Running footsteps approached and another man dashed into the alley. “Rally here!” her defender called out. The newcomer struck a blow to the ruffian’s back, and within a few more seconds the two had her attacker immobilized against the wall.
“Got ’is knife, governor,” the second man said. “Tryin’ to rob ye, was ’e?”
“No, attacking that lady. Is that rifleman green?”
“Aye, sir. Sergeant Brown, of the Ninety-fifth.”
“Well done, Sergeant. Can you bundle this fellow off to a magistrate? I’ll return to settle the charges as soon as I’ve seen to the lady’s safety.”
“I ain’t done nuthin,” her attacker whined. “Fancy-piece standin’ about done asked fer it. I was goin’ ta—”
“Shut him up, Sergeant.”
She heard the sound of knuckle against bone and with a grunt, the ruffian slumped against the wall.
Her rescuer walked over. “Are you hurt, miss?”
Dread slammed Clarissa in the stomach as her still-racing mind suddenly identified the cultured voice of her rescuer. Colonel Lord Sandiford. Jerking her chin up, she saw his now-familiar features in the play of torchlight.
Consternation—and shame—rushed to replace her fear. She owed more than she could repay to the last man in London she would ever want to discover her in what she now recognized was the most ill-judged, reckless, idiotic stunt she had ever pulled.
“Quite well, thanks to you, sir.” She clutched her hood to her face with trembling fingers, trying to muffle her voice.
“How came you to be standing alone in this place so late at night?” he asked as he walked her out of the alley. “’Tis much too dangerous.”
“My…my escort went to speak with friends, and—”
At that moment Alastair approached them at a run. “Clare? Good God, Clare, what happened? When I glanced back a moment ago and you were not there—”
Colonel Sandiford halted as if suddenly cast to stone. Slowly he turned to look down at her. “Miss Beaumont?” he asked, his voice incredulous.
Her knees were going to jelly and she had a desperate desire to weep. What a horrific disaster her splendid adventure had become.
Sucking in a breath, she made herself straighten. She would not cap off her stupidity by turning into a helpless watering-pot. No matter how humiliating it was going to be to watch that handsome face twist in well-earned disgust.
“Colonel Sandiford, thank you again for your invaluable assistance. Now I should like to go h-home.”
Grenville, Mountclare and Weston joined the group. “Aha!” Lord John laughed and made a sweeping gesture. “Did I not promise you, gentlemen, she would not last an hour?”
Colonel Sandiford turned to Lord John. With his face now fully illumed by a nearby streetlamp, she could see the contemptuous expression as he raked Weston from head to toe with a glance. “Do you mean, sir, that you brought the lady here as some sort of—jest?”
“A wager, Sandiford,” Grenville explained. “’Twas no harm in it, really. We were close by, just across the square, ready to protect—”
“A fat lot of protection you offered!” The colonel’s hand, still on her arm, went rigid. “Are you all stupid as well as mad? Such scandalously unconscionable behavior could at the least ruin her reputation, and very nearly caused her serious physical harm!”
The others looked cowed, but Lord John thrust his chin up. “What right have you, sir, to judge us?”
Colonel Sandiford said nothing, merely fixing on Weston a glare that made the other men step back. Lord John held his ground, though, and after a moment the colonel said softly, “I shall call you to account later, sir. Right now I must escort Miss Beaumont home. You, boy—” he called to one of the dicing urchins who’d scarcely looked up from their game. “Summon a hackney.”
Weston stood motionless while Grenville and Mountclare shifted uncomfortably. Lord Alastair, his jaw working, approached the Colonel. “You are right, Lord Sandiford,” he said, his voice quivering with mortification, “I knew from the very beginning this jest—”
“Enough,” the colonel barked. “Be gone, all of you. And should I hear the merest whisper about this evening’s events anywhere in London, gentlemen, I will call each of you out. Though why any man would wish to reveal himself a party to so sorry an escapade I cannot imagine.”
Exchanging abashed glances, the others started to move away, but Weston stood fast. “Dueling,” he drawled with what Clarissa had to admit was remarkable sang-froid, “is sadly unfashionable, Lord Sandiford. Not that I’d expect one in your…circumstances to know much of fashion.”
