by Jo Beverley
Then the man glanced over Horatia’s bonnet to meet Clarissa’s eyes, his own shadowed by the tilted brim of his fashionable beaver hat. His slight smile deepened. It was an insolent, blatant challenge to her ability to protect her charges.
She seized Horatia’s wrist and dragged her sideways, taking her place and then pointedly ignoring the scoundrel.
To Horatia she hissed, “Admire the soldiers. They’re doubtless safer.”
Much safer!
She would have liked to claim immunity to handsome rakes, but her nerves were jangling like a twanged harp. Who was he? Certainly no provincial dandy. Beautifully cut olive coat. Complex, snowy cravat. An indefinable but unignorable air. Her brief stay in London had taught her something about judging men of the ton and he was top of the trees.
Another quick glance confirmed her assessment. All the gloss and arrogance of a London beau, and a handsome face as well.
He suddenly looked sideways, catching her, and that amused challenge returned to his eyes.
She jerked her eyes away, away toward the approaching parade, grateful for once for the close bonnet that would hide her blushes. She remembered to go on tiptoe and check. One, two, three, four.
Horatia by her side, an older couple beyond her.
Safe for the moment.
All safe.
Apart from the something from the man on her other side. She’d met handsome beaux and wicked rakes in London and been able to laugh at the folly of other females. That was remarkably easy when neither beaux nor rakes paid her any attention.
This rakish beau should be the same, and yet she felt a prickling awareness—as if he was studying her.
She would not look to see.
Then the sway of the crowd suddenly pushed her against him, and he put his hand on her arm to steady her. She felt it. She felt his hand, felt his whole body— arm, hip, and leg—against her for a shocking moment before she pulled away.
She suddenly felt like Ricarda, panicked and longing for the safety of the school.
Which she had to leave soon.
Very well. She would soon have to leave the school, have to venture into a world full of handsome men. She must learn to cope. After all, she had a fortune. There would be fortune hunters.
She swallowed and focused on the passing parade, on a cart carrying a portly man dressed as Napoleon, looking beaten and downcast. On another containing men dressed as the Duke of Wellington, Nelson, Sir John Moore, and other heroic leaders.
A Saint George passed in front of her in Roman armor, spear in hand, foot on the neck of a vanquished dragon that wore the French tricolor. She rather thought Saint George was Mr. Pinkney, who ran a small circulating library and was the least martial man imaginable.
“No stop,” said the man, who was still pressed by circumstances too closely beside her.
She had to turn her head. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“His spear is a throwing spear, not a dragon-killing one. It has no crossbar. A common mistake in art. If he managed to impale a dragon, the beast would run up it and eat him. Of course, the maiden might applaud.”
“What?” Clarissa was beginning to fear that the man was mad as well as bad. But, Lord, he was handsome, especially with that twinkle in his eye!
He glanced at the white-robed woman at Saint George’s side, presumably the rescued maiden, but also managing to look like Britannia. “If her rescuer died in the attempt, she would be free without having to be the victor’s prize.”
The maiden was the mayor’s pretty daughter, and she certainly wouldn’t want to have to be too grateful to Mr. Pinkney. Clarissa was unwillingly beguiled by the man’s nonsense—and by the effect of teasing humor on already fine features—but she firmly turned her attention back to the parade.
All around her the crowd was booing Napoleon and applauding the heroes. Then it burst into huzzahs for the real heroes, the veterans of the great battle who marched to cheerful fife and the demanding, tummy-quivering thump of the drums.
She joined in, waving her plain handkerchief.
“Clarissa! Clarissa! Did you see that? He blew me a kiss! He did! Oh, wasn’t he the most handsome man you have ever seen?”
Horatia was literally bouncing up and down, her curls dancing and her cheeks bright red. Clarissa smothered a laugh. The officer in question was quite ordinary, and much older than Horatia’s usual practice ground, but he was in a moment of glory and he had noticed her, and so he was an Adonis.
But then a sudden squeal sent panic shooting through her. Ricarda! She stretched on tiptoe again, but the girl seemed all right. The scream had probably been caused by a horse dropping a steaming mound on the road in front of her.
“They are all quite safe,” said the rake. “I can see them easily and will tell you if anything untoward occurs.”
It was most improper for two strangers to be talking like this, and yet the situation made it impossible to object. She turned to him again. “Thank you, sir.”
The angle of his head moved the shadow of his brim and she was caught by startlingly blue eyes. Cornflower blue made brighter by skin that was browner than fash ion approved. That, a silly detail like that, was probably what made him seem more dangerous than the general London beau.
Or perhaps not.
She seemed trapped, and then those intent eyes crinkled slightly with humor that she was invited to share.
She hastily turned her own boring gray-blue eyes forward, but she suddenly felt completely unlike herself.
As if she might do something outrageous.
With him.
By gemini! Was he flirting with her?
But men didn’t. Even during her horrible time in London, men hadn’t flirted with her.
So what was the rake up to?
Ah. Trying to get around her to Horatia, of course Not while she had blood in her body.
