Dare to be Brazen (Daring Daughters Book 2)

by Emma V. Leech

  “A f-fire?”

  Martha’s eyes widened in alarm and Eliza sighed.

  “Not at this second. Good heavens, but you do fret! Oh, bother. It’s simply no good, and I had such hopeful expectations for this one.”

  “Oh, thank the lord,” Martha said, letting out a heartfelt sigh. “Might we leave, then, my lady? His grace would have my hide if he were to discover—”

  “Martha, I have told you over and again you will not be held responsible for my actions. I would not allow it, and my father would not act so unfairly. I forced you to accompany me, did I not?”

  “Yes, my lady, but all the same, you ought not be here in this dirty, dangerous place. Not what with your health being—”

  Eliza held up an impatient hand, having heard quite enough about her fragile health. Her own limitations made her wild with frustration, without having them thrown in her face at every opportunity. If she let them, those who loved her best would thwart her plans and keep her safe at home, tucked up by the fire and going out of her tiny mind with boredom.

  Martha subsided, though Eliza was aware of the woman’s desire to give her a good shake. To her intense annoyance, she felt a wave of fatigue roll over her, depressing her spirits and leaving her limbs heavy and cumbersome.

  “Oh, let us go, Martha,” she said, defeated, for today at least.

  This must be the tenth building she’d looked at in as many weeks. Not one had been a suitable place to begin her school. She’d had high hopes for this one, as it had sounded so promising on paper. It was large enough and not in such a dreadful part of London, but it was dark and grim. There was little outside space and the one entrance in and out was not only impractical, but dangerous.

  They made their way down the staircase. Eliza ignored the anxious glances Martha sent her and the way she hovered too close, just in case. Instead, she gripped the handrail tightly and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, moving slowly. Still, she was out of breath by the time they reached the bottom and emerged outside. The air was hardly sweeter in the darkened alley than the stale stench of rats and disuse inside, but still it was a relief. The footmen fell into step behind the ladies as they made their way back to the carriage.

  Eliza grasped her skirts, holding the simple twilled cotton free of the filthy cobbles as they picked their way along the narrow side street and back out upon the main thoroughfare. She had dressed in her plainest gown, hoping not to draw too much attention to herself. As they stepped onto the main street, Eliza blinked at the sky, mole-like, relieved to feel the open heavens above her after the oppressive darkness of the unpleasantly close built red brick. No. It was certainly no good for her charitable school. Her girls would need air and space and light in which to grow, and she would dashed well find it.

  She turned towards the carriage and then stopped in her tracks, arrested by the figure watching her on the opposite side of the road. His large, striking frame dominated those around him, rude as a bull in a spring meadow. Eliza’s breath caught, stolen by the aggressively masculine sight of Monsieur Demarteau. The icy north wind that tugged at her skirts and fluttered the ribbons of her bonnet snatched away her little gasp of shock. The furious glint in his dark eyes did not help her composure as he stepped into the street, heading directly for her.

  “What in the name of God are you doing here?” he demanded, before he was even halfway across the road, without so much as a good morning or an enquiry about her health—not that she would have welcomed that.

  “Good morning, Mr Demarteau. How do you do?” she said politely, ignoring his dreadful manners.

  “Never mind how I do,” he said, practically vibrating with agitation. “How do you come to be in this wretched neighbourhood? Does your father know you are here?”

  Eliza bristled, offended and annoyed. “My father does not need to be kept apprised of my every step outside the house. I am a woman grown, sir. I have my maid and two footmen for propriety and safety, and have no need of any further chaperonage.”

  “The devil you don’t,” he retorted. “I will see you home.”

  Eliza opened her mouth to rail at him for his high-handed manner and then stopped. What was she thinking? Though right at this moment she could not for the life of her fathom why, she had longed to see him for weeks and months, and now here he was, demanding to escort her home. It was too good an opportunity to miss. She remembered the last time she’d seen him, over six months ago. He had been as rude and surly as usual, and she had been hurt by it, but then his manner had changed, and he had spoken to her with such concern, such gentleness….

  Are you well, Eliza? Truly?

  Eliza had been so startled she’d turned quickly around to look and him and her wretched head had spun and she’d almost fainted, much to her dismay. Then he had swept her up in her arms. She recalled the way it had felt in that moment, the way he had lifted her into his arms as though she’d been made of lace and cobwebs, and her heart skittered about in her chest like a mouse pursued by a feline stalker.

