She screamed and clawed at her attacker’s hand. Peters was pushing pedestrians aside to get to her but he was a fading figure. Mabel was nowhere to be seen.
She scrabbled backward, searching for her footing. But the man who held her was bigger, stronger than she. Still she grabbed him, pushing at his arm. But he stopped, forced to halt.
And Jess took her chance. Pushed with all her might against him with her lower body and whirled to face…
The man who had killed Heathmore in Brighton.
She yelled and pushed him. He fell backward, scrambling for his footing when a young rioter backed into him and pushed him to the street.
He fell on his back, reaching up like a crab when a horse neighed, reared and came down on him, front legs first.
He stared, frozen, his mouth gaping, frothing as he tried to mutter a word…and exhaled.
“Dear God, Miss Archer!” Peters was upon her, grabbing her shoulders, turning her toward him and away from the horror of the man dead upon the street. “Are you well? Has he hurt you? Speak to me?”
“I—I am. Yes. Yes.”
“What’s amiss ‘ere?” A constable leaned over the deceased.
“Accident,” someone offered.
“He were taking ‘er,” said another and pointed at Jess.
“You, Ma’am?” He examined her head to toe. “Hurt you, did he?”
“He tried to. Yes.”
“He took her from us,” Peters told the constable. “Grabbed her, he did.”
“And she got ‘way from ‘im,” said a young woman. “And she pushed but he fell and that ‘orse there did the rest.”
The constable considered her and then Jess once more. “You’re name, Ma’am?”
She told him.
“And yours?” he asked the woman who’d told of how he fell.
That woman responded.
Two young boys rushed upon them, both with stones in their hands. But when they saw the constable, they yelped and did an about turn.
“You’ll come to Bow Street, Ma’am. Tomorrow. Early.”
Peters took affront. “She’s done no wrong. Defending herself, she was.”
“Still, sir. I need her to make a statement for the coroners’ inquest on this man’s death.”
“I will, sir,” she told him. Having been to Bow Street once, she trusted the police to take her statement and respect her words.
“Tomorrow,” he told her, pointing at her and spun to run after the two boys who’d turned to run. “Can’t do it today. Too much to do here.”
Shaken but relieved she was unhurt, she faced Peters. Mabel pushed toward them and stared down at the dead man. “I’m happy to go home. Let’s.”
* * *
At home, Peters insisted she retire to her rooms to recover. “I’ll send up tea and a good luncheon. Brandy, too, Miss Archer.”
“Thank you, Peters.”
“You’re certain I need not call for a physician? Nothing broken? Nothing injured?”
“Unnerved, that’s all, Peters.”
Mabel accompanied her to help her undress. The maid was silent as she worked. When Jess caught a glimpse of her, she noted the girl brooded.
“What bothers you, Mabel? Did he hurt you, too? Did I not see that?”
“No, Ma’am. But I did see that dead man. The man who tried to drag you away. He were my Mister Fish.”
Shocked, Jess shut her eyes. Mabel’s Mister Fish. Also Jess’s attacker. And Mister Heathmore’s. “You will come with me tomorrow to Bow Street to tell them what you know.”
“Aye, Miss. I will. But we should be taking Nancy, too.”
Nancy. “Do you think she might know more about Mister Fish?”
“I know he asked questions about you, Miss. And Nancy do not like you.”
Jess stopped Mabel from removing her petticoats. “Hand me my gown again. Right now, run downstairs and tell Peters I wish to speak with Nancy. Hopefully, he has said nothing yet to anyone about what happened today. You and Peters return with Nancy and stay to hear what she says to me.”
Within minutes, Nancy appeared before her. Mabel and Peters stood right behind her, their gazes hard and unforgiving upon the rigid back of the cook’s first maid.
“Nancy,” Jess addressed her, hands folded before her, “do tell us about your relationship with Mister James Fish.”
The young woman looked around at the butler and maid. When she got nothing from them, not even a glance in her direction, she turned back. This time, not as sure of herself, she rolled her shoulders. “He’s my friend.”
