Lady of Fortune

by Mary Jo Putney

  Her amusement ceased abruptly when Sir Horace grabbed her with one arm and slid his other hand inside the bodice of her dress. At the touch of his clammy hand, Christa abandoned all hope of an easy escape and kicked him on the shin. She would have hit him with her fists, but one arm was held in his grip and the other pinned against the wall. Sir Horace’s breath stank of brandy and rotting teeth as he tried to kiss her again; she bit his chin and tried to wriggle out of his grasp.

  Christa had almost pulled free when the baronet lunged and wrapped his arms around her waist, his weight dragging her to the floor. She was knocked breathless, his heavy body pinning her to the carpet. Sir Horace seemed to take her temporary quiescence as consent; he gasped hoarsely, “I’ll give you a settlement; you’ll have a house till I tire of you, and twenty pounds a year for life.”

  She twisted frantically but was unable to get free. For the first time Christa realized that this disgusting man might actually rape her. No—a thousand times no! She was a d’Estelle and would never let this barbarian defeat her. As Sir Horace lifted his body to reach up her skirt, she jerked her knee up, hitting him hard where a man is most vulnerable.

  With a howl of rage and pain, the baronet rolled partially off her as he convulsed around his injury. Christa was pulling herself free of the heavy body when the main door swung open to reveal Lady Pomfret with the footman James holding the door open for her.

  At the sight of the tableau, her ladyship’s beefy face turned a remarkable shade of purple and her hefty body seemed to swell like a pouter pigeon’s. With the awful rage of a woman wronged, Lady Pomfret thundered, “I knew you were a slut, Bonnet, as soon as I saw your rouged face and sly smile, but even a tolerant woman like me is shocked that you’d wave your muff at my husband in my own bedchamber.”

  Christa scrambled to her feet, so outraged she had trouble finding the correct English words. “Why, do you think I wanted that … that pig! that beast! … to lay his loathsome hands on me?”

  From his position on the floor, Sir Horace moaned, “The doxy led me on. Wanted me to set her up with her own house.”

  Lady Pomfret’s outrage reached awe-inspiring new heights. She scarcely cared how many trollops her husband lay with, but deeply resented his spending money on them, money that could have gone into her own jewel case. “Why, you little hussy! After all my generosity to you … the purple silk gown, the ribbons and plumes I gave you! Now you want to steal the bread from my mouth!”

  Her temper well and truly lost, Christa spat back, “It would be better for you if I did! Then perhaps you would not be shaped like a breeding cow and your husband and lovers would keep their hands off me! And I would not be caught in my coffin in your castoff clothes … I have never seen a woman with worse taste!”

  At these insults Lady Pomfret came perilously close to expiring of apoplexy. She howled, “Why, you little … you little …” Insults failed her; waving her arm at the gawping James, she shrieked, “Throw her out! Throw her out of the house this minute!”

  “My pleasure, your ladyship,” he said with wicked anticipation. The Frenchy had hit him in the knee when he was just being friendly, and treated him like dirt ever since. Revenge would be sweet. Grabbing Christa’s upper arm with cruel tightness, James pulled her through the door into the passage and down the stairs. Lady Pomfret watched the footman drag her down the steps with satisfaction. She had known the wench was too cooperative and good-natured to be true. Impossible to get good servants; utterly impossible! Then she scowled and returned to her bedchamber to deal with her husband.

  James twisted Christa’s arm so that she could not maintain her balance. “For heaven’s sake, James, let go of me,” she said with exasperation. “I will get my things from the attic and leave most gladly.”

  The footman stopped in front of the massive front door and smiled unpleasantly. “You heard what Lady Pomfret said—you’re to go ‘this minute.’ There’s time for only one last thing.”

  Tightening his grip on her arm, James grabbed Christa’s hair with his other hand and pulled her head back, forcing a vicious kiss on her. There was nothing of passion in it; he felt only the desire to humiliate the uppity wench. Releasing her hair, the footman grabbed Christa’s buttock and squeezed it with insulting deliberation while he pulled her body against his. “Thought you were too good for the likes of me, did you?”