  Are you well, Eliza? Truly?

  His words had been unguarded in that moment, filled with tenderness and anxiety. That man. She wanted to know that man, the one he hid behind a mask of rude indifference. She regarded him for a long moment, astonished when a faint tinge of colour touched the harsh planes of his face.

  “Very well,” she said quietly, acquiescing to his demand.

  He did not look entirely pleased that she had done so, that she had not railed against his request, the tightening of his jawline belying his sanguine nod of approval. She placed her gloved hand upon his arm, though he had not offered it, immediately aware of the tension singing beneath her fingertips. She glanced up at him, but he looked ahead, guiding her to her carriage, his face unreadable. Martha’s face, by contrast, was far from impenetrable. The maid was rigid with disapproval, her eyebrows drawn together in consternation, and she glared at Mr Demarteau as though he were a theatrical demon with horns and cloven hooves, sprung to life to walk among decent, God-fearing people.

  Eliza shot her a look that demanded she stop at once, but Martha only huffed and folded her arms, turning her indignant glare upon the undefended streets of London beyond the carriage window. Once Eliza was settled in her place, Mr Demarteau ducked his head and climbed in, giving the carriage springs reason to sway and bounce as they accommodated his weight. He put his hat to one side, as his head near brushed the ceiling as it was. To her regret, he sat opposite her, beside Martha, who made a performance of shifting closer to the carriage door. If Mr Demarteau noticed, he did not comment or react to the slight. He sat at an angle, his legs too long to do otherwise without their knees touching. Still, Eliza was vibratingly aware of the way her skirts and petticoats brushed his trousers. Her lips twitched as she realised he mirrored her maid’s disapproving posture, glaring out at the streets as though they had offended him. His arms were similarly crossed, except Martha’s certainly did not bulge with muscles in that provoking manner which must cause his tailor as much distress as Eliza’s own nerves, which were all a-flurry.

  Stop it, you great ninny, she scolded herself, but to no avail. Eliza forced herself to look out at the streets too, but whatever her companions found so riveting eluded her, and her gaze soon drifted back to the vexing man opposite. Mr Demarteau's hair was thick and curling, utterly black, and the gossip surrounding him suggested his character matched the uncompromising shade. His eyebrows would have done Mephistopheles proud, and the hard line of his jaw was already shadowed with what would be a heavy beard if he allowed it to grow. She sighed over his formidable shoulders, which were wide and robust. Everything about him screamed strength and power. There was nothing soft about this man. He was all hard lines and sharp edges, honed by life to something that seemed to her sheltered mind, dangerous, civilised only by a thin veneer comprised of shiny boots and exquisite tailoring. What would he be without that veneer, she wondered? Unbidden, a tantalising image came to her of the man who s
at so close, without the refinement of his elegant clothes, all hot skin and naked lust. Eliza felt heat climb up her throat and burn her cheeks. Naturally, the devil chose that moment to turn his attention back to her.

  His eyes lit with some emotion Eliza could not decipher, but she had the unsettling notion he had read her like a blasted book and knew just what she’d been thinking. She swallowed, her mouth dry, her breath coming short, but she refused to look away from him. His eyes were such a dark brown there was little distinction between iris and pupil, but now they seemed a fathomless black, a bottomless sea containing all his darkest secrets, everything she wished to know. The temptation to dive in was so fierce Eliza curled her hands into fists, as though that might stop her from throwing herself at him. Thank God for Martha. If her loyal bulldog of a maid had not been there, Eliza was not certain she could have resisted. Good heavens, the man was a menace. Unsettled and nervous, she licked her lips and felt her heart thud harder as his gaze grew hot and sultry, fixed upon her mouth.

  “Goodness, but John Coachman is taking his time. I’m sure this journey does not usually take this long, my lady. His grace will wonder where we’ve got to and be waiting at the door, no doubt, if he’s not already sent out a search party.”

  Martha’s rather desperate speech went some way to dissipating the crackling atmosphere in the carriage, for which Eliza was grateful. Well, she would have been if she’d had an ounce of sense, which she quite obviously did not, for she found herself instead rather irritated.

  “Papa is out today, as you well know, Martha. He won’t be back until dinner time.”

  Martha looked mutinous. “Yes, my lady. I had quite forgot.”

