Victoria and the Rogue

by Meggin Cabot

  Only when Victoria, with a final burst of desperate speed, certain that at any moment the earl was going to spring out from behind her and stop her, finally made it to the street and leaped in front of the first carriage she saw in an attempt to stop it, the driver cursed at her very rudely! Cursed at her, and said it would be a cold day in hell when he’d let one of her kind into his nice clean hack!

  Victoria, enraged, stared after the hack as it clattered away. One of her kind? What ever could the driver have meant? Did he mean the daughter of a duke? But everyone liked dukes’ daughters.

  Never mind. That particular driver clearly had some sort of problem. Here came another carriage, sadly not a hack, but a very respectable-looking chaise-and-four. Victoria raised her arms and cried to the driver, “Oh, sir, if you please, I’m in terrible trouble. Could you kindly take me to—”

  But the driver made a very rude noise and raised his whip at her! Raised his whip and cried, “Out of my way, lassie! I’ll have none of your tricks tonight!”

  None of her tricks? Victoria, who’d leaped from the path of the carriage—indeed, she’d have been trampled if she had not—blinked after it, stunned to the core. Tricks? What was wrong with everyone? Couldn’t they see that she was a desperate kidnapping victim and needed immediate rescue? Good Lord, if this kept up Victoria would be out here all night. And surely then Lord Malfrey would find her….

  And then from around the corner came a sight so welcome to Victoria’s sore eyes, she very nearly giggled for joy. For it was a Runner, a Bow Street Runner, swinging his stick and whistling a happy tune. Victoria, delirious with joy, ran toward him.

  “Oh, sir, sir,” she cried when she reached his side. “I am so happy to see you! You must help me, sir. My name is Lady Victoria Arbuthnot, and there’s been a terrible—”

  “Get on with you, miss,” the Runner said affably enough, giving her a gentle push away from him. “This is a nice neighborhood. Get on back to Seven Dials, where you belong.”

  Victoria, stunned, echoed in a wounded voice, “Seven Dials? I don’t know what you mean. Didn’t you hear what I said? I’m Lady Victoria Arbuthnot, and I’ve been—”

  “And I’m Bonnie Prince Charlie,” the Runner said kindly. “Go on home with you, girl. And for heaven’s sake, put some clothes on. You’ll shame your poor mother, dashing about in next to nothing like that. Not to mention catch your death.”

  “But—”

  The Runner paid no heed. He gave Victoria another push, this one not as gentle, then turned and started back down the street, whistling his happy tune. Victoria stared after him with a look of utter despair.

  It was only when a couple happened by on the other side of the street—a well-dressed man and woman—that Victoria realized how she must look to people. The woman, catching a glimpse of her, said, “Tsk-tsk!” in a loud voice, and the man put his arm protectively around her, as if he feared Victoria might fly at them with a pick-ax.

  Victoria was shocked. Surely no one could possibly think she’d chosen to dress this way. But apparently these hardened Londoners thought exactly that. Why, they must have thought her a madwoman, or—and here Victoria had to swallow hard—something even worse.

  Her cheeks scarlet, Victoria darted back into an alleyway, this one some streets over from the one that had led from the back of Lord Malfrey’s house. Good Lord, what was she going to do? She had no idea where she was, and not the slightest idea of how to get home. She was cold and wet and her feet were beginning to hurt, and everyone in London seemed to think she was a madwoman. What in heaven’s name was she to do? She might, she could not help thinking, have leaped straight from the frying pan and into the fire. For while the idea of having to marry Lord Malfrey was repugnant, to say the least, being mistaken for a madwoman in the streets of London seemed infinitely worse!

  And just when Victoria had begun to believe she had sunk to an all-time low, she heard a sound that caused her blood to curdle. And that was a man’s voice, just behind her, that said, “Well, well, what have we here?”