  Christa had not blamed James for removing her from Lady Pomfret’s presence; it was his job. But she was no more willing to be mauled by the man than the master; she butted her head up into his jaw and heard the distinct sound of breaking teeth.

  “You are as bad as your employers,” she gasped. “If a household is rotten at the top, there will be rot clear through.”

  Bellowing with the pain of his cracked jaw, James dragged open the heavy front door. As Christa darted outside, he placed his hand between her shoulder blades and, with vicious strength, shoved her down the high stone stairs.

  Chapter Six

  Alex had decided to dismiss his carriage; the pleasant May morning was best enjoyed on foot. He had been in London for only a week and still reveled in the fact that he could walk more than a hundred paces in any direction. So far he hadn’t missed the Navy at all, though he had not yet become accustomed to being “Lord Kingsley” rather than “Captain Kingsley.”

  He was admiring the houses in Portman Square when he heard a woman cry out, looking up just in time to avoid being bowled over by a falling female. Shifting his weight with the quickness of a man who has climbed a ship’s rigging in a hurricane, Alex was able to catch her in his arms while maintaining his own balance.

  Christa was not given to strong hysterics but the events of the last quarter-hour had swept her up in a turmoil of anger and fear. She had been mauled by two men and had just escaped a possibly lethal fall; when her tear-filled eyes registered that a tall blond man had saved her, reason and memory disappeared in a flood of chaotic emotion. She cried “Charles!” and wrapped her arms around the strong male body that held her as she succumbed to shuddering sobs.

  Alex blinked in confusion. As a seaman he had always been known for his quick grasp of a situation, but having a delightfully soft female in his arms played havoc with his judgment. She had called him “Charles” with a wild, questioning note in her voice, then buried her head against his waistcoat. The girl’s sobs started to abate, but a torrent of French words poured from her.

  Alex found himself envying the absent Charles who should have been holding this delicious armful. He listened for a few moments, then said, “Sorry, but I’m not Charles. And you’ll have to slow down—I understand some French, but not at this speed.”

  She froze in his arms, then raised her head to look at him. He gave a gasp of pure shock. Later—much, much later—Alex would realize that she wasn’t really beautiful, but now the impact of the enchanting face hit him like a nine-pound cannonball. Wondrous gray eyes had the clarity of smoky quartz, with dark flecks that flashed silver when her gaze shifted. The longest, blackest lashes he had ever seen set off a flawless complexion and an irresistible pixie face that seemed to be laughing even through her tears.

  When she abruptly released him and stepped back, Alex calculated that the top of her head would just fit under his chin. Her agitation vanished and she said with quiet dignity, “Forgive me, monsieur. Of course you are not he; Charles is dead. I did not mean to cast my distress on you. Thank you for your most timely intervention.”

  Alex thought the girl had an indefinable air of quality to her, and a quiet elegance of dress that marked her as a Frenchwoman even had he not heard her speech. With a start he realized that she was inspecting him as carefully as he was studying her; did they raise bolder women on the other side of the Channel? He revised his thought; her gaze was not so much bold as disarmingly frank. A smile quirked one side of his mouth and he asked, “Do I pass inspection?”

  Christa suppressed a familiar stab of grief as she looked at her rescuer. Of course he was n
ot her brother. Now that her eyes were not blurred by tears, she could see that the blond hair had a more golden cast and an irreverent curl, could hear that the voice was deeper and slower. His dress proclaimed him a gentleman, and he was taller even than Charles had been, with a relaxed, loose-limbed figure. If his long tanned face was not classically handsome, the laugh lines around the corners of the clear amber-brown eyes made it enormously appealing.

  She grinned, unabashed. “Oui, monsieur. I believe you will not attack me, which is my principal requirement of the moment.”

  “If you are wishing to be attacked, I should be happy to oblige, miss,” Alex said helpfully.

  Had he not been so disarmingly open, the remark would have sent her fleeing down the street. But it was impossible to feel threatened by this stranger; he seemed the sort who always found humor around him, and she had found that the ability to laugh was a civilizing influence. In her experience, the most unpleasant people were those who took themselves too seriously. So Christa chuckled and said, “No, I have been attacked quite enough today. Do I pass your inspection?”

