Suspicious, Wynne asked, “What are you about, sir?”
“Nothing worthy of that frown, I swear. Silhouettes. A simple memento of the fair.”
“Enter, my lord and lady,” the man entreated, eyeing the expensive cut of their clothes. “By Jove, what beauty.” He took Wynne’s hand and led her to the only chair in the tent. Several oil lamps lit the area, casting multiple shadows on the canvas walls. “For once, I curse my meager tools. I only wish I had marble to immortalize you, my lady.”
Figuring he was paying for the showmanship as much as for the skill, Keanan handed a guinea to the man’s assistant.
The silhouettist prattled on, praising his subject’s beauty while he made minute adjustments to Wynne’s position until he was satisfied with the sharp profile shadow on the white sheet behind her. Instead of tracing the shadow as Keanan had expected, the man picked up his scissors and black paper. His gaze fixed on her silhouette, he began cutting at an amazing speed. Two minutes later, he held his copy up to the shadow.
“Excellent, no?”
“Pure artistry, sir,” Wynne marveled.
Keanan pulled out a few more coins. “I would like a copy made, and both of them framed. Is this possible?”
“Yes, my lord. I have a shop in the Strand where it can be framed. If I was you, I would fill each room with her image, so no matter where I wandered, her image would be there to comfort me.”
It was an admirable pitch. Keanan shook his head. “I only require two. Send them to this address.” He handed over his card. Wynne slipped her arm through his, distracting him. “Why fill my rooms with paper effigies when I have the real woman to gaze upon?”
* * *
Wynne was taking pleasure in her afternoon with Keanan. Alone with her, his mood was light and indulgent. After the silhouettist, they had walked from stall to stall, examining the various wares. Every temptation was offered. There were bolts of fabrics, lace, ribbons, slippers, and fans to impress a young lady. Keanan had insisted on buying her a fan and a pair of slippers she had admired. Biscuits, sausage, venison, fruit, and a half dozen other choices beckoned to be tasted. In the background, a mock battle was being waged on the Serpentine River. A rope dancer juggled balls over their heads. Four theatrical, very drunk men called out slurs, goading the others into a sword fight. At least, she had assumed they were part of the entertainment.
They found Amara and Lothbury at the wild animal spectacle. Wynne joined the couple while a gentleman who recognized Keanan delayed him.
“I had dark thoughts of murder when his lordship dragged me off,” Amara confessed, her voice softened so the men could not hear their conversation.
“Forgive me, I did not expect the men would confront us with a strategy worthy of the late heroic Nelson. I sent Gar after you, to insure Lothbury behaved.”
Amara’s cheeks flushed, darkening the work of the sun. “There is no need for apologies. Lord Lothbury was most kind. Witty, too. I cannot recall a day when I have laughed so.”
Wynne returned her friend’s smile. Too much tragedy had shadowed Amara’s young life. Silently she thought Brock would be thinking of murder as well if this day led to Lothbury’s offering for Amara’s hand.
“Miss Claeg, Miss Bedegrayne, I would be honored to fetch you both something to drink,” Lothbury suggested. “The dust is thick from both man and beast stomping about.”
Both ladies consented, and Lothbury disappeared into the crowd. Wynne tried to see beyond the shoulder-to-shoulder mob, seeking out Keanan. She thought she saw a glimpse of his sleeve, yet she could not be certain.
Trumpets blared, signaling the commencement of the wild animal exhibition. Two huge black bears lumbered into the dirt arena the crowd had circled around. A man cracked his whip at the feet of each bear. Growling, the animals stood to full height. Revealing their mouths full of deadly teeth, they slashed their large paws into the air. The crowd roared its approval.
“Do you think it is safe to stand so close?” Wynne questioned.
“I think they are trained to act fierce in front of the audience,” Amara replied over the din. “The ropes around their necks ensure they remain out of reach.”
One of the men took up the lead rope of the bear on the right and ran alongside him as they circled the ring. Everyone shrieked and tried to step back when the bear passed by them.
