The Proper Wife

by Julia Justiss

  “Ah, but temper gives her such a vibrant air, does it not, gentleman? So fetching one almost forgets the rapier tongue and the occasional, shall we say, lapses in judgment such temper all too often provokes.”

  “Would that your rapier wit were as sharp as your malice,” she shot back, too upset to ignore his barbed words as she normally would.

  “Rapiers?” Mountclare interrupted. “Not here, surely, Weston. Bad ton to bring weapons to a ball.”

  Weston spared him a pitying look before replying to Clarissa. “A sadly dull blade there. But I am unkind, I fear. Being a lady, your…exuberance never leads you into doing anything too rash. Ladies are much too timid.”

  “Timid, Lord John? Or merely sensible?”

  He laughed. “Timidity is often paraded as sense, my dear Miss Beaumont.”

  She threw him a withering glance. “I am neither timid, nor your ‘dear’, Lord John.”

  He bowed, unfazed. “Excuse me if I am too…familiar. Unlike other gentlemen, I, alas, cannot make that claim.”

  Was that detestable little worm implying she was free with her favors? “Have a care what you say, my lord. Else I may give you ample cause not to doubt my timidity.”

  His smile deepened. “That sounds perfectly delectable, my—Miss Beaumont.”

  Her less than needle-witted swains seemed not to have followed their rapid exchanges, but that remark was obvious enough even for them. “Here now, Weston,” Grenville frowned, “Ain’t no proper thing to say to a lady.”

  “My apologies if I’ve offended.”

  You do that by breathing, she thought, but merely nodded. “My lord,” she said, and started past.

  He held out a hand, blocking her. “Gentlemen, shall we see just how intrepid our brave Miss Beaumont can be? Let us challenge her to some feat even a gentleman would find adventuresome.”

  “Challenge a lady?” Grenville objected. “Ain’t done.”

  “Ah, but Miss Beaumont is a most unusual lady. Even so, I expect you are right. The weaker sex shouldn’t be tempted to exceed their limitations.”

  Though prudence said to avoid discussing any proposal emanating from the snide mouth of Lord John, the man’s condescending smile made her itch to get the better of him. “What sort of challenge, Lord John?”

  “Grenville is correct, Miss Beaumont. I should not have broached such a venture.”

  “Was there no thought behind your suggestion?” She exaggerated a sigh. “An all-too-common fault among men.”

  His smile faltered a moment, his eyes flashing. Then it revived, a curve of the lips as false as her own. “If you think it proper, I shall be happy to elaborate.”

  It wasn’t proper, she knew, but fed by her smoldering fury, the recklessness her mama had always deplored was seizing control. “I expect I am equal to any challenge you could envision.”

  “I doubt you have any idea what I envision—for us.” He spoke the last words in a whisper for her ears alone.

  Her anger abruptly redirected itself from Colonel Sandiford’s veiled insults to this small man’s presumption. Did that measly little muckworm imagine she’d ever accord him more than a disdainful glance? Reason drowning in wrath, she spat out, “Name your challenge, my lord.”

  “Miss Beaumont,” Lord Alastair protested, “I think this whole discussion most ill-advised—”

  “Indeed?” Mountclare chimed in. “I daresay Miss Beaumont is ripe for anything Lord John could devise.”

  “We shall see,” Weston replied, directing a slow glance up and down her torso that made Clarissa’s skin prickle with revulsion, as if a slug had just crawled over her.

  “I still say it ain’t fitting,” Alastair persisted.

  Lord John laughed. “Your champion,” he gestured toward Alastair. “A wager then, Grenville?”

  That gentleman’s face brightened. One who’d been known to bet a hundred pounds on which of two raindrops would slide first to the bottom of a window, he could never resist a wager. “I’ll give double odds on Miss Beaumont.”

  “This has gone far enough,” Alastair insisted, but Clarissa stayed him with a touch.

  Lord John had bandied innuendos before, but never quite as blatantly as tonight. Ah, to be a man, to be able to meet him at Jackson’s where she might have the pleasure of pummeling his presumptuous face. Stymied of that pleasure, she’d do just about anything to wipe away that knowing leer.