“Pugilistics, however, is all the rage,” the colonel replied, apparently considering Weston’s insult not worthy of answer. “Correctly done, ’tis as effective as a bullet. If you value that scrawny neck of yours, I advise you to credit me with knowing that.”
Turning his back on Weston in clear dismissal, the colonel looked to the alley where the rifleman staggered as he dragged her unconscious attacker toward the square.
“Are you injured, sergeant?”
“No, sir,” the rifleman panted. “A bit…disguised.”
“Best take yourself on home, then.” The colonel’s voice held a trace of amusement.
The sergeant grunted and let go his burden. “Ain’t got me none. We was run off the land with the enclosures ’n’ me mum got no way ta feed another mouth.”
While the colonel inspected the sergeant’s tattered, grimy figure, Clarissa suddenly recognized him as the silent tippler she’d seen earlier on the street.
“Still no excuse to disgrace that proud uniform by consoling yourself with blue ruin. The Ninety-fifth performed inestimable service—can’t remember how many times a Baker rifle saved my neck. Can you read, Sergeant?” When the rifleman nodded, the colonel fished in his pocket and held out a hand. “Here’s my card. Come by my rooms in the morning. I’ve a country estate much in need of work. If you know aught of farming, I could use your help.”
The rifleman peered down at the pasteboard, then snapped to attention. “Aye, Colonel. I will indeed, sir!”
The jarvey arrived, and after returning the sergeant’s salute, Colonel Sandiford helped her in.
“Your direction, Miss Beaumont?” he asked, his voice coolly impersonal.
He must be thinking her the most helpless, noodle-witted female ever to draw breath. Disgust with herself for blundering into this predicament warred with the mortification of having the colonel, of all the men in London, be the one to find her.
“Gr-Grosvenor Square,” she replied unsteadily.
After instructing the driver, the colonel climbed in the cab and seated himself stiffly opposite her. The face illumed by the carriage lamp was grim, his jaw set, and he made no attempt at conversation.
How vain and ignorant she’d been, thinking that she, the peerless Miss Beaumont, might wander the city with impunity! For the first time she understood the reason behind some of the tiresome strictures that so often chaffed her. Though she’d read of citizens attacked on the streets and idly spoken herself of cutthroats and cutpurses, the reality of the London underworld had not until tonight penetrated her self-absorbed mind.
As the drive continued in silence, the enormity of what might have happened had the colonel not providentially appeared began to dawn. She owed to him not only her rescue, but likely her virtue and perhaps even her life.
Disgust and shame drained away, leaving her exhausted and once again near tears. A shivering began in her shoulders, progressed to her hands and the rest of her torso. Try as she might she couldn’t make it stop.
The carriage slowed. “Which house, Miss Beaumont?”
She tried to form the number but her lips would not still long enough to answer. A dizziness grew, and for the first time in her life she thought she might faint.
“Miss Beaumont?” The colonel’s body alerted. “’Od’s blood, you’re shaking all over. Are you all right?” When still she did
not reply he seized her shoulder.
The sting of the knife fired to flame and she cried out. With an oath, Sandiford jerked the ties of her cape loose and flung it back. What he saw made him draw in a breath, strip off his gloves and pull a handkerchief from his pocket. Wadding it up, he held it to her shoulder.
“Why did you not tell me that villain had cut you?” he demanded, his voice furious. “I’ll see him swing for this! Damn and bl—really, Miss Beaumont, a knife wound is no trifling matter. Though it does not appear deep, you must have that shoulder looked to at once! Let me help you inside and send for a physician.”
The driver’s face appeared at the window. “Which house, gov’nor?”
Clarissa imagined the scene: milling footmen, her little French maid succumbing to hysterics, her mama, roused from her slumber, following. The unpleasant and inevitable explanations.
Impossible. She must sneak in quietly, alone.
“N-n-no,” she forced her lips to work. “M-M-Mama would have a-a-apoplexy. J-just l-let me out here.”