Horatia, however, craned past Clarissa. “You’re very kind, sir! Little Lucilla, the plump one, daydreams so. she took it into her head to wander in front of the horse she’d do it.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” Clarissa said. “Ricarda would scream the heavens down.”
“Ricarda is scared of horses, sir,” said irrepressible Horatia, innocently smiling in a way designed to invite man to her bed.
“Watch the parade, Horatia,” Clarissa commanded “It’s nearly over.”
Horatia pulled a face, but obeyed.
After a few moments Clarissa risked a glance at the rake. He was looking ahead, not at her.
Victory! He knew his evil plans were thwarted.
She smiled to herself at sounding like a character in an overly dramatic play, but she was feeling victorious. See, it wasn’t so very difficult to deal with importunate men.
One skirmish won was enough for the day, however. Thank heavens this would soon be over and she could herd her flock back to the school.
As soon as the last marchers passed and the crowd began to break up, she pulled the four younger girls into a bunch around her, making sure that Horatia stayed close too. The rake moved on without a backward look.
Folly to feel disappointment at that.
“Come along,” she said briskly. “It’s all over now.”
Anxious to be done with this, she nudged her group into the thinning crowd. It wasn’t as easy going as she’d expected. The crowd had not truly thinned out. Instead, it swirled chaotically.
When they’d hurried here everyone had been streaming in one direction, but now people went all ways at once. It was market day and many were heading there, but others wanted to get to the taverns, to homes, or to the fairground that had been set up on the outskirts of town.
The mob pushed and pulled, like a monster with a hundred hands snagging at one child or another. Ricarda began to cry again. She let go of Lucilla and clutched Clarissa’s skirts. Clarissa reached out to keep Jane and Georgina close.
Then a mighty voice rang out. The town crier. “Oyez! Oyez! Mr. Huxtable, landlord of the Duke
of Wellington, is rolling out three casks of free ale so all can toast our noble heroes!”
Oh, no! As the crowd’s mood changed, Clarissa was already gathering her flock close. Lucilla, her butterfly attention caught by something, swirled off between an enormous man and two elbowing lads. Clarissa just man-aged to seize the back of the girl’s cloak and haul he close—at some risk to the poor child’s neck!
She shed her own cloak, letting it fall to be trampled “Hold tight to my skirt!” she commanded. “Jane, Georgina, do the same. Horatia, help me keep everyone together. We’ll stay still for a moment to let the crowd pass.”
She put every scrap of calm and confidence that she could muster into her words, and the girls did press close but staying still was easier said than done. Most of the crowd seemed hell-bent on the free ale, and the rest were struggling to get free.
Rocked and buffeted, she was seized by blank panic.
Cries and screams all around flung her back to other screams, and blood.
To the thunder of a pistol.
Shattering glass.
Blood, so much blood…
And a woman quoting Lady Macbeth. “Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?‘
Darkness crept in at the edge of her vision.
No. Stay in the present. The girls need you. You will not fall apart again in a crisis!
She pinched her left hand hard to get her wits back then clutched terrified Ricarda close. She began to ease her little group sideways to a nearby brick wall when perhaps the mob would flow past them.
“Stay close!” she yelled. “Hold on!” Her voice seemed swallowed by the cacophony around, but the girls were all with her, clinging, dragging on her arms and gown.
The press of squirming, elbowing bodies had he sweating with heat and terror, but she would not weaken Lose their footing here and they could be trampled. The stench turned her stomach. Her foot slid on something squishy, almost making her fall. She prayed it was a: innocent as a piece of dropped fruit.
One, two, three, four, five.
Horatia—good girl—had wrapped an arm around her waist so they were locked into a huddled unit.
Then her bonnet was knocked forward over her right eye, so she couldn’t see from that side at all. She didn’t dare raise her hand to straighten it for fear of losing one of the children. The crush was so tight, she’d never get her arm down again.
All the younger girls were wailing now, and she wanted to wail herself. But she was the protector here. “It’s all right,” she said meaninglessly. “Hold tight. It will be all right.”
When someone crushed into them from behind, she didn’t hesitate to jab back with her elbow.
There was an “Ooof!”; then a strong arm came around them and a voice said, “Hold back, hold back, make way, make way there.” He didn’t shout—in the tumult there would be no point—but somehow his commanding tone seemed to cut through and create a moment’s pause so they could slide sideways.
The crowd sealed tight behind them, but his voice opened the way until they landed entangled against the wall.
There was no indent here, however, no doorway to press back into. No barrier except a simple iron lamppost. Had they fallen out of the pot into the fire? They could be crushed. Terrified screams said that might be happening elsewhere in the maddened crowd.
But the man grasped the lamppost and made himself a barrier that the crowd must flow around, creating a tiny pocket of sanity.
Clarissa held her crying charges closer, trembling. “It’s all right, dears,” she said again. “Don’t be afraid. This kind man is making sure we don’t get hurt.”
It was, of course, the wicked rake, to whom she’d been so cold. Horatia had better instincts. He was a true hero. He had rescued them and was now their protector.
Chapter Three
Clarissa could see only the man’s back, for he was facing the throng. She could see the faces of the passing crowd, however—young, old, angry, fearful, excited, greedy, impatient. She watched them see him, see him as a barrier to the direction they wanted to take, then shift away as if he wore spikes.
