Autumn Rain

by Anita Mills

  He exhaled heavily. "And the thread."

  "Done."

  It wasn't until Jeremy had the paper-wrapped lace tucked beneath his arm that Elinor dared to speak. "Why did you say I was a duchess?"

  "Because he knows it'll look good on his sign," Mary answered blithely.

  "But it's a lie!"

  The maid shrugged. "It's the way it's done."

  "Does Mr. Grosset have it cheaper?"

  A slow smile spread over the maid's face, then she giggled. "Mr. Grosset is the barber in my village, but he don't know that."

  "That's dishonest."

  "No, it ain't—he expects it." Unchastened, Mary winked at her. "No telling what duchess he'll claim fer patroness, ye know."

  A painted woman gestured invitingly to the young footman, and he reddened. Another one, bolder than the first, stepped into his path. Pouting prettily, she leaned into him, but the effect was spoiled by the smell of sweat. Mary pushed the woman aside, chiding her, "Here now, ye hussy—keep yer hands off me husband!"

  The footman's flush deepened, and he choked as though he were strangling, but Mary grasped his arm firmly, propelling him past. "Ye don't want one of 'em," she advised him low, "fer they are like ter give ye the clap."

  "What's the clap?" Elinor wanted to know.

  Jeremy indulged in a full fit of coughing, but the maid merely shook her head. "Ye ain't got ter worry about it, 'cause the master don't consort with any of them."

  About that time, the footman happened to notice that two men seemed to be following them. Marking them for cutpurses, he grasped his mistress's arm, urging her, "Run!"

  "What?" She started to pull away, then realized he was indeed serious.

  Mary looked back over her shoulder. "Oh—Lor!"

  "I don't see—"

  But Jeremy thrust Elinor ahead of him, muttering a curse she could not understand. When she looked up, she could see that the street ended in an alley.

  "There's no way to go!"

  But he pulled her into the alley, then paused to look for the way out. Even in daylight, it was a dark, dingy place, littered with beggars and men hunched over, their faces blank from rum or opium. Now there was no mistaking that they were being followed, for as they ran, so did those behind him. Panicked, the young footman yelled at Elinor, "Try to reach Jermyn Street beyond, and I will attempt to delay them!"

  "Where?" Frightened, Elinor half-turned back, but the young man was determinedly blocking the narrow alley, his fists raised.

  "Come on," Mary muttered, catching her mistress's arm. "Ye got ter turn at th' end."

  The two women half-walked, half-ran deeper into the filth-filled footway. A sot grabbed for Elinor's slim skirt, streaking it with dirt, and she stumbled, tumbling into a drug-befuddled fellow. Scarce losing a stride, Mary pulled her up and continued dragging her along.

  "This way," she panted, indicating a blind corner. "It's Jermyn Street—it's the way out!" For the briefest instant, Elinor looked back, but there was no sign of Jeremy or of the men who'd followed them. "Ain't no time ter waste!" Mary gasped. "We're marked!"

  At the corner, a milling group of ruffians waited, their ragged clothes betraying a different desperation. Some still wore dirty, tattered bandages. For a moment, Elinor hung back, but Mary yanked the reticule from her wrist, then pushed her straightway at them.

  "Ye got ter run inter the street!" Opening the fringed silk bag, the maid flashed the gold coins, tossing one out into the lane. It rolled into a garbage-filled puddle, where a dozen hands groped and clawed for it. "Go on!" Mary shouted. "I'll see ye out there!"

  The mob surged forward, their interest in Elinor gone as her maid turned the purse inside out, scattering the money. Reaching the open street, Elinor looked back, seeing nothing but the crush of bodies scrambling like pigs for the slop. And she knew she could not leave Mary in that.

  "Well, now—" A hand gripped her shoulder, spinning her around, and the smell of cheap rum nearly overwhelmed her as a man leered into her face. "Fancy—a gentry mort! Tad, we's got us a gentry mort!"

  She jabbed him with her elbow, catching him in the stomach, then broke and ran directly into the street. Behind her, another fellow grabbed for her, only to roll away as a smart equippage careened around the corner. The driver and tiger shouted and cursed as the horses reared, and she fell, scrambling frantically on her hands and knees in the muddy street to escape the flailing hooves. The wheels rolled over her newly purchased shawl, grinding it into the mire, and the ironclad wheel spokes rattled past her head, catching one of the ribbons of her hat. It jerked free, tumbling her hair into dirty water.

