Francie & the Bachelor: A Caversham-Haberdasher Crossover

by Sue London

  “Imogen’s dress is done, so I should deliver that today. If there’s time I can start on a ready-made dress in case there is a last-minute order.”

  He turned on his side to face her and pulled her closer. Perhaps he was thinking of kisses, too?

  “I don’t want you going anywhere alone. I don’t trust those men.”

  “I don’t trust them either. That’s how you ended up getting shot.”

  “Point taken. But each of them is easily twice your size. Even if you can put a ball in them you can’t count on that stopping them.”

  “True enough,” she said, running her fingertips softly over his shoulder. She couldn’t see his wound, but the could feel the bump in skin from his stitches through the lawn shirt.

  “I’ll not see you hurt,” he emphasized, as though concerned she wasn’t taking him seriously enough.

  “I don’t want to be hurt,” she assured him, moving her fingers to brush over his jaw and then his lips. He was still staring at her intently, as though unsure she would see to her own safety. She wanted to tell him that she’d learned a long time ago not to stand on dangerous walls but she knew he wouldn’t understand her.

  ***

  Reggie stared into crystalline blue eyes. She trusted him. What if he couldn’t keep her safe? Gods, what if he hurt her himself? He’d never felt a crushing weight of responsibility greater than he did in this moment. When she’d invoked destiny he’d hoped it meant she had come to care for him as he did for her. But now he realized that it didn’t really matter. He loved her, and that meant he would do whatever she needed him to do. He would protect her, take care of her, and, if necessary, even leave her. Whatever was required for her safety and happiness.

  This was love, then? No wonder the poets lamented. Love demanded that everything else be set aside. His ambition that had driven him his whole life. His family reputation that he’d been taught was paramount. He’d known from his friendships that he was inclined to be loyal and protective, but all that dimmed in comparison to what he felt for her.

  How had this happened? Was it her boldness? How she took care of him? Her humor? Her determination? Or was it everything? That somehow her unique combination of attributes captured him as nothing else ever had?

  He cupped her cheek and closed the scant inches to kiss her. She was warm and sweet and responsive. He could have her here, now. He knew it like he knew gravity. But if he meant to protect her from the world, then the very first person he must protect her from was himself. He ended the kiss and watched her eyes flutter open. She looked curious and confused.

  “I believe you have a dress to deliver?”

  “You are a taskmaster,” she grumbled. “I had just decided that I shouldn’t be mean to you anymore, and I think that you are already about to ruin it.”

  He tweaked her nose. “You’ve not even seen me giving orders,” he countered.

  “And I’d best not,” she said darkly. It was rather like being threated by a pixie. Although if he remembered his fairy tales correctly, any fairy could be dangerous.

  “Well, I’m sure we’ve had all the sleep that this floor is willing to give us, so we might as well be up and about.” He stood and held out his hand to help her to her feet. She needn’t look at him so indignantly. He also regretted the loss of their cozy embrace. He was fairly certain that he would only feel right when holding her now, and he had no way to determine how likely it was that he could do so on a permanent basis.

  She dusted down her skirt. “Tea?” she asked.

  He wanted to take her to his family home where servants would wait on her hand and foot, rather than her having to boil water over a small, sooty hearth. He’d not worried overly about his accommodations on Irish Island, but he should purchase his commission so that he improved his housing. He didn’t want her to live in a cramped, meager home ever again. He would hire servants for her. He would take her to the finest modiste in London. She could have a hundred bonnets if she wanted them. When she looked up from fussing with her gown he realized he hadn’t answered her question. “Yes.”

  She walked away and he felt his body sway forward as though to follow her. His rational mind told him that he was being ridiculous. But this was apparently something beyond the rational. Perhaps later he would be able to analyze it sufficiently. For now he just had to accept it.

  He tidied the room and managed to don his jacket without, he hoped, tearing another stitch. He needed the bloody things to come out soon. He was fairly certain they were the part that hurt the most now. He had to admit that her covering his wound with honey seemed to have calmed it wonderfully. He wondered what other old wives tricks she might have.