  “Well, I see no obvious reason why you should be thrown headfirst down those steps,” he said seriously. “I realize it is not my business, but might I inquire the reason why?”

  Christa bit her lip as she remembered the difficulties of her position. “I am—or rather, I was—abigail to Lady Pomfret here.” She waved her hand up at the blank-windowed house. “Her repellent husband decided that my duties included serving him in a manner I much disagreed with. Her ladyship came on us when I was in the process of rather forcibly extricating myself from Sir Horace. She is a woman of limited understanding, and we”—she paused dramatically—“Had Words.”

  Wryly she continued, “As I’m sure you appreciate, arguments between two people of unequal station may not be resolved on merit.” She gave a purely Gallic shrug. “And so you see me.”

  “You are certainly right about arguments between those of unequal station,” Alex said feelingly. “I’ve spent fifteen years in the Navy, and the desire to be on the higher side of the power equation is a great incentive to promotion.”

  Christa looked at him with interest, but decided that she must pass up that interesting potential conversation for the harsh realities. “Monsieur, do you know if there is a magistrate nearby? Perhaps one can help me recover my possessions from the house. All that I own in the world is still in there.”

  “You mean they literally threw you out without even letting you get your things? Outrageous!” A wicked gleam came into Alex’s eyes. “I assume that time is of the essence; your possessions may be rifled while you are attempting to get the law to help you. Shall I see if I can persuade them to let you in long enough to collect your clothes?”

  The girl’s quickly suppressed flash of anxiety gave Alex a sudden insight into what it was to be alone and at the mercy of hostile employers. In the Navy, even the humblest sailor had some rights, but an Englishman’s home was his castle, and great crimes might occur behind these blandly respectable facades. “I will go with you,” he offered.

  Relieved, Christa gave a decisive nod. Her instincts said she could trust this man, and he was right that the sooner she reclaimed her possessions, the better. “Lead on, monsieur!”

  They walked up the steps together and he banged the heavy knocker. While they waited for the door to open, he asked, “By the way, what is your name?”

  She bobbed a quick curtsy. “Christine Bohnet, at your service. I am called Christa by my friends.” She was pleased that he pronounced her name correctly when he repeated it; he was the first person in two months to make the effort. At that moment the door swung open to reveal James: a very angry James, still on duty in spite of a rapidly swelling jaw and a smudge of blood at the corner of his mouth.

  Seeing her, he gave a thick-tongued growl, “Why, you little—”

  The footman was starting to reach for Christa when her rescuer’s voice cut at him like a whiplash. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Captain Lord Alexander Kingsley, Viscount Kingsley, and a magistrate of the country of Suffolk. We are here to remove Mademoiselle Bohnet’s possessions.”

  James stopped and blinked stupidly at the man he had overlooked. The little trollop had found a protector with amazing speed. His brain, never very quick, ground to a halt as he tried to decide whether to let them in. After all, the law was the law …

  “One side, my man.” Alex’s voice had the ring of authority that comes of commanding hundreds of roughneck sailors, most of whom would rather not be in the Royal Navy. He brushed past James, with a gleeful Christa skipping along next to him. An officer and a viscount! Le bon Dieu had provided for her safety very well.

  “This way, my lord.” She led him to the back of the house and up the servants’ stairs. Alex was amazed at how tight the passage was; he had sneaked up the back stairs of the Kingsley houses when he was a boy, but had been considerably smaller then. As they climbed Christa asked over her shoulder, “Are you really a magistrate?”

  “Not exactly, but my father was, like most men of property. I expect I can become a magistrate if I want to. Besides, I’ve been administering the king’s justice at sea for years.”

  By the time they reached the attics Alex was puffing and his left side ached sharply, though Christa showed no signs of strain. The room she led him to reminded him of the minuscule cabin of a junior officer on a sloop. His eyes were still adjusting to the increased light of the room when he saw Christa kneel at the side of a small child who had been cleaning the floor. Putting her arms around the little girl, she said, “I am so glad you are here, Miranda, or I could not have said good-bye.”