Unease grew in Wynne. Any animals she had observed had been within cages. This excited, unpredictable crowd could trample a person. She and Amara collided when the people around them pressed closer. Large globes were tossed to the bears. One of the bears missed, but it did not diminish the cheers. Trumpets blared again, heralding the king of all cats. Entering between the poised bears, a lion stalked into the area.
“I think we should leave.”
Amara leaned her ear closer but did not look away from the arena. A second lion paired with the first. “We have to wait for Lord Lothbury and Mr. Milroy. Besides, I doubt we would be able to move more than a few steps.”
Wynne wanted to turn around to search for Keanan. There simply was no room to move her shoulders. Looking to the right, she noticed Gar had been separated from them. He was too far to hear her shout, so she waved her hand, gaining his attention. The footman acknowledged her summons. Even so, it would take time for him to work his way to them.
Her attention returned to the animals. The bears had been returned to their cages. Some of the tension in her chest should have eased. It had not. The two badly scarred lions were dirty and most likely half starved, she decided, noting their visible ribs. They had to be in order for them to fight on command.
The lion on the right crouched low, then lunged for the other’s throat. Using its muscular limbs, the other lion arched and batted at its opponent’s head. The vicious battle for dominance had begun. With much growling and thundering, another lunge toppled the animals backward. Rolling in the dirt, they were a confusing tangle of claws and teeth.
An abrupt blow from behind thrust Wynne several yards into the arena. Clumsy from the shock, she fell forward, landing on her stomach. She froze. Time slowed, so that seconds seemed like an eternity. The sounds and shouts around her faded into the background. All she saw were the lions. Biting and slashing into each other’s hides, they rolled mere yards from her position. Coughing on dust, she inched backward, fearing that if she stood she might alert them to her presence.
Jerking her gaze up, she saw that from across the ring, people were shouting and pointing. She could not tell whether they were encouraging her to move or commanding her to halt. In the end, the decision was made for her. Masculine hands shot under her arms and dragged her out of the arena. One of the lions, spotting the movement, snapped its massive jaws in her direction.
His face white and rigid, Keanan pulled Wynne to her feet. She whispered his name, and the world tilted as he lifted her into his arms. She could barely breathe, yet she could not make herself let go. Shouting orders, he impatiently followed Gar and Amara as they forced an opening away from the lions.
Out in the open, Lothbury rushed to them, their drinks balanced precariously in his arms. “What happened? Did she faint?”
Amara took one of the drinks and pressed it to Wynne’s lips. “She lost her footing and fell into the arena,” she explained to the marquess, causing him to swear. Forcing her to sip more of the warm cider, she asked, “Do you hurt anywhere?”
Wynne shook her head. Still panting, she leaned back into Keanan’s supportive embrace. The solid strength and warmth of him steadied her. “I cannot seem to stop shaking.” Her hysterical giggle had everyone glancing warily at Keanan.
“Gar, see to the carriage,” he ordered. “I will see to your mistress.”
Her footman hesitated. It did not surprise her. He was loyal to the Bedegrayne family. After this incident, he probably did not trust her care to anyone.
She blinked when Gar crouched down beside her and took her hand. “Miss Bedegrayne, the blame is mine. When you waved, I k
new you were in trouble. If I had done my job and stayed close, you would not have fallen like you did.”
“Oh, Gar. No one blames you. The crowd was boisterous and unpredictable. We were all being jostled like trunks in a high-speed mail coach.” She patted his hand. “See to the carriage. We will meet you at the entrance.”
Wynne glanced up at Keanan’s face after Gar departed. His attention was still fixed on the back of the footman. There was more color in his face, but tension made the muscles in his neck prominent.
“He truly is not to blame, you know. The crowd—”
Keanan took out his handkerchief and tenderly wiped the grime from her face. “I am the one responsible. I should not have left your side.”
Lothbury cleared his throat, gaining their attention. “I plead my guilt as well. I could have waited until Milroy returned to you ladies.”