  Almost as quickly as she realized she lived, she knew she had to flee. She stumbled blindly for the opposite side, tearing her narrow skirt. Grasping it, she pulled it up, and gulped for enough air to sustain another run.

  This time, when she was caught from behind, she turned to flail at her attacker, hitting and clawing blindly at him. "You little fool!" he shouted furiously, shaking her. "You could have been killed! Egad—Lady Kingsley!"

  Despite the mud, despite her tangled, dirty hair, despite her ruined gown, she was still a beauty. Just staring into those amber eyes, he felt as though he could drown in them. Telling himself she was but a spoiled, pampered female like any other, he managed to sustain his anger. "What the devil are you doing here?" he demanded harshly.

  She looked up into the Earl of Longford's face, then caught both his arms, choking, "We were robbed! My maid—I've got to go back for my maid!"

  "The hell you do." For a moment, he steadied her, then looked to his tiger. "We've got to get her out of here," he muttered. When he perceived that she was still shaking uncontrollably, his fury faded. "You are all right—I'll see you home." Before she knew what he meant to do, he swung her up and dumped her into his open carriage. "Get down," he ordered curtly. "You can't be discovered, or there'll be the devil to pay."

  "No!" She pushed open the door on the other side, and darted back toward the alley. "I've got to find Mary!"

  "What the deuce—?" He had half a mind to leave her then, but as one of her earlier attackers ran after her, he knew he could not. "Hold the horses!" he shouted at his tiger, then he took off in pursuit.

  As the fellow caught her, he was yanked back rudely from behind and sent sprawling against a wall. He started to rise, his hands balled into fists. "Try it," Lucien growled, "and I'll draw your cork." This time, when his hand grasped Elinor's, he held on. "There's naught you can do—come on."

  "No! You don't understand—it was my folly—and they've got Mary—and Jeremy!" Tears streamed down her dirty face, streaking it, as she struggled to free her hand. "If anything's happened to them, I shall never forgive myself!"

  He looked into the alley, seeing the melee as ruffians fought with beggars over a few gold coins. "You can't go back, you little goose," he muttered, pulling her back toward his open carriage. "You've got to get out of here."

  "I cannot leave without them!" she cried, her voice rising hysterically. He slapped her then, and she stared in shock. "You hit me!"

  "Get in."

  "No!"

  He uttered a long, unsatisfactory oath, then pushed her toward his bemused tiger. "Hold her—if you have to sit on her, hold her," he ordered tersely. His black eyes met Elinor's momentarily. "And if you run back in there, I'll leave you to that mob—do you understand me?"

  She nodded mutely as the boy held both her arms from behind.

  "What does this Mary look like?"

  "She—she's got on a brown dress—and a cap—and a bonnet—brown-checked, I think," she mumbled. "Oh— please—"

  Her concern moved him far more than her tears, for it reminded him of the battlefield, where men risked their lives to retrieve the wounded. He grasped his driving whip. "All right."

  "And Jeremy—" But he'd already started back across the street. "Blue livery—he's got blue livery!" she called after him.

  He strode into the alley, shouting for the mob to
make way, and for a moment, it looked as though they meant to turn on him. But as he raised the coach whip, one of the ragged men yelled, "It's Longford! It's the major! He was at Talavera!"

  "He's a swell!" someone countered, crouching as though he meant to jump.

  But several of the others restrained him, then looked down, their eyes on the garbage and refuse in the alley. "Got no pension," a man muttered. "Got to eat."

  It was the same everywhere, and Lucien knew it. He hesitated, uncomfortable with this reminder of how England rewarded those no longer able to fight. "Come round to my house in Berkeley Square—and I will see you are fed," he offered, ashamed. "But for now, I'd take the woman."

  "What woman?"

  "Brown dress and bonnet—she was with the lady."

  "He means the one with the money," someone decided. "She ain't here—tossed the purse and ran."

  "Where?"

  "Back."

  "No," someone else contradicted. "Into the den—over there."

