by Tarah Scott
He strode down the street, headed for the townhouse stables when a woman called out, “Lord Monthemer, is that you? Oh my, but it is you.”
Adam didn’t recognize the voice, but he recognized the tone of a determined mama who now had him in her sights. He grimaced and quickened his step, as if not having heard her.
“Sir,” she called.
The quick click of heels on the walkway told him she was hurrying after him. Bloody hell. A woman willing to chase a man down the street was a dangerous woman, indeed.
“Sir.” The woman was so close he swore he could feel her breath on the back of his neck.
Adam halted and turned. Then wished he hadn’t. He remembered all too well the woman, Mrs. Walker. She had a daughter, a sweet young girl who belonged anywhere but the jungle of a ballroom. Mrs. Walker, however, was determined to get a title for her daughter at all costs and cared not one whit that her country daughter was shunned by the females of society and hunted by desperate males who would rut between her legs, then spend her money.
“Mrs. Walker.” He bowed.
She halted in front of him, heaving so loudly he feared the large woman would collapse. “I-I am s-so pleased to see you, sir.”
“It is always a pleasure to see you, madam. I am late for an appointment, however.”
“Oh-oh, of course. I am hosting a party. I am not certain where to send your invitation.”
“I am afraid I am not staying in Town,” he replied.
Panic shone in her eyes. “But the party is tonight. Surely, you will be here tonight? Lucy is so looking forward to seeing you.” She leaned a little closer and said in a conspiratorial tone, “My husband has an important matter to discuss with you.”
Adam gave her a cool smile. “He will have to forgive me, but my business cannot wait.”
He gave another small bow and started to turn. She grasped his sleeve. Adam stiffened.
Her eyes widened and she released him. “Oh, but you must forgive me, my lord. It is just…” Tears welled in her eyes.
Adam checked the anger that rushed to the surface. The woman was a master manipulator.
“You see—” she broke off. “Well, my husband will be very angry with me for telling you—”
“Then perhaps you should not tell me,” he cut in.
“I know it is not the done thing,” she said, and Adam ignored the two women who stared as they passed. “But my husband—good man that he is,” she continued, “does not understand the heart of a young girl. You see, Lucy, well, she has formed a, ah, that is, she has formed an affection for you.”
“Mrs. Walker, your daughter is barely out of the school room, seventeen, if I recall. Any attachment she might have formed for me”—and he felt certain she hadn’t—“will dissolve when the next handsome young man asks her to dance.”
He wished the right man would ask her to dance, but knew it mattered not. Mrs. Walker cared more for her climb up society’s ladder than she did her daughter’s happiness.
“I wish you well.” Without another word, he turned and walked down the street. If the infernal woman followed him, this time, he would run.
Minutes later, Adam turned on the cobblestoned lane and caught sight of a slender figure emerging from the rear gate of townhouse Number ninety-one. Beatrice, he realized. She carried a basket, and this time, she wore a worn brown velvet spencer and a peach-colored morning dress that clung sensuously to her curves. She had pinned her brown curls under a simple bonnet. She hurried down the street and disappeared around the far corner. He quickened his pace and followed.
He caught sight of her up ahead conversing with a woman hawking oranges out of a wheelbarrow. He arrived as Beatrice dropped a penny in the woman’s outstretched hand.
“Thank ye kindly, miss,” the street hawker grinned. “Pick your six.”
Beatrice looked up at his approach. Surprise flickered in her eyes. “Mr. MacAlister, how...interesting to see you here this morning.” She returned her attention to the street hawker and chose her fruit. A slight twitch of her lip betrayed her pleasure at his presence.
By God, was she toying with him? As the street vendor trundled away, he stepped closer to Beatrice. “Call me Adam.”
She wrinkled her nose into a smile. “Only if you call me s-uh—” She clapped her hand over her mouth and hiccupped. Her brown eyes sparkled over her fingers as she continued with a slightly strangled laugh. “Why, I beg your pardon. Call me, Beatrice.”
