Most Eagerly Yours: Her Majesty's Secret Servants

by Allison Chase

  Hence the problem, and Aidan’s present dilemma. Fitz wanted to be king. Badly. And he could not be convinced of the futility of that wish. Not even being Earl of Munster, a title conferred upon him by his father, proved sufficient balm to ease his blistering disappointment.

  To make matters worse, despite his recent appointment as aide-de-camp to the queen, George Fitzclarence had not been invited to join today’s procession. As Fitz had vociferously complained just last night, his new post amounted to little more than a patronizing pat on the head.

  Since the old king’s death two months ago, Fitz had engaged in a downward spiral of drunkenness and dangerous ideas, ones he spewed eagerly to whoever lent a sympathetic ear. Several nights before at a soiree at the home of the French-born Comtesse de Regny, Fitz had openly advocated the radical strategy of doing away with the monarchy altogether.

  Blasted hell.

  Aidan had been sorely tempted to toss Fitz over the comtesse’s balcony railing rather than allow him to continue his treasonous tirade. As it was, Aidan had stuffed a pickled whelk into the inebriate’s mouth to shut him up and soon after bustled him from the party.

  Regardless, word had gotten back to the Home Office, which now expected Aidan to continue playing nursemaid to the Earl of Munster until further notice.

  Aidan’s eyes burned from lack of sleep. They had spent the previous night gambling at Crockfords, then gone across the way to Whites, where Fitz had sipped enough sherry to sink him into a contented and, Aidan hoped, Victoria-free doze. Unfortunately, quite without warning, about an hour ago the old boy had pushed out of his wing chair, declared a change of scenery just the thing, and called for his horse.

  Aidan flinched as a short blast on a whistle heralded the return of the police constable. A scowl replaced deference as he shouted, “Thought I warned you to get a move on.”

  Skirting a family of six that was attempting to wedge itself into a space big enough for three, Aidan offered the official a compliant nod and turned his horse south. William Street led into Lowndes Square and eventually over to Sloane, where the Earl of Munster might have slipped into any number of drinking establishments.

  The blue-coated policemen now arranged themselves as human barriers at intervals along Knightsbridge to hold back the crowd. The distant blare of trumpets announced the queen’s imminent approach. Shading his eyes with his hand, Aidan made out the distant dust clouds of the riders preceding the royal coach.

  A cry of sheer panic ripped through the clamor, startling his gelding. A few soothing words calmed the horse, but the desperate shouts continued. Aidan scanned the crowd.

  Several doors down from the corner of William Street, two policemen were attempting to herd a mob of spectators—too many for so small an area—farther back off the street. With the shop fronts directly behind them, they had nowhere to go. An out-of-control hysteria threatened to take hold.

  The feminine cries took on a shriller urgency. In the middle of the surging multitude, Aidan caught flashes of lustrous gold hair that had half fallen from its pins; a gust of wind lifted the disheveled strands away from her beautiful but alarm-pinched features. The woman held a child high in her arms.

  Tears of terror streaked the little girl’s face as her rescuer continued shouting for someone to take the child. A pair of arms clad in tweed reached over heads and grabbed her, then passed her through the crowd. Finally she reached a shawl-wrapped figure that must have been her mother, for the woman clasped the child close and shed tears of relief.

  But the golden- haired beauty had been shoved farther into the press of bodies until she stood trapped against the window of a shop whose sign read WINSTON’S HABERDASHERY. Her chin high, her arms stretched above her head, she attempted in vain to squeeze her way out. From all sides, the mob pinned her in place.

  At the edge of the street, a redhead struggled without success to push her way through the crowd. She jumped to see over heads, shouting something Aidan could not make out. Seeming to believe she wished only to usurp their vantage points, the spectators shoved her impatiently away.

  In defiance of the officer waving him off, Aidan guided his gelding to the side of the road. He intended to swing down from the saddle and shoulder his way through, but at the last second he changed his mind.

  “Coming through,” he shouted in his most authoritative voice. “Make way!”

