A Scandalous Request

by Micki Miller

The grimy brick walls on either side caught the sound of her voice, and kept it, stubbing it out before it had a chance to resonate. Rose stood still and waited some more. She called again. Nothing down the alley stirred.

  A glance back toward the home showed her a row of little faces three and four deep, squeezed as far as they could through the bars of the gate. She shifted her gaze over then, to where the sun burned low on the horizon. Not too many more minutes of the day remained, and only meager traces of light made it into the dingy alley. There was no hope for it, though. She couldn’t go back without that puppy.

  Rose took a few steps into the dimming maw of the alley.

  “Raisin,” she called, and then crept further in before calling out the pup’s name again.

  She skirted several piles of debris, much of it unidentifiable. A battered old shoe and the filthy sleeve of a man’s blouse, both gleaming wet with something. She didn’t even want to think about what it might be. To her right lay a damp clump that may have been food at one time. Flies buzzed about the thing, loud in the compressed silence of the alley.

  Her foot skidded on something slippery, but she caught her balance and stepped away, not giving too close a look at what it was. She walked in a bit farther, taking a furtive glance up.

  The tall brick walls on either side of her became towers melding and capped with the descending night, as if to imprison her in this festering pit. Refusing to give it more than a peek, more than a fleeting thought lest she run back an empty-handed coward, Rose leveled her herself. Onward, forward.

  The alleyway ended at a brick wall, high piles of junk and reeking refuse stacked against it. There were plenty of places for a puppy to hide in the mess.

  “Raisin, if you’re in there, you come out this instant.”

  She stood still after the command, but the wait was fruitless. Not so much as a tiny sound came from the pile. Perhaps he wasn’t even down here. The little thing could have passed by the alley or gone in the other direction.

  “Raisin,” she said, one last time before she would search elsewhere. This time she heard a noise.

  It came from behind her.

  Rose spun around to see the shadowy shape of a man at the end of the alley, blocking her exit. He carried little girth, but he was tall, maybe six feet, with broad hands flexing at his sides.

  In the gathering darkness, the way the man hunched, conjured thoughts of ogres and monsters, a shadowed fiend. With an awkward lumber, the man started straight toward her. After a few steps, he stopped, twisted just enough to look back over his shoulder, and then turned himself toward her again.

  An icy chill crawled up Rose’s spine and tightened her scalp. Without thinking, her hands grasped for her cloak before she remembered she left it in the carriage, along with her reticule. She rubbed her arms with her hands as the man took two more steps in her direction.

  “Hello,” Rose said in a trembling voice. “I…I’m looking for a puppy. Have you seen him?”

  A few more steps and the man paused. He was only about ten feet away from her now. His hair hung to his shoulders, stingy, matted against his head. Wiry whiskers poked out from his dirt-encrusted face. His fingers tapped a light tempo on the torn fabric of his trousers as his watery eyes focused on her.

  “Well…if you haven’t seen him,” she said, drawing hard to suck air into her lungs as her chest had tightened. “I’ll…I’ll have to look elsewhere.”

  Keeping her head down, Rose sidled close to the wall on her left where she could pass him. He leapt over so he was in front of her. She stepped right. He did the same, blocking her way once again.

  Only about two feet separated them now. Rose resisted the urge to cover her nose again. The man stank of the alley, of body odor his filthy clothing could not contain, of life rotting away.

  “Please, I only want to find my puppy.”

  Rose tilted her face up. His heavy eyes enlivened right before her, glistening with the pungent fervor of malice in the bony framework of his face.

  For a moment, he held himself still as death. That was exactly who he appeared to be. With frightening ease, she could imagine this was the skeletal entity exposed, relieved of his cloak and scythe, revealing his true image to the condemned before the moment of death.

  Beyond the alley, more so within, the night’s hunger swooped in, taking greedy laps of the last residues of light.

  With nothing but panic to guide her, Rose lunged left in a desperate attempt to run around him. She barely took a step when he snatched her arm in a vicious grip and jerked her back. She screamed as he grabbed hold of her other arm and shoved her hard against the rough brick wall.