  “What do you suggest, Lord John?” she asked through fury-stiffened lips.

  “Something unusual, daring. Ah…I have it. You’re reputed to have a talent for theatricals, are you not, Miss Beaumont? How about a role totally unlike yourself—in a somewhat novel venue. Yes, that’s the ticket.”

  His cunning smile broadened. “I propose that you enact the part of a flower girl outside Covent Garden theatre tonight for an hour. And I’ve a hundred pounds that says you cannot do it.”

  Her mother would have palpitations; venturing into the darkness of Covent Garden unescorted might present unknown dangers, and if anyone with any pretense to gentility recognized her, her reputation would be in shreds. But she simply could not bring herself to let his challenge go unanswered.

  Scornfully she looked him up and down. “Only a hundred pounds? But why should you risk much? When I can act the role of flower girl much more convincingly than you will ever play the part of a gentleman. Alastair, my cloak, if you please. It seems we have a rendezvous at Covent Garden.”

  Chapter Six

  She’d really done it.

  Garbed in the lower housemaid’s cast-off Sunday dress and nervously clutching the posey of violets Grenville sent to complete her costume, an hour later Clarissa waited as her jarvey slowed to a halt in the night shadows of Covent Garden.

  At the ball Alastair had argued the danger and impropriety of the mad venture, while Lord John countered that the gentlemen would loiter at the other side of the square to ensure her safety. He’d then turned to Clarissa and tauntingly asked if she wished to withdraw.

  She’d rather have swallowed broken glass than back down.

  And so she’d returned home to find a costume, thrown an evening cloak over the shabby gown, and with a disapproving Alastair glowering beside her, taken a hackney to their rendezvous.

  Waiting until the square was empty of fashionable carriages, with a bravado she was far from feeling, Clarissa climbed down to assume her post at the corner and sent Alastair over to join Grenville, Mountclare and Weston.

  Her gaze lingered a moment on Lord John and she frowned. Though his extensive links with many prominent families gave him the entrée everywhere, she found his innuendo increasingly discomfiting as well as detestable.

  He desired her, of course—most men did. She recognized that fact without a trace of vanity, knowing she was no more responsible for the generous curves that drew men’s eyes than she was for the trees growing in the park. Generally she did not try to use her natural assets to entice, except when directly challenged, as by the pitiful Miss Glover, or when particularly annoyed or intrigued.

  She looked back to find Lord John staring at her and a chill crawled up her spine. Prominent connections or no, after tonight she would seriously consider giving him the cut direct.

  Having no wish to attract the notice of anyone in the occasional crested carriage that passed in a clatter of hoofs and harness, she stood in the shadows well back from the street. The porch of St. Paul’s looming in the distance reassured her. How could anything distressing happen within sight of Wren’s spectacular church?

  It not being part of the dare that she actually hawk the flowers she carried, after a few moments she began to relax. For the first time in her life, she had escaped the restrictions imposed on a maiden of gentle birth and was as free as a man to stroll about, unfettered by hovering maids or trailing footman. Soon, she was caught up in observing the goings-on in the square, for one of her privileged existence as much a spectacle as those being enacted in the neighborhood’s grand theatres.
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  In the flickering light of a torch a few shopfronts down, two barefoot, grubby boys played at dice, calling out to each other in unintelligible language whose bantering tone alone she could understand. A young woman, a maid by her dress, walked arm-in-arm with a strapping fellow who appeared to be a footman, their heads together, laughing softly. They passed a lump that turned out, when her eyes adjusted to the darkness, to be a ragged man, so motionless she feared he might be dead until the torchlight outlined the bottle he raised unsteadily to his lips. Castaway! she realized in scandalized amazement.

  Quite a few pedestrians strolled about, though as she expected at this hour, the passersby were almost exclusively male. This one, with his long-tailed coat and glittering watch fob, might be a lawyer’s clerk—perhaps, she thought with a thrill of titillation, going to visit a woman in the fancy-houses she knew bordered the ill-lit alleys nearby. Two young men arm-in-arm singing as they staggered along were obviously returning from a visit to some local tavern.