She went to stand, but her knees seemed boneless. Furious at her weakness and desperate to escape the colonel’s understandably disgusted glare, despite the gulping breath she took to try to forestall them, tears began leaking out. The detestable, cowardly shaking in her limbs intensified.
“Curzon Street, Number 34,” Sandiford informed the driver. “Just do it,” he snapped, cutting off question.
In one swift movement Sandiford pulled down the shade and sat beside her. Then gathered her in his arms.
Her body seeming deaf to her mind’s direction, she could not pull away. The hard strength of the chest he held her against felt so warm, so comforting, so safe that in truth, she did not want to move. The degrading trickle of tears became a flood.
“Hush, hush now.” He rocked her, stroking her hair, murmuring in a gentle tone she’d never heard from him before. “He can’t hurt you. It’s all over.”
Not until the carriage slowed once more was she able to marshall the strength to move away. He released her instantly.
“Excuse m-me again, colonel. I w-wish you might believe I am not always such an idiotic w-weakling. Though my behavior tonight gives no proof of it. Wh-where are—”
“I’ve brought you to Sarah’s.”
Alarm exceeded humiliation. “No, you mustn’t. I’m…I’m recovered now, I promise. Ordinarily Sarah is game for anything, but just now I must not disturb her.”
“Is Becky still her maid?”
“Yes, but—”
“Becky and I have been friends since my childhood. She’s patched up many a wound, I promise you. I’ll have the servants summon her without disturbing Sarah.”
Before she could protest, Sandiford unlatched the door and left the carriage. In truth, it was a better solution. Ashamed as she was to have anyone learn of her wretched behavior, she’d rather it be Becky and Sarah than her own mama, who could—and often did—succumb to the vapors over the merest trifles. She shuddered to imagine Mama’s reaction should she see Clarissa’s bloody shoulder.
To her chagrin, her knees were still so rubbery when he returned to hand her down that she would have fallen had the colonel not caught her.
“Courage,” he murmured.
“A quality, along with sense, of which I’ve displayed precious little tonight,” she muttered, straightening once more by strength of will alone.
To place the final touch on what had been a disaster of an evening, she not only passed in the hallway a clearly astonished Glendenning, whose half-askew collar testified to how hurriedly he’d dressed to answer the colonel’s summons, but when Sandiford led her into the parlor, Englemere himself awaited them.
“On the sofa, here,” Englemere directed.
Clarissa closed her eyes, mortification burning her cheeks and prickling her eyes. Angrily she swiped at the trickle of tears and forced herself to face him.
But instead of the cold censure she expected, to her surprise, Englemere’s expression, as he rapidly scanned her face and shoulder, contained only concern. “Chin up, my dear. Becky’s on her way with the medicine box.” He smiled reassuringly and squeezed Clarissa’s hand. “She’ll have you mended in a trice.”
Englemere turned to Sandiford. “Thank you for bringing Clare to us, Colonel. Once more we stand in your debt. Becky can do all that is necessary.”
At that moment the maid hurried in. “What’s this—Master Sinjin!” She saw Clarissa then and gasped. “Miss Clare! What’s about?”
“A knife-cut, Becky. If it were fitting, I’d tend it myself—I’ve far more experience, but…Wash it out well, preferably with brandy, and put on a paste to draw out infection. Yarrow works well, I’ve found.” Sinjin shook his head. “No telling what might have been on that blade.”
He looked at Clarissa, his face once again unreadable. “It shall burn like the devil, I’m afraid, Miss Beaumont.”
“I expect I deserve it.”
He smiled fleetingly—his expression holding wry amusement and a warmth that was unexpectedly compelling.
“It would probably be best for Miss Beaumont to rest the night, so you might check the bandage in the morning. Summon a physician if the wound’s appearance worries you in any way. On my way home I’ll leave a message at Grosvenor Square not to expect her until tomorrow.”
“Sounds wise, Master Sinjin. Don’t you worry none, Miss Clare. I’ve doctored near about every cut and ailment a body could suffer, even if I’ve never been next or nigh a battlefield. I’ll take good care of that shoulder.”