  She fought against him, kicking at his legs, using all the strength she could muster in a vain attempt to escape his hold. None of her efforts fazed him in the least. He leaned in, his face approaching hers as if to kiss her.

  Rose twisted her head until her cheek squashed against the rough wall and her straw bonnet bent around her head. She squeezed her eyes shut. It was Piers all over again. No, she wouldn’t let this happen! But the man was so much stronger than she was.

  “No!” she screamed. “No!” Her words, her strength, her anger and fear, did nothing to help her. She continued to fight, though, kicking and twisting. It was all she had.

  And then, in the space between beats of her pounding heart, the man was gone.

  A solid thud resounded within the walls of the alley, fist to flesh. Her widened eyes focused just as the shadowy man hit the ground, where he lay as still as the torn shirt sleeve near which he landed.

  Rose shifted her attention to the second man. Even in the weak traces of remaining light, she recognized the breadth of his strong shoulders, the fine shape of his nose, the strong cut of his jaw. Although she couldn’t clearly see the eyes staring down at her, she knew they were a deep, sea green.

  “Lord Darington.”

  “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

  His deep voice cut through the night with the swiftness of a warrior’s sword, and though his words were kind, they didn’t sound that way at all. In fact, he sounded downright angry.

  “Yes. I mean no. I mean…” She straightened her bent bonnet as best she could before saying, “I’m…I’m fine.” It was hardly the truth. While she suffered no more than a few bruises, her heart pounded a wild tempo against her ribs and her body shook to rattle her bones.

  Lord Darington seized her then, his hands like steel bands around her upper arms. His grip was firm, angry, but not painful, though it no doubt could be should he choose to make it so. It was quite obvious he was holding back. The man could snap her like a winter twig if he so desired.

  “Have you no sense at all?” He spat the words. His jaw scarce moved when he spoke. “Do you have any idea what could have happened to you out here?”

  Rose had to tip her head back to take in his full countenance. She almost wished she hadn’t. But for a slight tick, his face could have been made of stone, inset with glaring eyes as dark and turbulent as a tempestuous storm. Intensity radiated from his powerful physique in waves she could swear were tangible. Lord Darington wasn’t just angry. The man was furious.

  “I…I have protection. Oh, that’s right,” Rose said, with a shake of her head. “I left my reticule in the carriage.”

  “So?” he asked, letting go of her and stepping back. He shoved both hands through his hair before jamming them on his hips and pinning her with a questioning glare.

  “Ashton gave me a pistol for protection not long after we were married. He taught me how to use it. I left my bag on the carriage seat.”

  “Good,” Lord Darington growled. “You likely would have been killed with your own weapon.”

  She considered arguing his point, but after a brief glance at the still lump of a man on the ground, she had to concede Lord Darington was in all likelihood right. Pride, however, would not allow her to admit it. So, in an effort to salvage her self-respect, as well as giving her a moment to gather he
r wits, Rose changed the subject.

  Clasping her hands in a tight hold before her so Lord Darington wouldn’t see she was shaking, Rose said, “What on earth are you doing here?”

  She could make out his profile in the folding dusk. The man didn’t answer right away, and she’d lay coin it was because his jaw was too tight to speak. Even in the dim light, the tick was evident.

  After he took a full breath or two, his head swiveled in her direction, and then he turned full toward her. The man cut an intimidating figure, whether or not such was his intent. Shoulders as broad as a building, tall, commanding, and after seeing what he did to the scoundrel who’d accosted her, Rose had no doubt of his ability, as well as his willingness, to set his muscles to use.

  “After our talk last night, I wanted to see the place for myself,” he said. His acceptance of the change of topic was a slow grind. He did, though, and she was grateful. She pitied anyone who dared to drive this man’s temper to the limit.

  “You were right,” he continued. “They need a new building. The one they’re in isn’t fit for anything but demolition.”