  Apparently none of the walkers had either interest or blunt to waste on posies, for after a casual glance at her wilted blossoms and silent figure, they continued on.

  Then Drury Lane must have let out, for from the direction of Russell Street the volume of carriage traffic increased. A moment later a party of well-dressed young bucks made a boisterous entry into the square. Glancing across the street to insure her “protectors” were still on guard, she eased herself farther back in the shadows. She didn’t mean to ruin her splendid adventure by being recognized.

  It appeared the revelers were known to Grenville, for after a moment he and her other “guards” walked over to speak with them. Drawing them away from her, she surmised, both amused and grateful.

  Her attention distracted by the commotion opposite, at first she sensed rather than saw the hulking figure.

  “Sell me some posies, dearie?” a rough voice asked.

  A burly, broad-shouldered man in a shabby freize coat stood in front of her, weaving slightly. One tooth and two black eyes gleamed in the darkness of his face, and a sharp odor of spirits reached her nose. The hair on the back of her neck prickling, she glanced toward her protectors. They were still preoccupied.

  “A shilling,” she said, trying to mimic the accent of her London-born tweeny. “Yer lordship,” she added, belatedly curtseying. Even with friends nearby, this hulk of a man made her uneasy. Being a flower girl seemed suddenly more hazardous than she’d anticipated.

  “Shilling for them wilted blossoms?” the man jeered. “Buy me a woman fer that. Let’s ’ave a look at ye, dearie, mebbe I’ll take ye instead.” He reached for her.

  Alarmed but angered, she batted his hand away. “Buy me vi’lets, or get on with ye.”

  The man laughed, an unpleasant sound that sent shivers down her backbone. “Happen I’ll jest get on with ye, eh?”

  Before she could guess his intent, the stranger seized her with one beefy arm. “Come now, sweetings, give a feller a kiss ’n let ’im know what ’e’s gettin’.”

  Truly frightened now, she tried to wriggle out of his grip, but in spite of her efforts he drew her closer to his foul-smelling face. Pushing him back as hard as she could, she dealt him a slap with her free hand. “Robert!” she screamed. “Gren—”

  A callused hand tasting of dirt and sweat clamped over her mouth. “Feisty, ain’t ye?” the big man snickered. “Don’t be callin’ none ’a yer fancy-men.” He ripped back her cloak, then gasped as the shaft of streetlight caught on her face and hair. “By the saints, a fair angel ye’ve found yerself, Jack. Goin’ to enjoy this penny’s worth.”

  She bit down hard on his thumb. Swearing, the man backed off a little, giving her room to bring up her knee, but hampered by her skirts and heavy cloak, her blow was did little more than infuriate the ruffian clutching her.

  “Bitch!” he swore, and slapped her.

  Her head jerked back. By the time the ringing in her ears eased, he had dragged her into the adjacent alley. Hauling her close, he plastered his wet mouth on hers, one hand groping at her bottom as he sought to pull her lower torso against his. Trying not to gag at the tongue pushing against her firmly-closed teeth, she concentrated on working her hands loose. A few seconds later she managed to rake her nails down the sensitive skin beneath his ears.

  He broke the kiss, gasping, and she struck him with all her might, then pulled free. No longer worried about discovery as long as she got away, she whirled and ran toward the square, screaming.

  Again hampered by her skirts, she made it but three paces before her molester caught her, slamming her against him and once more clamping a hand over her mouth. “Like games, bitch?” he snarled, breathing gin fumes in her face as she kicked and struggled. “Two kin play.” At that, he pulled an object from his coat and brought it to her face.

  A knife, its jagged blade silhouetted in the blackness of the alley by the torchlights of the square. With a mew of terror, she went still.

  “’At’s better.” He touched his ear. “Done made me bleed. Reckon I outter bleed you a little too.”

  He forced her against the alley wall, then ran the knife blade up her bare throat. “Only question is, afore or after?” With his free hand he pulled up her skirts.

  He would not think about Miss Beaumont, Sinjin told himself as he exited the theater. If images of her had teased his mind all evening, it was doubtless because the play was mediocre and the farce that followed even worse.