  The child said falteringly, “Good-bye? You are leaving?”

  Ignoring Alex’s presence, Christa hugged the thin little body. “I have no choice, ma pauvre. Lady Pomfret has dismissed me and I must pack and leave immediately.”

  There was such a look of stark tragedy on Miranda’s little face that Alex shifted uncomfortably. No one should be that vulnerable. He spoke for the first time. “Bring her along, Christa. My sister needs an abigail and I have a whole house to staff. I can certainly find a position for Miranda, and if my sister approves, for you as well.”

  The two faces turned to him with an identical look of hope. Christa sprang to her feet and asked the child, “Do you wish to come with me?”

  “Oh, yes, Christa!” There was a look of disbelieving excitement on the child’s face.

  Christa patted her on the back and said, “Go quickly, then, and get your things.”

  Miranda whizzed out of the room and Christa shot a grateful look at Alex as she pulled a portmanteau from beneath the bed and started efficiently packing. “You are very generous, Lord Kingsley. Even if your sister does not engage me, I think Miranda will be better off in a house run by you. The Pomfret residence is … not a happy place.”

  He had no trouble believing her statement. Changing the subject, Alex asked, “Were you responsible for the damage to the footman downstairs?”

  She colored guiltily. “Indeed, my lord, I am not usually a troublemaker. But the footman sought to begin where his master had left off, and I was quite out of patience by then.”

  “An understatement. Your skill at repelling unwanted boarders is impressive—remind me not to attack you.”

  Christa looked at him a bit uncertainly but decided he was joking. She closed her portmanteau with a snap just as Miranda scurried up, her total worldly goods contained in a wrapped shawl. Leaving Lady Pomfret’s purple silk gown and plumes for whoever wished to take them, Christa led the way down the narrow stairs for the last time.

  When they reached the street, Alex said, “I’ll call a hackney. It is some distance to my house in St. James’s Square.”

  Christa said diffidently, “If you don’t mind, my lord, Miranda and I can walk if you give me the direction. It is such a lovely day, and she scarcely ever gets outside.” Looking down, she asked, “Would you like that, Mir
anda?”

  “Oh, yes!” Confined first to an orphanage and then to the Pomfrets’, to Miranda the city was a source of teeming delights.

  “You’re right—it is far too pleasant a day to be in a stuffy carriage,” Alex agreed as he reached for her portmanteau. Christa resisted but he brushed her objections aside. “Take Miranda’s bundle. My time is my own, and if you’ve no objection, I’ll join you.”

  Christa raised an eyebrow and murmured something in French as they started to head south. “Sorry, I didn’t hear that,” Alex said. He expected that it was not intended for his ears, but she obligingly translated.

  “I said that I would have gotten myself thrown out sooner had I known how fortunate I would be in my rescuer.”

  Alex laughed aloud. Really, the girl was the sauciest creature! He had always liked females of the lower classes because they were much more natural than their social superiors, but this chit was in a category all her own as she recovered from her traumatic experience with amazing speed. “I begin to understand why you got into trouble with the Pomfrets. Not many households would be prepared for such frankness.”

  “Oh, my wretched tongue!” she said repentantly. She took Miranda’s hand as they stopped at a busy street corner, and the child happily continued to hold it.

  “Indeed, Lord Kingsley, when I am back in service I promise I shall be a model of discretion. But it feels so good to be free of that place.”

  The rest of the trip was a pleasure to all three walkers—Captain Lord Kingsley could not remember when he had had such a good time. The streets were an everchanging kaleidoscope of activity, with musicians, peddlers, carriages, and beggars competing for attention. Christa and Miranda shared a childlike enthusiasm for the wonders around them, and Alex found it amusing that through the eyes of a foreigner and a child he was rediscovering the city of his birth. His substantial presence prevented the party from being overly molested by beggars, and left him free to enjoy the French girl’s imaginative commentary as she explained the shops and businesses to the little girl.