  Despite his impatience he eased his powerful gray forward one cautious step at a time. Behind him, the policemen blew their whistles and ordered him to cease and desist, while those lurching out of his way spat blasphemies gritty enough to peel the paint from the storefronts.

  Though the woman’s cries continued to draw him on, he lost sight of his quarry as she slid down the building front and disappeared behind the press of bodies. Around her the people pushed and shoved. The police whistles shrieked furiously—and uselessly. Aidan urged Ferdinand onward.

  Her throat raw from pleading, Laurel gasped for air. No one listened. No one heard her. She felt as though she were drowning—drowning in people. With dizzying closeness, arms and legs, silks, cottons, and dark serge reeled in her vision. Behind her, the window made ominous creaking sounds.

  A shove took her off her feet. Someone trod on her hems. She heard tearing and felt herself going down, down to where no one would see her. Where she would be kicked, trampled. Panic rose in a stranglehold. . . .

  Suddenly, astoundingly, the crowd parted, and cool air rushed into the spaces where bodies had been. A giant figure, towering and gray, appeared between skirts and trouser legs. In her confusion she could not make out what it could be; then, to her amazement, the figure formed itself into the hooves, fetlocks, flanks, and, finally, powerful neck and head of a horse. A hand—broad, long-fingered, sinewy—reached toward her.

  Fingers of steady, heartening strength closed around her wrist and drew her effortlessly to her feet. Briefly she glimpsed a polished Hessian boot, riding breeches stretched tight over a muscled thigh, and the hair-sprinkled width of that powerful hand—powerful enough to save her life. Then she stepped into the offered stirrup and was swung up onto the horse’s back.

  Her arms went around a tight, trim waist; her cheek pressed against a shoulder as unyielding as steel. She shut her eyes and hung on tight, or as tight as her trembling limbs permitted.

  Though she would likely die of embarrassment when she considered it later, she could not prevent herself from uttering a cry of mixed terror, relief, and sheer, unbridled gratitude, an outburst absorbed into the collar of a coat that fit the gentleman sitting in front of her like an elegant second skin. If he noticed, which he assuredly must have, he gave no indication, not the slightest wince, though Laurel voiced her emotions exceedingly close to his ear.

  Without lifting her face, she braved a peek at her surroundings. From high atop the horse, the crowd appeared surprisingly innocuous, an undulating vista of dark hats and bright bonnets.

  A trumpet sounded and a cheer went up. Twisting, she spotted the queen’s open coach proceeding up the road toward them. The diminutive figure inside, draped in velvet and crowned with a coronet of flashing gold, waved a white-gloved hand at her subjects.

  Pride, delight, and bitter disappointment rose in Laurel. Oh, she had hoped to stand out in front, give a call that might attract Victoria’s attention and prompt some personal response that only Laurel and her sisters, and the queen herself, would understand.

  My secret friends . . . my secret servants . . .

  Earlier, Laurel and her sisters had crossed to the north side of Knightsbridge Street with the intention of walking to the open verge outside Hyde Park, where they might watch from the comfort of a thinner and less turbulent crowd. Partway there, Laurel had realized that none of them had remembered to bring the flowers they intended to toss to the queen’s passing coach.

  When she had gone back for them, she had seen little Lucy Brock yanked by the surging crowd away from her mother. The last thing Laurel had witnessed before
being swallowed into the horde was Lucy being swung back into Mrs. Brock’s arms.

  Her rescuer wove a cautious but steadfast path along the storefronts until they managed to squeeze around the corner onto William Street. Uncle Edward’s town house stood a few buildings away. Here, the din of the celebrations faded to a distant roar.

  “Good heavens, sir, thank you. Thank you ever so much.” Only now did Laurel realize how snugly she was leaning against his back, a rippling wall of muscle and safety. With a start, she allowed a few proper inches between them.

  His hair, just brushing his collar, was a rich, shadowed mahogany infused with brighter glints where the sunlight kissed it. The breeze sifted through the strands, releasing a vague hint of something masculine and mysteriously musky. The scent crawled inside her, raising an ache of awareness and a whisper of warning.

