set with few windows but a number of doors, some clearly made for the passage of large freight or wagons bearing equipment. As they exited the cab she noticed he had left the book behind on the seat. With a huff of annoyance she picked it up.
As he helped her down from the cab she spotted a man in a dusty bowler and checkered coat watching them and had the feeling she had seen him before. Was he one of the men in front of their house three nights ago? How on earth would a reporter find them here? As a precaution, she took Rafe’s arm and made sure to smile at her intended.
Inside the hall, machinery of various kinds had been set up on platforms, identified by placards and attended by men wearing suits or coveralls. Some of the machines were scaled models of engines, others were motors or components of equipment used in manufacturing. Numerous spectators, all male, strolled the alleys between exhibits and stopped to question the representatives about their wares. It was busier than it had appeared outside.
Over the noise and bustle had settled a miasma of machine oil, hot rubber, and traces of smoke from coal burning in nearby boilers. The tang in the air pricked her nose and made her eyes water. It was a clattering, chugging, smelly display unlike anything she had ever witnessed. She was on the way to being ripely annoyed until she read the banner strung across the exhibit floor. These machines, it said with pride, drove English military and industrial might. They had built and were continuing to build an empire for the ages.
Why on earth would he bring her to such a place?
Rafe’s arm under her hand tightened and his eyes brightened as he spoke with one exhibitor after another until he found the one he was most interested in.