  Its chief merit consisted of the ravishing charms of its leading lady, whom Allensby impatiently awaited in the green room. Several of the frail sisterhood joined them there, all preening for the admiration of current or future lovers. Though their wares were undeniably attractive in a vulgar sort of way, Sinjin soon lost interest in the badinage backstage. Drawing Milhouse aside to plead the fatigue of his recent return, Sinjin excused himself from the Grenadiers’ plans for the rest of the night.

  To his annoyance, as he walked away from the theatre his thoughts drifted back to the beauteous Miss Beaumont. Despite their garish paint, the young actresses paled beside her vibrancy. Which was no wonder, his brain reminded his overappreciative body, considering the gown she wore was scarcely less revealing than those of the demi-reps from the stage. The figure thereby displayed had been, he grudgingly admitted, superior.

  The whiff of roses and the whisper of emerald satin flashed in his mind, raising his temperature several degrees. Damn, but she was all too attractive. Still, he needn’t berate himself over his reaction to Miss Beaumont, unwanted though it was. A man would have to be a saint made of stone not to be affected, and he was neither.

  His acquaintance with the compliant ladies of the Bourbon court had lapsed some months previous, and as neither his purse nor his preference inclined him to pay for his pleasure, there had been none. Which made him particularly susceptible right now to such a display.

  But when he recalled his parting words to Miss Beaumont, a flush of shame heated his face. Regardless of the provocation, to insult a lady was inexcusable, however subtlely the insult had been worded. In his irritation he’d allowed his prejudices to get the better of him and lost his temper. Again. He should write her an apology.

  With a shock of dismay he then recalled he’d agreed to find her escort home, but too furious for rational thought, had left the ball without arranging it. Though with all the swains she had milling about there was little chance of her being stranded, it was still unprecedented for him to neglect a duty. He must apologize for that too.

  Another set of apologies—too many to deliver by note. It appeared he would have to see her again. To his disgust, he felt an instinctive leap of anticipation.

  He had to admit there was about her an aura of…energy, a crackling vitality that was nearly palpable. She seemed too feral for the civilized artificiality of a ballroom. Her air of barely-controlled passion recalled the wildness of a cavalry charge across hotly-contested ground, the clash of a worthy opponent’s sword—or the intimate co
mbat of the bedroom.

  His breath caught before he could snuff out that glimmer of thought. He’d bet his spurs he wasn’t the only one of Miss Beaumont’s admirers to be ambushed by a vision of her acting the wanton. No man with blood in his veins could see her and not dream of being able to claim for a night what her lush body and vivid spirit promised. Though, he suspected, even one night with her could be dangerous. Should that tawny-haired tigress rake her claws over a man, she might leave scars to last a lifetime.

  He had scars enough already. Firmly dismissing her this time, he was crossing the shadowed walk at the center of Covent Garden square when a muffled scream reached his ears. A feminine scream.

  He halted, instantly on the alert, his hand going to where the sword normally hung at his side. When the sound came again, apparently from the alley he’d just passed, despite the lack of weapon he did not hesitate.

  For a stunned instant, unable to accept this nightmare was occurring to her, Miss Beaumont the Belle of the ton, Clarissa remained motionless. The feel of the villain’s rough hand sliding up the silk of her stocking shocked her to grim reality.

  “Cor, what a beauty she is,” her attacker breathed, stroking her bared leg.

  With a strength fueled by terror and fury she slammed her knee against his fumbling fingers and struck with her fist the arm that held the knife. Clearly not expecting further resistance, her attacker stumbled sideways, losing his grip on her. Taking the burn of the knife on her shoulder, she rolled away from him and ran.

  Two steps away she hurtled into a tall, solid figure. Screaming again, she clawed at him.

  Iron hands captured her fists and muffled her mouth against a greatcoat. “Easy now, girl, I won’t hurt you!”

  “Find yer own bitch!” With a roar, her attacker launched himself at them.

  The man pushed her behind him and turned to meet the charge. With his walking stick he deflected the raised knife as he sidestepped and delivered a hard punch to the attacker’s kidney. Grunting, the villain whirled and grabbed her defender’s arm, struggling to right his knife.