  He glanced around. On the lookout for more danger, perhaps. Danger beware. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Lord Darington snatched up her hand and tugged her toward the exit of the alley. Before taking a step, however, he swung back around to her.

  “Your hands are freezing,” he said, taking both of her hands and encasing them within the warmth of his, giving them a rub and a squeeze. “And you’re trembling.”

  The revelation softened the flinty edge of his anger. Relief allowed Rose to take deeper breaths. For a reason her mind at present found unfathomable, she didn’t like him being angry at her. Perhaps it was the fright she’d just suffered. It must have left her with a need for calm and her thoughts too shuffled to comprehend any further.

  Posthaste, Lord Darington peeled off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. Rose hadn’t realized how cold she was until the heat from his jacket made her chilled skin prickle. He wrapped one strong arm around her shoulders and said in a gentled tone, “Let’s get you home.”

  “I can’t go back,” she said, stepping from his protective embrace with a startling degree of reluctance. “I have to find Raisin.”

  “Raisin? I take it that’s the puppy the children were crying about.”

  “Yes. He’s just a little thing, and he’s out here all alone. I can’t go back without him. I promised the children.”

  His head rotated in a swift yet thorough inspection of the alley before he placed a thumb and forefinger to his lips and released a shrill whistle. Within seconds, Raisin trotted out from the pile of refuse against the wall.

  “Raisin!” Rose cried as she scooped the puppy into her arms and held him close. “Oh, the children are going to be so happy to see you. Don’t you ever frighten us like that again, you naughty little pup.”

  She wasn’t sure, but Rose could swear she heard Lord Darington grunt.

  Together they left the alley, giving a wide berth to the man on the ground who was making moaning sounds as he climbed back into consciousness, and walked back to the home. At the gate, the children erupted into cheers and gratitude at the sight of Raisin in her arms. She and Lord Darington entered the yard. Rose knelt on the ground so the children could see for themselves that Raisin was all right.

  When the shower of gratitude slowed to a trickle and everyone could hear her, Rose said, “Actually, it’s Lord Darington you must thank.” Rose nodded to the man standing off to the side all by himself. “He’s the one who rescued your pup.” And rescued me.

  As one, the crowd of children swung around. Rose willed the man to smile, but Lord Darington remained as stony as the wall before which he stood, aloof, formidable, a mountain too big to climb.

  ****

  Burke stood as still as an oak tree on a breezeless day, transfixed at the sight of Lady Rose Sennett.

  She knelt on the ground, not caring a wit she was without doubt sullying her gown. He knew women who would sooner use peasants for steppingstones than risk soiling one of their gowns. The woman before him appeared not to care for anything apart from the joy on those small, adoring faces crowded around her.

  Under his usual circumstances, he would not have been here to witness or wonder at such a thing. And the fiend who’d had her at his mercy would have…no, it was too horrid to think about. Burke thanked every bit of fortune come his way this evening that he’d gone against normality and had arrived in time.

  The last fifteen minutes echoed in his head like a sentient haunting. Her terrified screams, a man twice her size throwing her against the wall with intent despicable beyond her chaste understanding. Icy talons clawed at his gut at the knowledge of how very different this day would have turned out if not for mere chance and miraculous timing.

  His intent had been to send a bank draught for the cause. While all of his worthy instincts told him the Sennett’s had not exaggerated the need for a new foundling home, he’d never been a man to send money without verification of how and where it was to be used. Under most circumstances, he would first have his man of affairs investigate, and then, if all was in order, see to the details of his donation. He hadn’t even considered assigning the task.

  He should become more involved with worthy causes. Maybe even take a personal hand and volunteer some of his time. Just because he wasn’t passing on the earldom to an heir, didn’t mean the title had to die a cold death.

  These are the justifications Burke put to himself, and once considered, found viable respectability. Up until this very moment, however, he was deliberate in remaining obtuse to the true draw that brought him here. It was far too foreign. The state of those particular emotions lay beyond the boundaries of his accepted existence. But that didn’t make it any less accurate.