“How so?” Jess persisted.
“Dunno what you mean.”
“You do. Tell us what you liked about him.”
The maid frowned. “He’s ‘andsome and…and smart.”
Mabel scoffed.
“What did he tell you about himself?” Jess asked.
“He’s come up from Brighton. He sells ale, ‘e does.”
“And why is he in London?”
“For the Coronation. Why? What’s ‘e to you?”
Jess pursed her lips. “You tell us.”
Nancy leaned forward and sneered. “Jim don’t like you.”
“I see. Any reason why?”
“He says you speak against him.”
“Do I? To whom?”
“He says you knew him in Brighton. Were a cook there. And you saw ‘im on the Shore and said ‘e done wrong and beat someone.”
“And so you told him…what?”
“That I don’t like you either. You took Thomas from me. So I told Jim all about you.” She gave a cocked-eyed smile. “Jim likes me.”
“Does he?”
“We’re friendly. You get my meaning. We’re more’n friends.”
“I will say you are, Nancy. You are an accomplice to his attempt to abduct me. Even murder me.”
Nancy shrugged. “Don’t know what that means. Accomplice.”
Peters snorted. “It means, Nancy, that you helped a kidnapper. Someone who might also be a murderer.”
“Wha’?” Alarm wizened the girl’s face. “No! Jim ain’t no criminal.”
Peters came round to stand beside Jess. “He is. And you will go with us to Bow Street tomorrow to testify to what you know about him.”
“I’ll not go to any Runners. You can go if you want. Not me.”
“I suggest you re-think that,” Peters told her.
“Why? I don’t have to.”
“You do if you want a position here.”
She narrowed her gaze on him. “You can’t do that.”
“I can.”
“You’d take ‘er side?” She flung out a hand toward Jess.
“I will,” he answered.
“You may leave us,” Jess told her.
In a huff, she picked up her skirts and scurried away.
Jess wilted like a flower in the sun. A hand to her forehead, she said, “I doubt she’ll stay. She may run, you realize.”
Peters and Mabel agreed.
“But you heard what she said, so that may be useful to the police.”
They agreed to that, too.
Then they left and Jess was alone to contemplate her survival…and her future.
Chapter 13
“Miss Archer is well, my lord. Unhurt,” Peters told him once more.
Charlie thrust his velvet robe and ermine cape into his butler’s hands and charged up the stairs to her bedroom. The hall clock was chiming the ten o’clock hour as he rapped on her door once and without welcome, thrust it open.
“Good evening to you!” Jess, fully dressed, beamed at him from a chair near the fire. She closed her book and tipped her head to regard him. “You performed your duties well, I do believe, and now you must describe for me in detail the menu of the new king’s banquet.”
“After you assure me you are truly well.” He drew her up as he sat in the nearby chair and put her to his lap. Then he ran his fingers over her cheeks down her throat along her shoulders to her
fingertips. Those he raised and kissed each one. “Peters told me what happened. Are you well? Truly?”
“I am not hurt. Fully recovered from any anxiety,” she said, implying more than he could know at this point.
“You should be abed. Not waiting for me.”
“You, dear sir, are constantly concerned about my rest.”
“And I have good reason to be. Especially for tomorrow when we must return to Bow Street.” He threaded his fingers through her hair—and as he rose, he noted all three papers he’d had Peters give her were atop the small table at his side. If she had decided what to do she would tell him. He would not ask. Not now. Tomorrow perhaps. Now he had to assure himself Jess was well.
“I am furious with this kitchen maid,” he said, his words bitter.
“She’ll go with us to Bow Street tomorrow and give her statement.”
“They will not treat her well, I fear. She may be charged herself for aiding him.”
“Indeed.” She cupped his jaw. “You look tired.”
“A long and complex business, this crowning of a new king. This king enjoyed every minute.”