  He thought about the day ahead. They would have their tea, she could deliver the dress, and then he could buy her a meal at the pub. After that she could work on her next dress while he caught up on his correspondence. It would be best if he didn’t arrive home with a wife as a fait accompli, but how best to mention her without leaving an incorrect assumption in his mother’s mind? He couldn’t be sure that Francie would marry him, so he shouldn’t lead his mother to thinking that was the inevitable conclusion. Further, he didn’t want his family intruding in their business here. And, worst of all, he didn’t want them to judge Francie unworthy and attempt to pressure him not to marry her. That, he thought, would not end well.

  Things at least somewhat sorted in his mind, he bounded up the steps to drink tea and start their day.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Francie felt unaccountably shy. Reggie had been staring at her all morning and talking very little. He’d been polite with Mrs. Sparks as he had excellent manners. Now they were sitting across from each other in the cramped pub and their conversation had dwindled to awkwardness. What had she done wrong? Why was he staring at her as though waiting for an answer to a question he’d not asked? She couldn’t decide if she wanted to hide under the table or shake him until he was himself again.

  His attention was diverted by someone walking into the pub. His expression changed to something dark and foreboding and he straightened his posture. She looked over her shoulder and saw that it was one of the men who had been lingering outside the shop. The ruffian himself seemed surprised to see them, then changed to a cocky swagger as he approached the bar. He held up two fingers as though his order was well established with the keep. Glancing back at Reggie she thought it quite possible he would start growling.

  “You would think they would have given up by now,” she said.

  “They’re protecting Phoebe’s other asset for Mr. Donovan,” he said, stabbing some beef off his plate.

  “Other asset?”

  “The shop. If she disappears I would wager they will argue she was part owner and try to force you to pay her debt.”

  “Well that’s-that’s just ridiculous!”

  “Men like this are often ridiculous if no one stops them.”

  He was still glaring at the thug, but it seemed the man just took that as encouragement to walk near them on his way out. “Gettin’ ‘er good and ready for ‘is doxies, eh?” Francie wasn’t entirely sure what he was implying, but his sneer and broad wink were hints that it wasn’t savory.

  She’d never seen a man move as fast as Reggie did then. Jumping up, he bashed the craven man’s head into a nearby table and hauled him back again by the collar. “Apologize for speaking of the lady that way!”

  The ruffian spun out of Reggie’s grip and faced off with him, spitting blood out of his mouth. “I won’ and what’ll ya do about it?”

  The man had clearly miscalculated his odds, as Reggie went at him in a flurry of violence. Francie squeaked and backed up against the wall. If she had a pistol she might have used it, but the thought of wading in to that much angry, masculine flesh seemed as crazy as stepping between two bulls.

  Silver flashed in the thug’s hand and she screamed, “Knife!”

  Reggie was ahead of her, however, pinning the man’s arm while dealing vicious blows to his
face with an elbow. Once he shook the knife loose he turned to deal a punishing blow to the villain’s jaw, downing him on the pub floor.

  “Come!” He was holding a hand out to her, his face bloody and bruised. She took his hand and jogged behind him as he led her out the pub door with the proprietor calling behind them, “What about the damage, sir!”

  “Bill me!” Reggie called back.

  He didn’t slow his pace until they reached the shop door. Once she unlocked it he hustled her inside while keeping an eye out on the street. He took the key from her to relock it himself.

  “His friend will get wise to our fight soon.” He turned to her, capturing her shoulders. “If they break in here promise me you will leave while I fight them.”

  “Reggie, I-”

  “Promise me!”

  There it was again, that commanding tone that irritated her so much. Just now, however, with blood on his face from defending her honor it wasn’t quite as annoying as it might otherwise be. “Wouldn’t you rather I just shoot them?” she asked dryly.

  He rolled his eyes and groaned in some combination of exasperation and affection before pulling her close. “I can’t stand the thought of you being hurt,” he whispered into her hair.