  Thinking it was Lord Malfrey, and that she was well and caught, Victoria closed her eyes and uttered a quick and silent prayer for strength. If she screamed, she wondered, would the Runner come sprinting back and save her? She doubted it. She had no choice. She was going to have to face the fact that she couldn’t run anymore, and that there was no help to be had in the city of London for a woman wearing only her underthings and a blanket… even if that woman happened to be a duke’s daughter.

  Swallowing hard, Victoria turned to face her tormentor…

  …and found herself staring not at Lord Malfrey, but at several children who appeared to be as dirty and raggedly dressed as she was.

  “See here,” demanded the eldest of the children, the one whose voice she’d mistaken for Lord Malfrey’s. And indeed, it did belong to a man, but one who was only teetering on the brink of adulthood. “What are you doing in these parts? This here is our turf, understand? You go on back to your own part of town, or we’ll teach you quick.”

  Victoria, not having the slightest idea what the boy was talking about, put up a hand to sweep some of her uncombed hair from her face.

  “Please,” she said in a tired voice. “I would love to go back to my part of town. Only I don’t know how to get there, and no hacks will stop for me.”

  The boy’s eyes widened perceptibly. “Gor!” he cried. “Is that you, miss?”

  Victoria blinked at the young man, who’d grown visibly excited, while his companions did not express nearly as much enthusiasm.

  “I’m not sure,” Victoria said. “Do I… do I know you?”

  “It is you!” the boy cried. “You remember me, I know you do! From last week, in the park?”

  Suddenly Victoria recognized him. It was the footpad, the one who’d attempted to steal Rebecca’s reticule.

  “You!” Victoria cried. “Good heavens! How do you do?” And she stuck out her right hand politely.

  If the footpad was surprised by this nicety, he didn’t show it. He pumped her hand eagerly in his own, and said to his friends, “This is her! That lady I was telling you about. The one what helped me go free when the other gents were about to send for the Runners.”

  The three other children murmured solemn greetings but continued to eye Victoria with suspicion. Victoria learned why when the second-eldest one said, “But, Peter, you told us she was a great lady wif a parasol.”

  Peter—which was apparently the footpad’s name— nodded. “She were! I mean, you were, weren’t you, miss? But… if you don’t mind me saying… did you lose the parasol?”

  “And the rest of your clothes?” chimed in one of the younger children.

  “Oh,” Victoria said, her heart welling over with gratitude that finally, finally someone was willing to listen to her. “Oh, yes. You see, it’s been so dreadful. I was abducted by a very horrid man. Well, not abducted, exactly, since I went with him willingly enough. But only to give him his letters. And then we got caught in the rain, you see, and his mother said she’d put my clothes aside to dry, only then she wouldn’t give them back to me, and they locked me in this little room, and I’ve only just escaped and…” Here Victoria paused to draw a ragged breath. “And I would be so very grateful to you if you could help me get home.”

  The youngest of the four children tugged on the shirt of one of the others and asked, “What’s ‘abducted’?”

  “Never mind,” Peter said grandly. “Of course we’ll help you, miss. You helped me, so we’ll help you.” Looking down at Victoria’s mud-encrusted feet, he observed, “But you won’t get far on those. What do you say we nip ’round the corner to our place, and you can rest a bit, and maybe get those toes of yours cleaned up?”

  “Oh,” Victoria said, nearly weeping in gratitude. “That would be lovely.”

  Then, offering her his arm as if he were the dandiest of gentlemen, Peter, followed by his little entourage, escorted Victoria to his “place,” which proved
to be a very small and run-down room in the cellar of a very small and run-down building some blocks away. The room smelled a bit gamily of cat—indeed, there were several with whom the children seemed to share their domicile—but Victoria supposed the cats at least guaranteed the absence of rats.

  The room was, however, warm and dry, and brightly lit by dozens of candle stubs… rather the way Victoria had always imagined Ali Baba’s cave. She was offered a cup of hot—though very weak—tea, which she drank thirstily and gratefully as she looked about her.

  “Do you all live here?” she asked, since there was a homey look about the shabby room. Ragged pieces of laundry hung from the ceiling, and there were several pallets lying about, which looked comfortable enough.