  She removed her arms from around him and cleared her throat. “I dare not consider the outcome, sir, if not for your timely and most thoughtful assistance.”

  A silent chuckle ran through him, communicated across the broad sweep of his back. “Quite happy to have been of service, madam. I thought it exceedingly brave of you, saving that little girl.”

  “Lucy is a neighbor. Someone had to do something.”

  “Still and all.” He tossed a glance back at her, revealing the strong line of his profile, and the softer curve of his generous lips. “Were you hurt?”

  “I . . . no, I do not believe I am. But my sisters . . . I must find them.” She twisted around, hoping in vain for a glimpse of them.

  “Is one perhaps a rather attractive redhead? She seemed frantic on your behalf but otherwise unscathed.”

  “That would be Holly. Were the others with her? I have three sisters, you see.”

  “Three?” Again, an amused current rippled through him. “I am afraid I saw no one else who appeared to be associated with her.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Fret not. I harbor no doubts that they are safe.”

  He could not, of course, know any such thing, yet his reassurance set Laurel at ease.

  He drew to the side of the street and dismounted by effortlessly tossing a leg over the horse’s gray withers. Reaching up, he spanned her waist with his hands in a manner that caused her breath to hitch. As he set her gently on the ground, she saw him—truly saw him—for the first time.

  Her insides stirred. However rude, however giddy and girlish, she could not help gaping up at him, arrested by crisp blue eyes, full lips, and sturdy, well- hewn features that suggested both a keen intellect and a sensuality she found thoroughly disconcerting.

  Then she noticed that he, too, was staring as though taken aback by her appearance. . . .

  Oh. Embarrassment rushing through her in hot torrents, she raised a hand to her hair to discover her bonnet gone, crushed no doubt beneath the tramping feet. Meanwhile her hairpins had scattered, reducing the fashionable chignon Ivy had helped her arrange that morning to a tangle around her shoulders.

  His gaze lingered on her face for another moment, then dipped lower. Remembering the tearing she had heard, she glanced down at a rip between her skirt and bodice that indecently exposed her petticoat.

  Her new marigold muslin, ruined. She slid a hand to cover the offending garment. Good grief, why could she not have met this man earlier this morning, or yesterday, or tomorrow?

  “Is there anything more I may do for you, madam?” He sounded the perfect gentleman, which miraculously restored a measure of her dignity.

  “Thank you, sir, but no.” The words were feeble, breathless. “I am a bit shaken, to be sure, and . . . well . . . rather disheveled, I will admit. . . .”

  “If we continue on to Sloane, I should be able to flag you a hackney.”

  “That will not be necessary, for you have brought me nearly home. My uncle’s town house is just there.” She pointed down the street.

  At that moment trumpets blared. At the corner, visible above the heads of the onlookers, the plumed helmets of the queen’s rear guard disappeared from view as they passed beyond William Street.

  Laurel’s heart sank. She had missed her friend’s glorious moment, lost the chance to toss flowers, wish the new queen Godspeed, and perhaps be rewarded with a private glance of recognition.

  She and her sisters had not visited with Victoria in more than three years. At first they had traded frequent letters, but even those had grown rare as the old king’s health failed and it became apparent that Victoria would shortly assume the burdens of the Crown.

  The Sutherland sisters had so wanted Victoria to know they still thought of her, still wished the very best for her, still loved her.

  In the wake of the procession, police whistles sounded and a commotion broke out at the corner of Knightsbridge and William streets. Several high blue hats bobbed above the crowd.

  “The police appear to be fighting their way through,” Laurel observed.

  “Ah, yes. Odds are they’re coming for me.” The man before her grinned, a gesture she found utterly devastating in its capacity to trip the beat of her pulse. “They seemed rather disgruntled when I rode my horse onto the sidewalk.”

  “But you only did so to rescue me.”

  “Indeed, and well worth my pains. However, from their point of view I no doubt appeared a drunken lout attempting to plow my horse through the hapless crowd. I hope you understand that I have little desire to spend the next several hours down at the Chelsea Station clarifying who I am and why I acted as I did.”