She chuckled. “A new crown. New robes. Everyone bowing before him. A trip to Ireland and Scotland to come afterward.”
“Hundreds of dishes on the menu at the hall. You would have loved it, Jess. A forkful of everything! How does one cook for all those people?”
She wiggled her brows. “Very carefully.”
He nodded and regarded her at length. “Are you tired?”
She shook her head. “No. I wish to talk.”
“Ah. Good.”
“I am grateful for your gifts.”
He locked his gaze in hers. “Both?”
“Both.” She trailed a fingertip over the swell of his lower lip. “You are a generous man. I doubt I really understood just how generous.”
Her tone was too…impartial. Impersonal. Fear rode him hard. She was going to leave him, he was positive. He should hear it now and be done with it all. “Go on.”
“This morning as I read your documents I recalled one morning when I was ten. You and I had pruned my mother’s kitchen herbs in the garden and then you offered me ice and a ride into Crawley on your horse.”
“I don’t recall it.”
“We had gotten our ices and outside was a schoolmate of yours. Lord Bamstoke.”
“Bam. Hunh. I remember him. Poor bugger died at Waterloo.”
“A shame.”
He grimaced. “He made fun of you, as I recall.”
“Didn’t think you should associate with your cook’s daughter.” She pressed a kiss to his lips and he wondered if it was her preparation to refuse him. Leave him.
He clutched her closer. “What did he know of love or happiness?”
“That’s what I concluded then.”
“And now?” He hated to prod her, but he had to know.
“It is also what I had forgotten. Though his words stuck with me. He called me naughty. And I never thought I was.” She toyed with the ends of his cravat—and he caught her fingers and crushed them to his chest. She blessed him with another kiss. “Until last night…and the night before.”
He put aside her attempt at levity in favor of the bigger truth she must know. “I didn’t ever think you were naughty or wrong or…or reaching beyond your station, Jess.”
“I know. I understand you more than I ever have. I doubt I understood myself and that was the problem between us.”
He shook his head, desperate for clarity from her. “I do not understand.”
“I took one part of society’s rules to keep my place. To be good. Never naughty. I told myself I was not equal to a duchess or a countess or a viscountess. I thought the only answer was working hard, and that would bring me a sense of integrity and pride. I accepted that work as a cook was a good lot and to be the best at it was a worthy goal. I thought neither would ever change. I was wrong.”
He held his breath. “How wrong?”
“I learned today that integrity and pride are made of many elements. That those we associate with and live with and love can see you, unvarnished, whole, and accept you as that. I also learned that those we love might see you as you are and as you wish to be. And that is love, truly, in its fullness.”
Whatever she’d learned today about him or herself had led her to a conclusion about her future. Their future. “And so what will you do with my two gifts, Jess?”
She arched her brows, whimsy in her dark brown eyes. “It occurs to me that the property on Piccadilly has a few problems with it.”
“Oh?” He’d researched the damn thing carefully. Even hauled his lawyer from the City in late afternoon to examine the bricks and mortar, then had him dicker with the owner’s lawyer. “My people tell me the place is sound. A good bargain.”
“Hmmm. That may well be.”
“But?”
“I’ve set my hopes on a larger property in Crawley. It’s not a shop but a small building one floor on the high road. I’ve wanted to buy it forever. And now your choice of this one on Piccadilly precludes my buying that one.”
She was sad. Dear god. Well, he was too, but he wanted her to have anything, everything she ever wished for. Even if she would not be with him, he would sleep well in some small measure the rest of his life knowing she was happy and he’d helped her to be so. “Sell it then. Take the money. Buy what you wish.”
She beamed at him. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”
Of course, he would. But then it meant she would leave him. To live within miles of his home. To be within reach…but never be his to touch. That he’d see her often and unexpectedly. And that she’d never be his wife to have and hold. Never.
“My darling, Lord Rockingham, Lord R, my Rock,” she whispered and blessed his eyes and the tip of his nose with little kisses. “I want to open a shop in Crawley. A French patisserie.”