“I’m sure you will, Becky,” Englemere said. “We’ll leave you to your work. Good night, Clare. I’ll break the news—gently—to Sarah in the morning. Colonel, would you like a glass of spirits before you depart?”
“Thank you, no, my lord. I’d best be alerting Miss Beaumont’s household.”
Englemere walked out and with a short bow, the colonel prepared to follow him.
“Colonel,” Clarissa forced herself to stop him. Much as it galled her to underline her folly this evening by acknowledging all he had done for her, both honor and courtesy compelled her to say it. “Once again, my thanks. I am fully conscious of—”
To her astonishment, he put a finger to her lips, stilling the apology. “No need to say more. If I had escorted you home as I pledged to do, none of this would have happened, so the blame is at least partly mine. Rest now, and sleep. Good night, Becky.”
He gave her another smile that braced her flagging spirits like brandy. Too weary to question its soothing effect, she watched him walk out.
If Colonel Sandiford hadn’t already made his opinion of her all too clear earlier in the evening, this escapade would certainly seal it. She’d no need to worry about handling the embarrassment of meeting him again. He would undoubtedly avoid her.
It must be the aftershock of her unsettling experiences that caused the room to seem suddenly colder and made her chest ache with a curious sense of loss.
Chapter Seven
The next afternoon, Sinjin guided Valiant down the bustle of Berkeley Square toward Piccadilly. Before he left last night, Nicholas had thanked him once again for safeguarding Sarah’s friend and invited him to meet at White’s the following afternoon where they might discuss Sinjin’s “requirements.”
At the south end of the square he hesitated. A strong urge possessed him to stop by Curzon Street and check with Becky to make sure Miss Beaumont’s wound was recovering. If the young lady were not still abed he might even be able to deliver the rest of his apology. Though his service to her last night had done much, he felt, to even the score he owed her for his earlier rudeness, he still could not dismiss a niggle of guilt that her injury would never have occurred had he seen her home as promised.
Stuff, he could not prevent the heedless chit from stumbling into harm’s way if she were taffy-headed enough to follow the promptings of men witless as Grenville and venal as Weston. He pictured the latter man’s narrow face with distas
te. To persuade a gently-bred lady into so dangerous and disreputable a locale was unforgivable, regardless of the responsibility Miss Beaumont bore for falling in with the scheme. He still had a score to settle with Lord John.
The tawdry episode only underlined how wise he’d been to dismiss her whole class from consideration in his search for a wife. Though in fairness he had to admit that, much as he deplored the ignorance and conceit that had brought Miss Beaumont to the square in the first place, once the attack began, her response must command respect.
He thought of Alex’s inamorata, the fragile Lady Barbara who shied at her own mama’s approach. She would probably have fainted dead away at the ruffian’s first touch. Miss Beaumont had both screamed and struggled, even managing somehow to pull herself free. And been wounded in the process. He had to admire her courage.
Her fortitude in enduring what must have been a painful knife-cut was equally admirable. Had he not chanced to place his hand on the wound, he wagered she’d have attempted to return home without revealing the injury.
As for her breaking down later, he thought no less of her for it. He’d seen hardened soldiers weep in the aftermath of battle. In fact, her reaction had been remarkably subdued, considering the terror she must have felt. He could think of only one other woman who wouldn’t have emerged from that alley in screaming hysterics.
In spite of her failings, she was, he concluded, a plucky lass, someone he’d not have felt reluctant to have fight by his side—then chuckled at so ludicrous a thought.
That settled it. He turned his horse east toward Curzon Street. After an engagement, he always visited his wounded soldiers.
His grin faded, though, as Valiant approached Sarah’s house. This was London, not the Peninsula, and Miss Beaumont was certainly not, despite his momentary whimsy, a soldier. The only gentlemen who called on an unmarried lady were labeled “suitors.”
Whickering in protest as Sinjin pulled him up hard, Valiant obediently responded to the knee that urged him back west. A note would sufficiently convey the remainder of the apology he owed her and Englemere could no doubt alleviate any lingering concern over her condition.
The Proper Wife Page 8