  “Oh, I can fully appreciate your disinclination to do that, sir.”

  “Then if you will be so good as to excuse me.” He raised her hand to his lips, imparting a tingling sensation that began at her fingertips and swept like wildfire all through her.

  “Aidan? By God, that you, old b-boy?”

  Laurel’s rescuer—Aidan?—straightened and turned in the direction of the hail. His dark eyebrows converged.

  Mounted on a sleek chestnut, a man of sallow complexion and thinning russet hair approached from the quieter south end of William Street. Despite the expensive cut of his riding attire, his uneven slouch, slack mouth, and slightly unfocused gaze lent him a slovenly aspect.

  “I s-say,” the rider slurred, confirming Laurel’s suspicions that, despite the earliness of the hour, he was fairly into his cups, “what d-damned devilry are you up to now? Might have known you’d p-pluck yourself a tasty little treat from the crush.”

  Laurel gasped, once more steeped in shame over the state of her appearance. Beside her, Aidan’s skin darkened, but before he replied, a shout from the opposite corner heralded the approach of two constables.

  “You there!”

  “Time for me to take my leave.”

  Laurel was surprised to realize that her hand still rested in his. He broke into a grin that filled her with delight. “By God, what you did for that little girl took courage.”

  Before she knew what he was about, he tipped her chin and brought his mouth down to hers for a fleeting yet thorough kiss. Her pulse rocketed like a celebration day firework.

  Then, with no particular effort that Laurel could perceive, he was atop his horse and making rapid progress down the street. His friend fell in beside him and the two sped away at a canter. With no choice but to abandon their pursuit, the shouting constables came to frustrated halts. They glanced at Laurel, dismissed her with disparaging shrugs, and about-faced.

  The crowd up at the corner dispersed, and Holly’s worried face appeared. As the girl hurried closer, Laurel pressed her fingertips to her quivering lips and tried to master her breathing. Her shocked sensibilities were another matter. If the impulsive kiss had revealed her rescuer as rather less than chivalrous, neither could she quite claim being a lady.

  Because the truth was, as improper and insulting as that kiss had been—or should have been—she had wholeheartedly, unreservedly, and in defiance of everything she had been raised to believe, enjoyed it.

  Chapter 2

&
nbsp; London, March 1838

  Aidan’s first hint that his pleasant night had reached its inevitable conclusion came with an irritating burst of brightness against his eyelids. The second was the slap of his own dress shirt against his face. Though he had not yet opened his eyes, he immediately recognized the garment as his own by the scent of his companion’s flowery perfume clinging to the linen.

  Miss Delilah, the lovely creature whose acquaintance he’d had the pleasure of making after winning several hundred at hazard last night, and who had done him the honor not only of joining him for a late supper but also of serving up a rousing bit of dessert afterward in this very room, deposited a kiss on his brow and disentangled herself from the sheets.

  The satin coverlet slithered from the bed as she drew it around her splendidly supple body. An image crept into his mind of the contortionlike poses the young lady had achieved with her long arms and shapely legs. A professional, she had made the distasteful task of sullying his own reputation rather more palatable, and he would be sure to leave her an ample reward.

  While he couldn’t claim to detest his occasional visits to London’s finer brothels, the pleasure he took in such episodes typically proved fleeting. Like gambling and drinking, whoring had become part of the persona he showed the world.

  Last night he had also needed an alibi. No one who knew him would ever suspect that before retiring to seek his pleasure here, at Mrs. Wellington’s Gentlemen’s Sanctum, he had sent his carriage—with Delilah inside it—circling the London Docks while he had picked a lock and stolen inside a certain warehouse, seeking evidence against a certain notable solicitor.

  Delilah herself had asked no questions. But then, she had known that he would pay as dearly for her silence as for her other professional services.

  Her padding footsteps faded from the room, followed by a pronounced throat clearing. “Wake up, Barensforth. We’ve business to discuss.”

  With a groan, Aidan buried his face into the pillow. His head ached like the dickens, and he feared opening his eyes would send the room spinning. “Later.”