  He’d traveled to the foundling home in hopes of seeing Lady Sennett.

  He wanted to speak with her, though in truth they had nothing further to discuss. He would make his donation. The Sennett’s would see the money put to good use. And that would be the end of his involvement, as with the charitable contributions he’d made in the past.

  Never had he personally occupied himself with a cause. Of course, his previous donations had never passed through such an alluring woman, a woman whose husband had requested from him a seduction.

  It was simple curiosity, Burke told himself. Lady Rose Sennett fascinated him, beautiful, to be sure, charming, too, in her dedication, in her courage, her fortitude, her purity of body and heart. She had conquered a situation in which most women, in his experiences, would do naught but succumb. And when her circumstances vastly improved, when she could have become a lady of leisure, she instead dedicated herself to a worthy and vital cause.

  Members of the aristocracy often volunteered their efforts, on a level not quite superficial enough to forbid grand posturing. They supported almost any cause with enough feasibility to provide a humble excuse for their merrymaking. A charitable ball, a costumed affair, and even the most proper of ladies might attend something as barbarous as a boxing tournament, if the proceeds were for a good cause. It was their version of a sacrifice.

  But would any of them dip their pampered hands into actual involvement? No, of course not, it was unheard of.

  The only exception he ever witnessed knelt on the ground not ten feet from where he stood, pawed by little hands. If anything, she became more joyful with every touch. And the children, the children in their simple clothes and lackluster lives could be the offspring of the aristocracy, in line to inherit fortune and privilege, for all the contented bliss they expressed in her presence.

  For a moment, fleeting, but as sharp as a rapier and maybe as scarring, an ache stabbed at his chest and regret climbed in the wound. Never for one instant had he any second thoughts about his decision to not produce an heir. It was his sworn vengeance against his father, long ago chiseled in granite with every blow of his father’s hands.r />
  Seeing Lady Sennett laughing, the children giggling along with her, Burke suffered a vision of his lands, enriched with his own joyous offspring. He saw it. He actually saw it. Fair-haired girls full of their mother’s heart. Their brothers, taught to be men through guidance and proper example instead of fear.

  A sensation so foreign, yet at the same time deeply innate, brushed against his heart with the loving touch of a harbinger angel. It left behind a tender void, weeping for the loss.

  Burke blinked in the sudden quiet. Every face in the small yard tilted up to his. Had someone asked him a question? Their eyes were focused on him like an audience at the pinnacle of an opera. A little mop-haired boy, about six or seven years old, holding the puppy, took a few tentative steps toward him.

  “My name is Brennan. Thank you, sir, for saving Raisin. I love him,” the boy said, rubbing his cheek against the puppy’s fur.

  Burke stared down at the child. Since he’d grown into manhood, he’d not actually been this near to one. The boy was so small, so fragile, and as open as he was innocent. Burke resisted the impulse to lift the child, to speak with him, to tease him, as Lady Sennett had a moment before so he could see the little boy laugh. Would such a thing be allowed? He didn’t know.

  Burke cleared his throat. He did not bend toward the child for fear of frightening him. The boy was so small. He cleared his throat a second time as his mind worked to form a response. What does one say to a person so young? How extensive were his language skills? Burke hadn’t a clue. “…You’re welcome,” was the best he could supply.

  “Children,” a woman’s voice called as she crossed the yard. “It’s time for dinner. Rose, you and your friend are, as always, welcome to eat with us.”

  Taken aback at the informal address to Lady Sennett by someone not of her station, Burke observed the thin woman dressed in simple garb as she neared them. Perhaps they were old friends. Or perhaps Rose had given her leave to address her so. Highly unusual, given the difference in their rank, yet he found the reasoning quite easy to believe.

  “Thank you, Hester, but I must get home before dinner,” Lady Sennett said to the woman. “Lord Darington, this is Hester Cress. She is one of the angels who lives here and cares for the children. Hester, may I present Lord Darington, Earl of Blackwood. He’s the man I was telling you about, the one making such a very generous donation toward the building of the new home.”