  “I don’t particularly care for you being hurt, but I clearly don’t get what I want,” she groused into his shoulder.

  He gave a helpless laugh. “You’re the one who gave me this bloody injury in the first place!”

  “I didn’t know at the time you were going to be such a baby about it.”

  “I think I opened it again.”

  “What?” She shouldn’t be surprised, based on the athletics of his fight in the pub. She pushed away from him and pulled at his jacket as they walked to the back room.

  “You’ve certainly always been enthusiastic about undressing me.”

  She gave an impatient harrumph and tugged until she had the jacket off. His shirt was bloody and she pulled it out of his trousers.

  “If only you’d been like this in the morning,” he teased.

  She made a frustrated moue and pulled the shirt over his head. Yes, he’d torn more stitches. The wound itself seemed miraculously still closed.

  Grabbing the smallest pair of scissors she said, “I think it would be best to take these out.”

  “Good.”

  “Hold still then.” She snipped carefully and pulled the thread out a small piece at a time. She inspected both the front and back one last time. “It’s done.”

  He pulled her close and kissed her. A hot, searching kiss that she felt to her toes. He stopped the kiss, then rested his forehead against hers.

  “You’re getting me bloody,” she pointed out.

  “Couldn’t wait,” he said. His eyes were still closed. “You haven’t promised yet.”

  “How can I promise to desert you?”

  That made him pull back and stare down at her. His expression was naked of all artifice. Gone was the son of a wealthy family, the boon friend, the mechanical scholar. This man had been forged in hardships she’d never had to face. Her privations, she realized, paled in comparison to the things he’d seen. War. Impressment. The murder of friends. “Just promise me,” he said quietly, his voice as stark as his expression.

  “Yes,” she said without reservation. “I promise.” How could she let herself become another terrible memory of loss? If he wanted her to save herself then she would.

  “Thank you.” He kissed her again. It somehow felt like a pledge of love and a farewell all at once. She wanted to cry. Certainly things weren’t as dire as all that?

  ***

  Reggie couldn’t stop himself from kissing her again. It was all he wanted, really, to kiss her forever. She tasted like hope for a better future. But he thought himself a good judge of a man, and what he’d seen in the ruffian’s eyes during their fight terrified him. That was a man capable of brutal retribution. If it were only his own safety, he would simply meet the man toe to toe until one of them couldn’t walk away. But there was also Francie. She liked to think she could take care of herself, but he’d seen grown men slaughtered in war. He knew that there was no recovery from impossible odds. If the two ruffians decided to attack Francie she needed to run, as far and as fast as possible.

  He broke their kiss. “Do you have family elsewhere?”

  “I, well. Derbyshire. Or they might be in London already for the Season.”

  “Cousin Jack?” He couldn’t keep some derision from his tone. He had little interest in meeting adored cousin Jack.

  “Uncle John,” she said with an odd little smile. “Cousin Jack’s father.”

  Ugh, it was to be cousin Jack then.

  “Although Jack is married now. Only Sam is still at home.”

  Well, at least adored cousin Jack was married. Thank the Lord for small favors. “Why are you smiling like that?”

  She bit her lip in that way that drove him mad with desire. “I think you might be jealous.”

  He straightened and did his best to look skeptical. “What makes you say that?”

  She put a finger on his chest and looked up through lowered lashes. “Can I tell you something about cousin Jack?”

  By the Gods, if that young man had compromised her he would butcher the lad with his bare hands. “If you wish,” he said tightly.

  Her lengthy pause was playing havoc with his sanity. “She married an earl, so really we should be calling her Lady Jack instead of Cousin Jack.”

  His mind turned into a jumble. “Pardon?”

  “She’s not the sort to insist, I’m sure, but we should really call her Lady Jack.”

  Now it was his turn for a long pause as he sorted his mind. “So Jack is short for?”

  “Jacqueline.”

  “Sam?”

  “Samantha.”