He angled his head in acknowledgement. “I’d be delighted. You’re out early this morning.”
“Hold out your arm,” she ordered.
“Hold out my arm?” It was an odd request, though he did as she asked.
She deftly looped the basket handle over his arm. “I need someone to carry this for me.”
His gaze caught on her lips, lips that could bring a man to his knees. “Perhaps there’s a price for my help,” he murmured.
“Indeed, there is,’ she said in a businesslike manner. “Few can afford the honor of my company. But for you, sir, I shall bestow the gift of my company freely. My aunt—my mistress’s aunt—is in sore need of Dr. Anderson’s Pills. Do you know the way to the apothecary?”
“I do.” He affected a low bow. “This way, Beatrice.” They set off down the street at a leisurely pace, him carrying the basket. “That was a fine animal I saw you riding yesterday. I’m surprised your mistress allowed you to ride.”
Beatrice laughed. “She was exceedingly displeased, but the mare needed exercise.”
“Is your mistress that difficult?” he asked.
“Is she? Why yes, I suppose she is. I had to sneak out today before she awoke. She’ll be furious to find me gone.”
He frowned. “Why? How else does she expect you to run your errands?”
She shrugged. “As I said, she is not easy to deal with. Plus, she is fretting over the upcoming ball.”
“I thought you said she did not wish to marry the marquess.”
Beatrice nodded. “Which is why she is fretting.”
A group of sooty men barreled around the corner of a candle shop. Adam grabbed Beatrice’s arm and pulled her aside just in time to keep the men from knocking her over.
Beatrice looked up into his face, and Adam stared into kind brown eyes that made him wish he were a simpler man. When he’d fallen in love with Lena, he’d been glad to be a rich earl. He hadn’t fooled himself. If not for his money, she wouldn’t have looked at him twice. Now, he wished for nothing more than a quiet life and perhaps a beautiful woman to smile at him as did Beatrice. Adam jarred and realized he was staring. Hell, she was staring back.
He released her and she exclaimed, “Oh, dear, we have lost two of the oranges.”
One lay on the walk near him, the other rolled slowly toward the edge of the curb. She lunged with the clear intent of catching the orange before it rolled into the street. Adam seized her arm and yanked her back as the orange dropped off the curb and into the street just in time to be squashed by the front wheel of a passing carriage.
Beatrice yanked her head up, a deep frown on her face. “Why did you do that? Now I have lost an orange.”
He released her and scooped up the nearby orange, then dropped it back into the basket. “I do not think an orange is worth your life. Are you always so impetuous, riding horses while dressed in breeches and trying to fight a carriage for an orange?”
“I promise you, sir, my ride in breeches was well planned.”
Adam blinked. Then laughed—hard. “Someday, I may ask you to explain.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?”
She eyed him for an instant, as if uncertain he might bite, and he was surprised to find he half wanted to. Beatrice slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, and they resumed their walk. Adam allowed her to chatter on about the vendors hawking their wares and the fine carriages that rolled past.
“Why is your mistress opposed to marrying the marquess?” he asked in a casual tone. “Most women cannot resist
a title.”
“What woman wants a man who only marries her for her money?” Beatrice replied with enough force that Adam looked sharply at her.
“She would be a marchioness,” he said, feeling oddly affronted.
She angled her head and looked up at him. “You said the marquess was no more pleased to marry her than she was him. Why?”
“Perhaps he does not want a woman who only wants him for his title.”
“Oh, what does a man care for such things?” she replied with an airy wave of her hand. “They do as they please, no matter who they marry.”
He lifted his brows. “You are jaded for one so young.”
She snorted. “I am pragmatic. The marquess may marry anyone he likes and continue to live life very much as he always has, particularly if he decides to send Miss Shaw back to the country. It happens all the time. So, you see, she has much more to lose than he does.”