  “Oh, yes,” Peter said, clearly proud of his home. “Pay our rent just like anybody. It’s right snug in winter, and very private.”

  Victoria, who’d been offered a bowl full of not very clean water to soak her feet, bent to scrape some of the mud off them before dipping them into the basin. “And where are your parents?” Remembering what the footpad had told her at the time she’d caught him, her eyes widened. “They weren’t all hanged, were they?”

  “Naw,” Peter said, much to her relief. “But Pa, he drinks. And Ma… well, we don’t know where Ma disappeared to.”

  “Parents,” said one of the younger children scoffingly. “Who needs ’em!”

  Since Victoria, being orphaned herself, could well understand this sentiment, she did not reply, but said instead, “But surely there are safer ways to make a living than robbing people in the park. Couldn’t you… I don’t know… work as a chimney sweep or something? At least that way you wouldn’t need to fear arrest.”

  Peter looked contemptuous. “Chimneysweep? You got to be an apprentice to get work like that. Ain’t no one going to apprentice the likes of me.”

  Victoria put her feet into the water, and was surprised to find that they stung a bit. She must, she realized, have cut them on something.

  “I don’t see why not,” she said, ignoring the pain. “You seem a bright enough boy.”

  “Oh, he’s bright,” one of Peter’s siblings assured her. “But he’s a thief.”

  That, apparently, was all the explanation Victoria was to get on the matter. Peter, it was clear, had tired of the subject, and now presented her with a stub of pencil and a torn piece of foolscap, on the back of which was someone’s grocery list. A sensible boy, Peter had evidently found and saved the scrap of paper for just such an occasion.

  “I thought as you’d like to get a message to someone, miss,” he said in a gentlemanly tone. “Tell me where to take it, and I’ll deliver it.”

  One of Peter’s siblings objected to this very generous offer, but Peter soon cut him off with a whispered, “Are you dense? She’s bound to send it to some toff who’ll give me a guinea for it.”

  This sounded to Victoria a very practical plan. She said, “Indeed, he’ll likely give you a whole pound, as well as a ride back.” Then, taking the pencil, she wrote carefully:

  Something rather dreadful has happened. I am all right, but would you please come away at once with this young man and fetch me? And tell no one about it. Oh, and please bring with you a gown and a pair of shoes (any kind will do).

  Yours Truly,

  V. Arbuthnot

  There was not room on the foolscap for more, or she might have explained herself better. She folded the note and handed it to Peter, and mentioned an address. Peter nodded, seeming to know the place well, and assured her he would be back in a flash.

  Then he left, leaving her in the less-than-tender care of his siblings, who seemed to find nothing at all odd about having a lady dressed only in a blanket and her undergarments in their bedroom. Indeed, they seemed to take the situation very much in stride, and only asked Victoria a searching question or two about whether or not she could read. When it was established that she could, they handed her a pamphlet and asked her to tell them what it said.

  Which was how, when Jacob Carstairs arrived a half hour later, he found the Lady Victoria Arbuthnot reading aloud to three ragged street urchins from an abandoned racing form.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  There were, of course, any number of other people to whom Victoria might have dispatched her plea for help. There was her uncle Walter, for instance. There was Mr. Abbott. There was Captain White, from the Harmony. There were any of the other numerous gentlemen with whom she’d become acquainted since arriving in London.

  But Victoria had thought of one name and one name only when she’d determined that a gentleman must be sent for, and that name had been Jacob Carstairs.

  And that was, purely and solely, because he was the only person Victoria knew who could be counted upon to keep his mouth shut about Lord Malfrey and what he and his mother had attempted to do to Victoria. After all, the captain had managed to keep secret for this long what the earl had done to his sister. It seemed likely he would not go bleating around London regarding Victoria’s predicament, either.