  “Do they call you Frank?”

  She laughed. “They tried. I didn’t care for it.”

  “What an odd family you have, Miss Walters.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve always liked them.”

  He realized he was grinning down at her like an idiot. Would she like his family? If her cousin was a countess perhaps he hadn’t needed to be so reticent in telling her about his father. He was considering kissing her again when they heard glass breaking in the front room.

  She dashed out of his arms before he considered that he’d best hold onto her. “Francie!” he shouted, running after her. She gained the front room a moment before him, stopping short with a scream. Looking over her shoulder he saw that what had broken the glass were bottles of liquor or lamp oil, and they’d been followed by torches. The front room was quickly lighting in flame.

  Reggie pushed the keys back in her hands. “Go to the back door,” he ordered. “But don’t open it until I’m there. If they are waiting I don’t want them to capture you.”

  She nodded, hand pressed to her mouth in despair. He pushed her to make sure she stumbled toward the back of the shop. The flames were moving quickly and there was little to be done. He looked under their counter and pulled out their cash box. Francie had little enough reason to open it while he’d been here, but he’d seen her retrieve money for the eggs from it yesterday and knew there could be a few bills in it. After this it would most likely represent the whole of her wealth. He stopped in the workroom to scoop up his satchel, fishing his journal from under the settee. Coming out of the room he could see that Francie wasn’t at the back door.

  “Francie!!” He felt something akin to panic. Where had she gone? It was already hot and smoky at the back of the shop. “Francie! Where are you?”

  “Coming!” she called out from the stairs. He heard her pounding down them.

  “Dammit, woman! You’ll be the death of me yet.” He loaded her down with the satchel and cash box on top of what she was already carrying. “I’ll need my hands free if they are out there.”

  She nodded, her eyes wide with fear.

  He held her chin. “Remember, if you see them you run. D
rop everything and run. Go to a friend and then make your way to Uncle John. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” she said. Her eyes were tearing up and he wasn’t sure if it was from the smoke.

  He took the key from her hand. They had to open the door, but once they did that might be it. He could go down fighting those London bastards and if she were lucky she would make her way to her Uncle’s house. He kissed her one last time.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Francie had gone upstairs to retrieve her pistol. Her father’s pistol. Along with being practical, it was one of the few things she had left from him. In the bedroom she’d been overwhelmed with all the things she couldn’t save. Things that belonged to her, Phoebe, and Lydie. Things that had belonged to her mother. How was this fair? Had life not taken enough from her already?

  Then she’d heard Reggie’s panicked voice because she wasn’t at the door. She’d put on her pelisse and cloak, and run down as quick as she could, trying not to breathe too deeply in the already smoky air. He was standing there, still stripped to the waist, like a gladiator in a story. Dirty, bruised, and furious. She knew that he worried about her, feared that he couldn’t keep her safe. But then he kissed her, and it was everything gentle and safe in the world. She almost forgot they were standing in a burning building, possibly about to run into the arms of hired thugs.

  Then he broke the kiss and pushed her back while he unlocked the door. He pulled out his own pistol before shoving the door open forcefully. His review of the alley deemed it safe, because he waved her out. As she ran down the steps she couldn’t believe that it had only been a week before that she’d stomped up them to find Phoebe being threatened. And then she’d shot Reggie. Good God, what if she’d killed him? What if she’d never known the dear, sweet man that he was?

  She heard the alarm being rung in town and cries of “Fire!” going up on the street. By the time they made it to the main thoroughfare there were dozens of people and someone was shouting to form a bucket line. She looked at the front of her home of the past ten years being engulfed in flame and could feel her whole body shaking. Reggie pulled her close. Apparently he’d thought to pull his shirt on in the alley so her nose was buried in the lawn fabric that smelled faintly of citrus. She felt the first sob run through her like a pulse. Why did she have to lose everything? Why? He held her tightly as she cried, his cheek resting on the top of her head. When she took a deep, shaky breath he spoke into her hair.