She wondered what expression he was using to warn them off, but she could only be grateful. Now that she had a measure of safety her knees felt like limp lettuce. If not for the girls she might have sagged to the ground and given in to tears herself.
But she’d done it! She’d been terrified, the memories had tried to overwhelm her, but she hadn’t collapsed. Instead, she’d surely helped save them all. Though still shaking and close to tears, she felt as if great weights had fallen away, leaving her light enough to fly.
She could face fear and survive.
A woman was suddenly pushed beside them. A desperate young countrywoman in coarse, disheveled clothes with a screaming baby in her arms. She did collapse, her legs giving way so that she sank down, back against the wall. Even Ricarda stopped wailing to stare at her.
Clarissa couldn’t help thinking about fleas, but the mother needed help as much as she and the girls did. As the woman lowered her dirty shift and put the frantic baby to her big breast, Clarissa looked away, looked again at their savior and guardian.
She didn’t generally allow herself to study men, but since his back was to her, she could indulge.
He was tall—her head barely came up to his shoulders. His olive coat lay smooth across broad shoulders and down his back, suggesting a lean, strong body. He stood with strong legs braced apart.
She ripped her gaze away. Studying a man like that was not only immodest, it was dangerous. Looks said nothing about a man’s true qualities, but they could weaken a woman’s mind.
Yet she couldn’t resist sneaking another look. He’d lost his hat in the riot, revealing disordered honey-brown hair.
She remembered earlier assessing him as a London beau. She’d sensed that danger, but never imagined him the stuff of which effective heroes are made. Another lesson about judging by appearances.
She suddenly realized that the nature of the crowd had shifted like a change in the air, danger fading, shock lingering. Pressure eased as people began to mill around, many pale and dazed while others sharpened to bring order and assistance. Through wails, and the cries of parents trying to locate their children, she heard the beat of a drum, doubtless calling the soldiers to riot control.
She quickly counted, even though she knew they were all safe. One, two, three, four, five. She found a smile for Horatia, whose bonnet was down her back, revealing all her lovely curls, but who clearly was not thinking of that at all. “Thank you. You were magnificent.”
The girl smiled back, proud but a bit wobbly.
Horatia, too, had probably learned in a test of fire that she was braver than she’d thought.
“Quite an adventure, girls,” Clarissa said in as light a tone as she could manage. “Let go of me now and help one another to straighten bonnets and bodices.”
They did so, and with Horatia’s encouragement, even began to giggle a bit as they repaired one another’s appearance. Clarissa made sure her own gown was straight, wondering what had happened to her cloak. She took off her crooked bonnet, using it to fan herself for a moment before putting it back on.
The man turned.
She was caught hatless and staring, because there was nothing grim and indomitable about him. Instead, he was all rake again, with a wicked glint in those blue eyes and a slight smile on his well-shaped lips.
And a wavery, warm feeling skimmed over her.
None of that! No amount of willpower, however, could halt her blush, so she turned away as she settled her bonnet back firmly on her head.
No amount of willpower could stop her from wishing she looked her inadequate best. She tried to at least tuck her hair away neatly, knowing it was a forlorn gesture. It was unruly by nature, and it had just been given an excellent opportunity to riot.
She firmly tied the ribbons, then looked at him. “I don’t know how to thank you, sir. We might have b
een in terrible trouble without your assistance.”
“I was pleased to be able to help.”
She was braced to resist flirtation, but he hunkered down in front of the countrywoman. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
Well, of course.
Men didn’t flirt with her.
All the same, a foolish part of her envied the mother, who was blooming under his attention. “Oh, yes, sir,” she said in a country accent. “So kind, sir! I thought for sure I was to be crushed to death, or have poor Joanie here torn from my arms.”
But then her eyes widened and she paled as she tried to push herself up one-handed.
He helped her, not seeming conscious of her half-exposed breast or the attached suckling infant.
“My littl’uns!” she gasped, her hand going up to push straggling brown hair off her face. “They’re out there somewhere. I must go—”
“No, no,” he said calmly. “Tell me what they look like and I’ll find them for you. What of your man?”
“He’s back tending the cows for Squire Bewsley, sir. There be three of ‘em, sir. Three boys, and they do stay together if they can. Four, seven, and ten. All brown hair.”
Clarissa wondered how anyone could find three urchins on that description, but the man didn’t seem daunted.
“Names?” he asked, as Clarissa looked out at the street, hoping three young brown-haired lads were in sight.
“Matt, Mark, and Lukey,” the woman said, and even produced a smile when she added, “Little Joanie was going to be John.”
The man grinned. “Stay here, and I’ll return soon to report. Hopefully with your little evangelists in tow.”
His grin, Clarissa discovered, could shatter a lady’s common sense. How fortunate that Horatia wasn’t looking. She’d be in a swoon.
He turned to leave, but suddenly Clarissa couldn’t bear for this strange encounter to end like that. “Sir, could I know the name of our rescuer?”
He turned back and bowed. “Major Hawkinville, ma’am.” He raised his hand to his hat, then said, “The deuce. I wonder where it is.”
