Caroline peered out the window. Under the cloudy April sky, a crowd of mostly women stood before a stone barn to listen to Beatrice Walker speak in favor of women’s rights.
A bolt of excitement shot through Caroline. She lowered the black mourning veil of her widow’s weeds—the perfect disguise. She couldn’t afford to have some gossipmonger inform Father they’d seen her here when he returned from his diplomatic meeting in Paris. He wouldn’t approve of her attendance, nor her intention to write an article about Miss Walker for the London Reformer.
Ha! An understatement. Father detested the progressive newspaper. What would he do if he discovered she was C. M. Smith, the paper’s most notorious journalist? Everyone believed Smith was a man.
The cabbie flung open the door and flashed a gap-toothed grin.
Caroline alighted the vehicle. “You’ll wait for me, sir?”
“Indeed, miss.”
Clutching her folded umbrella, she lifted the hem of her plain black dress and strode up the dirt drive to the rear of the crowd.
Miss Walker, a sturdy woman of tall stature, stepped onto a crate to address the group. The suffragist thrust out her pointy chin and cleared her throat. The chattering in the crowd lowered to a hum. “Today, I will speak about the inequalities women must contend with.”
A short man standing next to Caroline shouted, “’Tis a bunch of rubbish.”
Caroline turned to him. “Sir, do you mind? I wish to listen.”
He harrumphed. “To this hogwash?”
“Go home, you dried up ol’ spinster!” a beefy man wearing a crumpled brown suit yelled at Miss Walker from where he stood near the front of the crowd.
“Go find yourself a husband,” a third man shouted.
In all her twenty years, Caroline had never seen an orator treated so shabbily. As if used to this type of abuse, the suffragist continued speaking without blinking an eye.
The rude man next to Caroline pulled an egg from his coat pocket and pulled his arm back.
Oh, the audacity of the little weasel! Caroline lifted her umbrella and cracked it down on the man’s head.
The egg flew out of his hand, sailed to the right of Beatrice Walker, and struck the fellow wearing the brown suit.
Red-faced, the man with yolk spattered on his coat uttered several obscenities. He removed his soiled garment, tossed it to the ground, and stormed toward the egg-thrower with his fist raised. “McAlister, that’s me best coat. You were supposed to hit her. Not me, you bloody sod!”
A handful of women chastised the man for his profanity. Then all hell broke loose. A cacophony of raised voices filled the air. Men and women argued. The rude weasel and the beefy fellow rolled on the ground in a cloud of dust, while Beatrice Walker continued speaking in an elevated voice as if nothing were amiss.
A petite, gray-haired matron, who looked to be a century old, batted her umbrella at every male in sight. She swung it at a rotund man in front of Caroline.
The man ducked.
The nib of the umbrella caught Caroline’s veil and her hat took flight like a lame bird—tumbling and twirling to the ground. She glanced around. God help her if there was anyone here she knew. Shielding her face with her hand, she crouched and reached for the hat.
Someone kicked the rim, and it sailed several yards away.
Drat! On her hands and knees, she weaved between the feet of the unruly mob. Her fingers were a mere inch from the hat when a foot landed on the gauzy veil. She peered up—past knee-high boots, past thick muscular thighs, and past a wide chest and broad shoulders.
The gentleman, dressed in black trousers and a cutaway riding coat, set his fisted hands on his lean hips and peered at the melee.
His dark eyes, straight nose, and high cheekbones gave him a stern countenance. The silky waves of his black hair softened his features, but the tight set of his jaw added to his severe appearance.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded in a loud, authoritative voice.
As if the devil rose to stand before them, several women gasped, as did a few men.
Caroline stood and stepped back.
The gentleman’s dark glower settled on her.
A spark exploded in her stomach and a bead of sweat trickled down her spine.
Everyone stood quiet and still, even Beatrice Walker.
With a scowl, the newcomer moved to where the wiry, egg-throwing weasel sat atop the larger man on the ground. He grabbed the weasel by the scruff of his coat and lifted him as if he weighed no more than a babe. “McAlister, what’s this about?”
The weasel’s mouth opened but nothing came out.
“I’m waiting,” the gentleman said.
“’Tis not me fault, m’lord.” The scoundrel jabbed a finger toward Caroline. “’Tis hers.”
She squared her shoulders and swallowed the lump in her throat. “It is not, sir.”
“’Tis too!” the weasel insisted. “You struck me with your umbrella.”
The stern-faced gentleman cocked a dark, slashing brow at her. “Did you?”
The low, menacing timbre of his voice made her legs weak. She tilted her chin up. She was an independent woman. Well, not yet, but if all went as planned, one day she would be, and independent women didn’t cower to men, even ones with broad shoulders and muscular arms and legs.
“Indeed I did, but he was about to toss an egg at Miss Walker.”
His piercing gaze swung back to McAlister. “Is that true?”
“Y-yes, m’lord, but ’twas a very small egg.”
The gentleman motioned to a thin man standing behind him, a constable of some sort by the look of his black uniform and top hat. “Ingles, I think McAlister needs to spend a night in jail, contemplating his actions.”
Having made his pronouncement, he returned his attention to her. “Your name, madam?”
Caroline nibbled her lower lip. Mentioning Father might get her out of this mess, but when Papa found out, he’d be so vexed he would banish her to that Anglican convent in Oxfordshire—his favorite threat when displeased.
The gentleman took a single step toward her. With his long legs, it brought them face-to-face. Well, really, face to chest.
“Madam, you try my temper.”
Nervous energy coursed through her. She stepped back. Her feet tangled with the man still lying on the ground. Arms flailing like a whirligig, she tumbled backward. Her bum, then shoulders, hit the hard, compacted dirt, followed by her head. The impact of her skull hitting the ground resonated in her ears. Flashes of light danced with splotches of black.