  The man who'd recognized him first held out a bright guinea in his dirty hand, but Lucien shook his head. "Keep it—she can afford it."

  A crone lurked in the doorway, her face seemingly frozen in a vacant grin. Behind her, a small, wizened man, his face cracked and seamed, spoke up. "A tuppence fer a pipe—make a man fergit 'is troubles."

  He pushed past both of them into the narrow room. It was dark and reeked of the smell of human refuse, vomit, and sweat. In the shadowy hell, men hunched against the wall or bent over the opium pipes, and as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, there was no mistaking the dreamy escape in their faces.

  "Mary?" he asked, scanning the room.

  In a corner, a woman rose, wiping her muddied face with a corner of her shawl. "I ain't—" she began, afraid the proprietor had sold her. Then she realized he'd used her name. "Aye, sir."

  "Come on—your mistress is safe."

  The woman began to cry. "He'll turn me off—I know it!" she wailed. "I oughter not let her come!"

  "Nonsense," he said brusquely, reaching for her. "Come on."

  He had to blink when they emerged again into the light, but the woman clutched his sleeve excitedly, shouting, "It's Jeremy—it's Jeremy—oh, praise the Almighty!"

  The young man looked as though he'd been in a mill, but there was no mistaking the concern on his face. "The mistress?" he asked anxiously.

  "Safe," Lucien told him. "But we've got to get her out of here."

  "Oh—aye." The footman nodded sheepishly. "Knew we ought not to come, sir."

  "Perceptive of you," Lucien muttered dryly.

  Once outside in the street, he frowned. "I'd take you up, but I'd not draw the attention." He looked to where his tiger maintained a determined grip on Elinor Kingsley. "The trick will be to get her home undiscovered." He hesitated briefly, then dug into his coat pocket, drawing out a couple of small coins. "Can you hire a hackney, do you think?"

  "Aye, sir," the footman answered, "but the mistress—"

  "I'll take her—discreetly, of course. I'd have you get there first, if you can. that you may smuggle her inside."

  "Aye, sir."

  Leaving them, he crossed the street. "I'm sending them home in a hired conveyance," he told her abruptly. "Get into the carriage."

  "But—"

  "If you are fortunate, they may be able to get you into your house before any more harm is done. We'll take the long way to give them time."

  "I'd go with them."

  "Don't be a fool, Lady Kingsley." Catching her about her waist, he lifted her up into the open four-seater, then climbed in after her. She started to sit only to be pushed into the floor. "Lie down," he ordered. And before she could protest, he threw a lap rug over her.

  "I cannot see!"

  "You don't need to." To insure that she lay there, he raised one leg to rest on the seat across from him. The other foot he placed on her back. When she tried to rise beneath his calf, he growled, "Don't be a ninnyhammer—if you are seen with me, you are done."

  But she could scarce breathe beneath the weight of his leg. She tried to wriggle her head from beneath the rug, only to have him yank it back over her. "Lady Kingsley, I am seldom inclined to aid foolish females, and if you insist on drawing attention to yourself, I will wash my hands of you—do you understand me?" Taking her muffled reply for assent, he reached for the reins, clicking them.

  The pair of horses surged forward, throwing her flat against the floorboards. Twisting beneath the leg that pinned her down, she grasped his boot and held on, heedless of the impropriety. The carriage sped for several blocks, then slowed to a leisurely pace, and she could hear the earl exchanging occasional greetings with other drivers as though nothing were amiss. Apparently, in the absence of females, gentlemen did not feel it nearly so incumbent to give the notorious Longford the cut.

  After the initial shock of lying beneath the shaft of his boot passed, she became acutely aware of the masculine weight above her. It was nothing like the occasional brushing of Arthur's thin, bony leg against hers. There was something alive, virile, something utterly forbidden about Longford's leg resting on her back.

  It brought back the girlish memory of his kiss, the memory of his body against hers, and for a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it must be like to be loved by someone like him. And the thought, once freed, frightened her with its very existence. It was as though the thought alone could damn her. She had to remind herself that he cared about nothing.

  "Riding all right?" he asked, his voice abrupt, as if he really did not care.

  "Yes."