A pedestrian shouted at a carriage that came a little too close as the man leapt up onto the curb. Adam turned his attention forward as they neared the corner. They paused and waited for a rider to pass, then crossed the street.
Once on the other side, Adam said, “I take it you share your mistress’s feelings on the matter?”
“I can’t say I would like being chosen for my money—if I had any.”
He couldn’t help wondering if she thought he believed she had money and that was why he was pursuing her. He wasn’t pursuing her, but she might think he was.
“The whole situation rather makes a woman feel like a cow on the auction block,” she said.
He knew exactly what she meant. Was it possible Miss Shaw wasn’t as bad as he thought but was simply not happy with her father marrying her to a man she didn’t know?
He recalled the grim downturn of her mouth. Was it too much to ask to find a woman to marry who didn’t hate life…and perhaps men? He could tolerate her living her own life—once she had provided children—but a woman who found no joy in life would kill him just as Lena would have. Of course, if he was forced to live his life scraping out only enough money to keep Brewhold from falling into ruin, what kind of life was that?
They reached the apothecary, a tall, antique house with dovecote-like gables at the end of Market Street. The purchase of the pills took no time at all, and within minutes, they started back toward home, the pills tucked in the basket he carried.
They walked two blocks in silence, and Adam began to wonder if something was amiss. “Is something amiss, Beatrice?”
“Not amiss, exactly,” she replied slowly. “I cannot help but wonder why you were outside my au—my mistress’s house this morning.”
“Good fortune, I suppose. Just as when I saw you on the street yesterday.”
“Once, I could believe to be happenstance. Twice…” She looked up at him. “You were waiting for me, were you not?”
He silently cursed. She’d caught him off guard. The girl was intelligent.
“I hoped to see you,” he said. ““Do you mind?”
She smiled, and his breath caught. “You are a handsome man. Why would I complain?”
He laughed. “I am relieved to hear that.”
They turned down Cowgate. As another street vendor passed selling hot mutton pies, he offered to buy her one, but when he returned from his purchase, he discovered she’d continued down the street to Luckie’s tavern.
“Beatrice?” He strode toward her.
She didn’t respond.
“Beatrice?” He raised his voice.
She jumped when he stopped beside her. “Look, Adam.” She pointed to the iron sign hanging above the door. “It’s Luckie’s tavern. I hear they hold the most wonderful oyster parties for the most fashionable in Edinburgh.”
He handed her a pie. “They do.”
He should know. He’d spent almost every night there the past week. He much preferred the entertainment of the oyster cellars to the stuffy affairs hosted by the majority of the gentry.
“I would so love to attend one,” she said in a wistful tone. “I hear they dance until dawn.”
He laughed. “Nae, not until dawn, but into the wee hours, most assuredly.”
She turned wide eyes on him. “Have you attended one?”
“Once or twice,” he replied.
“Then I shall go,” she whispered.
He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
She nodded, her attention still on the building. “Tonight, I think.”
With her dark hair and eyes, and sultry voice, she would attract more than one kind of man. “A lady shouldn’t wander around unchaperoned,” he said.
“Then ‘tis fortunate I am not a lady.” She took a large bite of her mutton pie and rolled her eyes in pleasure. “Delicious. I have lived my life without the restrictions pressed upon ladies of rank. Frankly, I don’t know how they bear it.”
Beatrice studied the tavern and bit her bottom lip as if already planning her escapade. She took another bite of the pie, and he was startled to realize he wondered what those full lips tasted like.
She tilted her head and looked at him from beneath her lashes. “I won’t be in danger if you accompany me.”
He blinked. “Beatrice, you may not be of the gentry, but you are still a young woman and—”
“I suppose I can find someone else to accompany me.”
Adam narrowed his eyes. “It’s like that, is it?”
“I would much rather go with you, but if you do not wish to be seen with me—”
“Enough, minx.” He lifted his hand, palms out, in surrender. “I will take you.”