“I doubt any of you men could have helped,” Amara said with a slight hitch in her voice. “I stood beside her and—I am so sorry, Wynne.”
Wynne got up. Ignoring Keanan’s protest, she hugged her friend. “How fortunate I am to have so many who care. I repeat, none of you are to blame.”
“Taking on the responsibility yourself, Wynne?”
She took offense at his mocking tone. Still, it confirmed his nerves were mending. “No,” she replied crossly. “It means, Mr. Milroy, someone else shoved me!”
Nine
Someone had tried to kill her.
Keanan sat across from Wynne and Miss Claeg, consumed by his grim thoughts. Still wanting to believe it had been a freakish mishap, he had commanded her to repeat the tale numerous times. Her account remained the same. Someone had put his hands on her back and pushed her into the path of those lions.
With Miss Claeg’s assistance, she had brushed most of the dust off her dress. Calm again, no one would ever know she had almost died.
“You did not have to ride with us, Keanan. I told you, I am fine.” She held up her filthy gloves. “These are ruined, of course. A small sacrifice, really. I would have taken off a layer of flesh without them.”
Her carefree demeanor, instead of soothing him, ignited his temper. “To Hades with your fine gloves! Is that all you care about? A coldhearted lout tried murdering you in front of a thousand witnesses. Am I the only one present who is feeling a chilly ache in my bones?”
Keanan had judged Miss Claeg a docile woman. In his limited experience with her, he had seen her flustered, delighted, and concerned for her friend. He had believed the two women were an odd pairing of extreme temperaments. Realizing the fragile-looking woman was livid enough to consider rapping him on the head with her reticule upped her in his estimations.
“Mr. Milroy.” Miss Claeg’s frigid tone dripped icicles of condescension. “We are quite aware of the events. Badgering her to tears might make you feel superior but will do little to address the issue.”
He removed his hat and scratched at his disheveled hair in frustration. “I do not want to make you cry, Wynne.” He glowered at Miss Claeg. Speaking in her presence made him feel awkward. Smashing his hat back on his head, he complained, “Do you know how I felt when I pressed through the mob and saw you inches away from two brawling beasts? Such a fright I endured, I expect during my morning ablution I’ll be counting new silver on my head.”
Wynne’s lips trembled. Considering her strange mood, he could not tell if she was holding back her amusement or her terror. Part of him hoped she was laughing at him. He could not bear to see her cry. Having Miss Claeg in the carriage, he was not in any position to soothe her.
“I may be at fault,” she whispered, her hands kneading the fabric of her skirt as if it were stiff bread dough.
Had he thought her calm? Something had shattered her painstaking facade. Brown lashes dammed her tears, making her eyes green, tumultuous pools.
“Jenny,” she said, her gaze seeking out her friend.
Miss Claeg shook her head, denying the suggestion. “You cannot be certain.”
“I blundered the affair. He struck me as the type of man who would demand revenge if given the chance.”
They were treating him like Keanan as if he were a bloody invisible servant. His eloquent curse brought their wary attention in his direction. “Speak to me.” He enunciated each word. “Who is Jenny? Why would a man want revenge on you, Wynne? What trouble are you facing?”
The tears had retreated. A pained, resolved expression pinched her face. “Mr. Egger.”
“Because I pounded him once or twice for touching you?” There was no reason to tell her that Egger had difficulty walking when he had finished with him. A sensitive lady like Wynne shunned violence. Keanan sensed she had trouble accepting his former profession. She needed no reminders that, like Egger, he should be avoided as well. “He wouldn’t dare cross me.”
She stared patiently at him, giving him time to figure out the possibilities. Temper thickened his accent. “Don’t you think it’s time you tell me why you were tangling with Egger?”
Miss Claeg shifted, preparing to argue, but Wynne silenced her with a quick shake of her head. “My actions involved him, Amara. He deserves knowing what he stepped between.”
“Can you trust him?”
“Yes.”
She held his gaze, unwavering as her faith in him. Such trust curdled his insides. The desire to tell her that he was not worthy rose like bile, burning the back of his throat.