  But an idea, however preposterous, once born did not die easily. Despite everything she knew of him, she was fascinated by the feel of him, by the masculine smell of leather. Yet any association with the earl, even an innocent one, would be utter folly—and anything more than that would be ruinous. Longford, Sally Jersey had declared, was too dangerous to touch, for he simply refused to acknowledge the rules.

  "Lucien!" someone hailed him.

  "Hallo, George."

  Lord Leighton peered curiously at Longford's extended leg. "Hurt yourself?"

  "It pains me sometimes. I must be getting old."

  "At nine and twenty?" Leighton snorted. "I beg you will not say it, for we are of an age." He shook his head. "Must be the war. That the leg that took the ball?"

  "Yes—but nothing serious."

  "You really going back?"

  "Monday."

  "Don't know why—it's not as if you had to, is it?"

  Lucien shrugged. "The Corsican still straddles Europe—and I see no reason to remain here. Suffice it to say I am going back where I am welcomed."

  "You and the Ponsonbys," George sighed, then grinned. "Guess it's in the blood—Mad Jack's son, after all. He was hell-bent for anything good or bad, I am told. He stopped, collecting himself, then added sheepishly, "Sorry—didn't mean—"

  But the earl's breath seemed arrested, then he exhaled sharply, releasing the sudden tension in his body.

  "There's nothing you could say about him that I don't know, George."

  "Shouldn't have said it anyway. You coming to dine tonight?" Leighton asked, turning the subject.

  "If you can stand the association."

  "I've got good credit—too many matchmaking mamas hanging after me. If I was a gazetted murderer, they'd forgive me for m'fortune, I daresay." He hesitated, then blurted out, "Bad business about Diana. You'd have thought after all these years, she'd have let it lie, wouldn't you?"

  "Yes."

  "You seen the brat? Sefton said it don't look like Bell, but that don't mean—"

  "No—I haven't seen her. And I don't mean to."

  Perceiving that Longford did not want to talk about that either, Leighton tipped his hat. "Until tonight, then."

  As the carriage moved on and silence descended once more, Elinor finally dared to ask, "Where are we?"

  "Going through the park. I'd advise you to be still, for we are not alone." To prove
his point, he hailed another conveyance, calling out, "Hallo, Bell! You are like a bad penny come 'round again. Just talking about you."

  "Talking to yourself, old fellow?" Bellamy Townsend chided.

  Longford smiled wryly. "It comes from a lack of society, I suppose, but no—it was Leighton." His eyes narrowed. "You look a trifle pulled."

  "The pursuit goes slowly. First female as didn't swoon over me within the week."

  Elinor's leg cramped, and she tried to shift her weight to ease it. Longford's foot pressed down, warning her. Then he spoke to the viscount more loudly. "You cannot win every ladybird, you know. Perhaps you ought to cut your losses and go for another, more amenable female."

  "Really want this one."

  "You want them all," Lucien reminded him.

  "But this one's different—if she wasn't wed, I'd think her a virgin. Downright skittish. But," he added smugly, "the plum will be plucked before fall, and you can put your money on it."

  There was a brief pause as the earl smoothed the lap rug over his leg, then he met Townsend's eyes coldly. "I should not advise putting it on the books, Bell. Old men tend to be jealous."

  "He won't call me out."

  "No." Lucien's hand rested on Elinor's back for a moment. "But this time I don't think you can afford the damages. He is not like to be as complacent as I was."

  "Complacent?" Townsend howled. "You made a dashed scandal of it!"

  "Take my word for it—Kingsley would see you ruined—and he's got the money for it." Before the viscount could respond, Lucien flicked the coach whip lightly. "Cannot leave the cattle standing," he murmured apologetically. "Good day, Bell."

  "Wait—you going to White's tonight?" Townsend shouted after him.

  "Leighton's! You?"

  "Almack's! Then to White's!"

  The four-seater rolled down the lane, leaving Bellamy Townsend to stare after it.

  "We are about out of the park," Lucien told Elinor.

  "May I get up now?"

  "No. Did you hear enough?"

  "My knees are cramping. And he did not say it was I, did he?" she countered.

  "Your backside ought to burn. If Kingsley had any sense, he'd apply the cane to it." He was silent for a time, then he spoke again. "What the devil were you doing there?"