Her smile made another appearance, and he could deny her nothing.
“Truly?” she asked.
He grasped her free hand. “I shall collect you this evening—if, that is, your mistress will allow it.”
She shook her head. “Oh, she will not stop me. Nothing will. I will climb out the window, if necessary.”
An image of slender legs encased in tight breeches sliding out her window flitted across his mind. “No doubt you would,” he murmured.
Chapter Eight
Aunt Maddie’s threat to cancel her plans for the day if Sophie didn’t sit for the fittings Maddie had arranged elicited quick agreement from Sophie. Maddie left with instructions to order anything Sophie liked for lunch—and supper—for Maddie would not return home until late. True to her promise, Sophie endured the fittings, though perhaps with less grace than her aunt would have liked, had she been there. Sophie ate a light supper in anticipation of her night at the oyster cellars and now stood in front of the mirror in her room dressed in her plainest evening gown, a lavender muslin with white satin ribbon.
“If your father finds out you have gone out at night with a gentleman—to a tavern—he will flay us both alive, Miss.” Beatrice stood from her perch on the foot of Sophie’s bed.
Sophie shrugged. Her father was miles away. “He will never know.”
She squinted into the mirror and adjusted her curls. Night had fallen. She had to hurry. In keeping with her charade as a lady’s companion, she would wear Beatrice’s worn brown spencer again—this time, with her permission.
Sophie gave her hair a final pat. “Have you the key to the back door, Bea?”
Beatrice hesitated, then pulled a large brass key from her pocket.
“I could kiss you.” Sophie took the key and tucked it into her reticule.
Beatrice knit her brow with worry. “If you must go, I should go with you, miss.”
Sophie bit back an exclamation. Beatrice standing in the corner of a dark tavern huffing in shock was unthinkable.
“That is impossible. A lady’s companion doesn’t have a companion, now does she? Do not fret. Mr. MacAlister is my escort.”
“You still have your reputation to fret over. You are matched with a marquess, and he will not want a scandalous bride—”
“Bride?” Sophie shuddered. “There is naught to fear on that score, I assure you. Once Father discovers
the man is no more interested in me than I am him, it’s back home for us.” She twirled, flaring her dress around her ankles. “Really, you worry far too much. I will return at a decent hour with no one the wiser.” She flashed her most winning smile.
“If your father finds out, he will lock you in your room and dismiss me.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “Hush, Beatrice. Now, off you go. It is best you don’t see me sneak away.”
The girl flared her nostrils and, for a gut-wrenching moment, Sophie feared Beatrice would refuse. At last, she turned and walked from the room. No sooner had the door clicked shut, when Sophie tossed her reticule on a nearby chair and shrugged into the spencer. Beatrice was right. Should Sophie’s father ever find out she sneaked out, he would lock her in her room. A sliver of guilt surfaced, and she paused in picking up her reticule. He wouldn’t truly turn out Beatrice. Would he? Nae. She had been with them since Sophie was thirteen. Beatrice was part of the family.
How could Sophie resist the excitement of Town—especially in the company of the tall, handsome Adam MacAlister? Butterflies skittered across the insides of her stomach at the memory of his hard chest when he’d yanked her against him on the street. There was something raw about Mr. MacAlister. Perhaps this was the difference between the refined gentlemen she associated with and the common folk? A strange sense of guilt niggled. Her father wanted to make her a lady, but common folk like her didn’t belong in Polite Society.
Sophie shook off the confusion, eased open the door and stuck her head out into the dimly lit hallway. As expected, empty. She crept from the room and down the servants’ stairs. Heart thudding, she reached the kitchen door, turned the knob, and stepped outside. Stars twinkled in a cloudless sky, and a bright moon cast long shadows over the garden as she continued toward the back gate. No sooner had she clicked the latch behind her and stepped out onto the cobblestoned lane than a shadow peeled itself from the stable wall to her right. She drew a sharp breath.