The gentleman knelt beside her, his face almost obliterated by the dark patches that floated before her eyes. He spoke. Muffled words she couldn’t grasp. Strong arms lifted her. The spicy scent of shaving soap filled her nose, then darkness enveloped her, dragging her into a sunless pit.
* * *
James Trent, the Marquess of Huntington, braced his hands on his desk and tried to hold his temper in check as he stared at Dr. Clark. Did the physician seriously want him to keep the injured woman here at Trent Hall? “Why can’t you take her to your residence?”
The doctor blushed like a debutante with a randy suitor’s hand up her skirt. “My lord, I am a bachelor.”
What the bloody hell did the doctor think James was? His wife had died two years ago. The physician was new in Helmsford, but surely the village biddies had shared the wicked gossip about Henrietta’s death—that James had played a role in his wife’s passing. He arched a brow at the man.
The doctor nervously shuffled his feet, confirming the tattlers had. “As . . . as are you, my lord, but you have your siblings residing with you, whereas I live alone.”
Siblings. That might have made things better in society’s eyes, but not in reality. Yesterday, Anthony arrived home from Cambridge, and already the rascal was down at the Hog and Thistle probably bedding one of the serving girls. And now James would have to worry whether the young buck would attempt to bed this woman while under
James’s protection.
Would attempt? Hell and fire, once his brother set eyes on her, he’d salivate like a dog after a beef joint. The chit was too lovely by half with her extraordinary green eyes, delicate face, and light brown hair with threads of gold.
“How long must she recover?”
The physician tapped a finger to his chin. “Hard to say. Injuries to the head are unpredictable. Perhaps a week.”
“A week!” He snapped his nib pen in two.
The doctor paled.
“Did you find out if she has family? Where she hails from?” James asked.
“When she regained consciousness, she inquired about her veil. I presume it was lost in the scuffle. Then she mentioned she needed to return to London posthaste. She was most insistent it be today. When I told her she must not travel, she became overwrought. So much so, I felt compelled to give her a tincture. She is sleeping now.”
James tossed the broken pen on the desk. “Send me your bill.”
The physician nodded and left without another word.
Releasing a heavy breath, James picked up a financial report that had arrived this morning from his business partners, Simon Marlton and Hayden Westfield.
The office door swung inward and Georgie walked in.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in the schoolroom?” he asked the youngest and least troublesome of his three siblings.
His eight-year-old brother sat in one of the chairs facing the desk and swung his legs back and forth. “Mr. Harkins dozed off right in the middle of my math lesson. He’s snoring so loud I’m getting a headache.”
James leaned back and ran a hand over his jaw. Harkins was obviously getting too old to tutor, but James disliked the thought of pensioning the man off. The tutor had no family, and he feared the scholar would be lost without the employment. Harkins had served them well, having been both his and Anthony’s teacher. The latter having caused the tutor’s gray hair.
No, he’d not send the man away.
“What arithmetic function were you working on?”
“The multiplication of fives.” Georgie wrinkled his nose.
James stood and ruffled the lad’s hair. “Very well. Go get your paper and pencil. We shall work on them together.”
A moment after Georgie darted from the room, the door to James’s office flew open again. Anthony swaggered in with easy, loose-limbed strides. His brother’s disheveled clothes implied he’d been up to no good. The reprobate would be fortunate if he didn’t end up with the French pox or shot by some outraged husband before his twenty-second birthday.
His brother sank into the leather chair Georgie had vacated. “James, you have to hear the rubbish people are spouting at the Hog and Thistle.”
Sitting, James kneaded the back of his neck. He didn’t wish to learn what the local gossips were saying, since it usually revolved around him.
“They say you lost your temper at Wickham’s grange, where that suffragist Beatrice Walker spoke. Pushed some chit down and knocked her right out. It’s outrageous what the denizens of this backwater whisper.”
Pushed? Of course they would accuse him of such a villainous act. He should be used to their prattle. He’d gone there to make sure law and order prevailed. Beatrice Walker had a right to civility, but as always, he now found himself the center of gossip. He’d left London and come to the country to escape all the malicious talk about his wife’s death, hoping for a small measure of peace and quiet. Was it too much to ask for? Apparently, yes.
The door swung open again, and Nina fluttered in. His sister’s fair cheeks were high in color. “Who’s that woman in the blue drawing room sleeping on the chaise longue? And why didn’t anyone tell me Dr. Clark was here?” She touched her temple. “I’m sure I feel a headache coming on. He could have attended me.”
James gritted his teeth. Nina’s fascination with the doctor and every other male disconcerted him.
Anthony’s eyes grew round. His brother sprang to his feet. “A woman? Good God, James, it’s not true what they’re saying, is it?”
“Blister it, Anthony. You know I would never harm a woman.”
His brother’s face turned red. “Yes, I apologize. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
James took a deep breath. “I have work to do, so if you’ll both be on your way.”
“But who’s that woman?” Nina repeated.
Standing, James set a hand on his sister’s back and ushered her to the door, motioning Anthony to follow. “It appears she is our houseguest. Tell Langley to task one of the footmen with relocating her to the bedchamber next to mine.” It would be the best way to ensure Anthony didn’t visit her. He shepherded his siblings over the threshold.
“The room next to yours,” his siblings said in unison.
“Yes,” he replied, closing the door on their gaping mouths.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
RENEE ANN MILLER writes sexy historical romances. She’s a 2015 & 2016 finalist in the prestigious Golden Heart Contest® from Romance Writers of America®. Renee loves romantic stories, excessive amounts of chocolate, and gardening. She lives in the Northeast with her wonderful husband. You can find out more about Renee and the stories she’s working on at www.reneeannmiller.com and connect with her on Twitter @reneeannmiller.
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