  It was vital, of course, that news of what Lord Malfrey had attempted to do to Victoria not get out. Mr. Gardiner, with all his harumphing, was bound to insist on going to the police. Captain White, being a military man, was likely to do the same. And as for Charles Abbott… well, Victoria would sooner have died than made him party to anything so sordid. His wedding to Rebecca was in only a few weeks. Nothing must happen that could delay—or, perish the thought, cancel—it.

  No, the only person Victoria even thought of contacting was Captain Jacob Carstairs.

  But even so, she was not happy about the arrangement. She was not looking forward to having Jacob Carstairs, of all people, rescue her from her current situation. She could only imagine the barbed comments such a discovery was bound to elicit from him. He would, she knew only too well, have a good deal to say on the subject of girls who went alone to exchange letters with their former fiancés, and probably something or other to say about girls who accepted horseback rides from said fiancés during thunderstorms, as well.

  No matter. Victoria felt she could bear anything—anything at all—if it meant she could get home without further mishap… and that the Gardiners—and anyone else, either, for that matter—would never discover the truth about her adventure.

  Still, though she had felt herself prepared for Jacob Carstairs’s censure, she was certainly not expecting his complete and total shock at finding her sitting in her undergarments in a squalid thieves’ den.

  “Victoria!” he cried upon ducking beneath the tattered blanket that served as a doorway to Peter’s lodgings and spying her on the opposite side of the room—a room he crossed in a mere three strides. “My God! What on earth…?”

  Victoria had been telling herself, ever since Peter had gone away to fetch him, that Jacob Carstairs seeing her in her underclothes was not the worst thing that had ever happened. They were, after all, still clothes. She was still dressed. She just had rather less on than usual. Still, her body was covered, for the most part.

  So why he had to look so very scandalized, Victoria could not imagine. Why, he was even blushing! Jacob Carstairs! If it hadn’t all been so absurdly embarrassing, she might have laughed.

  As it was, however, she merely stood and, holding the blanket about her as tightly as she could, asked, “Did you bring me something to wear?”

  “What?” the captain asked, still looking very red in the face, and apparently not knowing where to put his gaze. Then he seemed to remember himself, and thrust at Victoria a brightly colored bundle.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Here. I don’t know what’s there, exactly. I just went into my mother’s closet and seized the first thing I could find.”

  “This will do nicely,” Victoria said, seeing that he had brought her a day dress in sprigged violet, and a pair of rather dainty-looking dancing slippers. Then, noticing that he still stood staring at her, she snapped, “You needn’t gawp like a beached salmon. Turn around.”

>   Captain Carstairs, going redder than ever, obliged her, laying a firm hand on his young escort’s shoulder and spinning him around as well. Victoria handed the corners of her blanket to two of Peter’s siblings, whom she assumed were both girls, as their hair was on the longish side, and they obediently held the cloth as a sort of dressing screen while Victoria slipped on the violet gown and carefully laced up the slippers. Both gown and shoes were too large for her, but as everything that needed to be covered was so, Victoria felt satisfied. She did wish she had a comb and a looking glass, so that she might do something about her hair, but she hadn’t mentioned either of those things in her note, and she doubted even Captain Carstairs, who seemed an eminently sensible young man, aside from his collar points, would have thought of them.

  “Victoria,” Jacob said to the wall he faced, “are you going to tell me how you got here, of all the places in the world, and where, in the name of God, your clothes are?”

  “Well,” Victoria said, rapidly doing up the buttons of Mrs. Carstairs’s gown, “it’s rather a long story—”

  “She was abducted,” one of Peter’s sisters chimed in helpfully.

  “Abducted!” Jacob was so startled he started to turn around, but a bark from Victoria stopped him. “Abducted?”

  he said in a quieter voice, addressing the wall once more. “By whom? Victoria, what is that child talking about?”

  Victoria sighed. She could see nothing else for it. She was going to have to tell him. Smoothing the violet gown, she said to Peter’s sisters, “It’s all right,” and they lowered the blanket. Then, to Captain Carstairs, she said, “You can turn around now.”