“Commendable,” he offered with more grace than he ever thought he had in him. He wanted to protest—no, bellow that she was wrong, they’d be good together, that he needed her, had always needed her as his lover, his wife.
“But I want to supervise. Hire a chef. Teach others how to cook well and then I’d like to—”
He stilled. “You won’t be there every day?”
“No.”
“Each night?”
“No.”
He clamped her close and demanded, “Why not?”
“Because I do believe I will be very busy. You see, I will write a cookbook. For the lady who has limited means and loved ones who should enjoy nutritious meals.”
“A fine idea.”
“Ladies need a good recipe book.”
“I see,” he said but was quite lost.
“But the other reason I won’t be at the shop is because I’ll be at home with you. In the country. Or here. Wherever you are is where I am. Wherever you go, I will be also. Because, Rock, we need to use that wonderful special license you acquired. Monday, I’d say. Wouldn’t you?”
“By God!” Victory had him darting to his feet with her in his arms. “I’d go this minute if I could shake a vicar from his bed!”
She laughed. “So…Monday? Or Tuesday?”
“What? The damn thing expires, you know.” He strode with her to her bed.
“No!” She gasped. “When?”
He’d be a fool to tell her the truth that the license was valid for months! Instead he went for a date certain for their wedding. “We’ll marry tomorrow.”
“Oh, Charlie! I can’t!” she objected and nipped his ear, the scamp. “I need a wedding dress, darling. So it can’t be tomorrow. Besides, we go to Bow Street tomorrow. And I thought perhaps then Saturday would be wonderful. Just think.” She trailed a finger over his lips. “Have you obligations, sir, on Saturday?”
“Obligations, you tease?” He was laughing as he plunked her to the mattress and followed her down.
“We could invite the Cartwells and the Beaumonts and the staff dow
nstairs, of course.”
“Of course.” He began to unbutton the bodice of her prim little gown. “Invite Prinny for all I care! The king of France!”
“I like the staff,” she rattled on. “They even now respect me. Can you imagine?” she speculated in a dreamy tone.
He was trying mightily not to ravish her. “I do, my darling. I do.”
“And I think they might be rather proud now to say that their mistress is a woman who runs her own shop and teaches others how to make good bread and scones.”
“So true,” he crooned as he kissed his way along her throat to the glorious rise of one breast.
“Besides, I’m sure they know that when I am mistress here, they will always have nothing less than delicious menus. Good bread. Fine entrees.”
He pulled back to examine her, this extraordinary woman would make his life a delectable treat. “Of a certainty.”
“Made of the best ingredients.” She arched her head and snuggled back into the pillows as he undressed her. “Melons and raisins.”
“Parsley and noodles.”
“Strawberries and…” She gasped as his fingers found a new marvel of her body’s delight in him. “Oh.”
“Yes.” He hummed in pleasure against her tender flesh. “Do stop talking, my love.”
“But I’m thinking up new recipes, my darling man.” She stared at him, wide-eyed in her feigned innocence. “Aren’t you?”
THE END
A Nibble of My New Cherry, Coming Soon!
HER IRRESISTIBLE STABLE BOY, In my Delightful Doings in Dudley Crescent series!
Number 6,
Dudley Crescent
London
July 15, 1821
Dearest Lucinda,
I write to you today to share my outrage at occurrences in Dudley Crescent. I simply cannot abide the recent changes and must have your advice.
Two years ago, a murder occurred at Number 10. The horrid matter was quickly resolved when the culprit was identified and put away from fine society. But the greater scandal was that the widowed lady of the house had intimate relations with her butler! Then last year, a noted member of society hired a young woman as ward to his child…and later, did marry the woman! She was far below his station, though, I do understand, an heiress of considerable worth. I must tell you the man is one of our finest gentlemen with a spotless reputation and high military honors.
His Naughty Maid: Delightful Doings in Dudley Crescent, Book 3 Page 11