“I took his daughter from him. Jenny. Thirteen years old, and he had it all planned to sell her virginity to the highest bidder.”
The notion was appalling but not all that uncommon. His interests never roamed to the young, desperate girls earning their wages by selling the only asset they owned. However, there were countless others who were not so discriminating.
“Who is this girl to you?”
He saw confusion. Anger flushed her cheeks. Her chin rose an inch. “Why does there have to be a connection? What her father planned for her was depraved and cruel. It would shame me, and my family, if I had simply closed my eyes and ignored a plea for my aid!”
Passion radiated through her as she spoke of a needy girl. The world was filled with them. Too many. Keanan and his mother had spent too many years miserable and hungry not to be able to understand. He also knew firsthand of the quality’s callous treatment of strife that did not concern them. Leaning back in his seat, he contemplated her reaction. A part of the tale was missing. He was certain of it.
“How did Jenny Egger know you would help?”
Wynne glanced away. Her continued silence confirmed that she was not prepared to trust him with all her secrets. The carriage slowed and then stopped. “I believe, Amara, this is where you dismount from our adventure.”
* * *
Wynne had tried to dissuade him from climbing into her carriage. Having Gar throw him out, after Keanan had saved her life yet again, seemed mean-spirited, even though the act would have simplified her life.
Telling him about Egger should have satisfied him. She had not anticipated that one answer would cause other questions to surface.
Looking out the window, she noticed they were home. She recognized the voice of one of the footmen as he called a greeting out to Gar. “Our coachman will take you wherever you want. Again, you have my gratitude.”
Keanan reached for her arm, forcing her to remain. “Do not be too reckless with your thanks, Wynne. You haven’t shaken me loose. I want to meet your father.”
Wordless dismay moved her lips. He was too sharp not to notice.
“Poor Wynne. What will you do?” he asked, all mock sympathy. “You think you are above judging me when walking anonymously about a fair. Yet the thought of giving my name to your father has you wringing your hands.”
“I never wring my hands, Mr. Milroy,” she said, liking the frost in her tone. “Please, join me. Meet my father. At least one of us will gain pleasure from the encounter.”
The door opened. Wynne halted her departure. “You think you
have me all figured out, do you not? You accused me of judging you. Yet I am the one who feels like I am doing penance for some nameless sin.”
His eyes, like the man, were enigmatic. “Shall I put a name to your sin?”
She left him, not deeming his question worthy of a reply. Or perhaps she feared it. Gar helped her descend from the carriage. His gaze flickered to the man behind her. “Mr. Milroy will remain for refreshments. It is the least I can do for my brave hero.”
Keanan Milroy was not the only one who could use mockery to his advantage.
* * *
“Lord Nevin, you understand I would never have breached a client’s privacy if these were not dire circumstances,” the nervous man said, his fingers tapping against the worn black portfolio he clutched.
Mr. Walter Tibal had been Drake’s father’s man of affairs for twenty years. Somewhere in his fifties, his flesh had never seemed to fit his scarecrow frame. He was clever with figures, and his resourcefulness had always kept the Reckesters out of dun territory. Now, it appeared his father’s excesses had become more than a drain on the family fortune.
Drake stared down at the activity on the street below. He preferred it to the defeated expression on his companion’s face. “How bad?”
Barely stifling a weary sigh, Mr. Tibal opened his portfolio and retrieved several documents. Pushing his sliding spectacles back into position, he silently reread the information he’d gathered. “His Grace’s gambling debts have exceeded the figure you and I had agreed upon were tolerable losses.”
Nothing remarkable about that news, Drake thought, rubbing the stiffness creeping into his neck. “Do you have a figure?”
“At best estimate, sixty thousand pounds.”
Half a year’s rents, gone, on the turn of a card or a slow horse. Drake closed his eyes, cursing his father’s weakness for gaming hells. Both his mother and father looked to him—no, demanded—that he seed the next generation by marrying a respectable woman to breed his heir and to keep the coffers brimming to counter his father’s losses.
The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy Page 12