  Eliza turned away from her maid in time to see Mr Demarteau’s lips twitch.

  “What were you doing in Cheapside?” he asked, which was at least this time a civil enough question, even if it was none of his business.

  “I am looking for premises,” Eliza said, careful to keep her tone cool. It wouldn’t do to let the man know how badly he ruffled her feathers, or how badly she wanted him to ruffle her beyond saving.

  “You are going into business?” he asked with a quirk of one thick eyebrow.

  She wondered what they would feel like if she smoothed them with a fingertip.

  “My lady?”

  Eliza dragged her attention back to the conversation.

  “Yes. I am going to create a gin palace to rival that of Thompson and Fearon’s on Holborn Hill. I hear on a good night they can make a guinea a minute,” she said with a guileless expression.

  He stared at her in shock for a long moment and then grinned. It transformed his face, turning him from something dark and forbidden into something far, far more dangerous, giving her a glimpse of the naughty child he must once have been. Her heart gave an awkward lurch, like a ship tossed about by an unforgiving sea. Mr Demarteau erupted with a bark of laughter that made her mouth curve irrepressibly up at the corners, no matter how she tried to stop it.

  “Petit diable,” he murmured, so low she barely caught the words.

  She watched as he rubbed a hand over his face in what appeared to be frustration. Did she frustrate him as much as he did her? There had been something in his words that could have been mistaken for affection if one was completely unhinged. Well, that blow to the head she’d suffered when she’d fallen last year must have done more damage than anyone had guessed.

  Little devil. It was hardly a compliment. If any lady of the ton had been addressed so by their beau they would have been affronted without a doubt, but to Eliza… something warm and happy unfurled in her chest for the first time in six months.

  I have missed you.

  She longed to say the words, but Martha had a set to her jaw that was not encouraging, and Eliza did not dare be so foolish as to speak her thoughts aloud.

  “What do you know of gin palaces?” he asked, his amusement obvious.

  “I do read the newspapers. I am aware a world exists beyond Beverwyck and that for most people it is a constant struggle with little joy to be found.”

  He didn’t like that, she could tell.

  “Do you think I ought not know about such things?” she pressed, wondering what he thought of her now. “Have I shocked you? Do you think I ought to be protected from the realities of life? Kept in a gilded cage, perhaps, reading poetry and painting pretty pictures, so I might see nothing that distresses me? Many men think ladies should live so, I know.”

  His dark brows drew together in consternation. “Yes. No. I… don’t know.”

  Eliza had to admit she was surprised by that. “You don’t?”

  “You certainly ought to be protected,” he said at once, and in such a way Eliza struggled against the desire to look away from him. “But… you would not be happy, I think, to be too restricted.”

  “No. Indeed I would not.”

  “But, Eli… Lady Elizabeth, reading the newspapers is one thing, putting yourself at risk by visiting a place like that—”

  “I needed to visit,” Eliza said, waving that away with an impatient gesture.

  “To find premises for your gin palace,” he said dryly.

  Eliza laughed. “For a charitable school, sir. There, does that soothe your anxiety? I am doing just as a well-bred young lady ought to and involving myself in charity work.”

  He did not look the least bit appeased by this reassurance. “Forgive me if I am wrong, but I do not believe it is usual for young ladies to set about starting schools on their own, let alone looking for premises by themselves. They raise money by embroidering handkerchiefs to sell to their friends and arranging fundraisers.”

  Eliza quirked an eyebrow at him. “My, you know so much about being a young lady, sir. I shall certainly come to you for advice the next time I am uncertain of how to behave.”

  He glowered over that comment and folded his arms again. Eliza refused to notice how the cloth strained over his biceps. Really, he was too vexatious for words, and the carriage seemed to be growing hotter and stuffier by the moment.

  “Have you found somewhere?”

  Eliza shook her head, her earlier despondency returning. If only she had more energy. Before her accident she would have revelled in the challenge of finding a suitable building and visited a dozen properties in a week. Now… now she felt the task akin to climbing a mountain range with one hand tied behind her back. “No. Today’s building sounded promising, but it was dark and unsafe and… oh, it was a wretched place.”

  “What is it you want?”

  Eliza looked up at him, surprised by his interest. “Well, a large building, preferably with the possibility of enlarging further in the future as the school grows with success. Space for dormitories over the classrooms to accommodate as many children as possible, and big windows with lots of light. It is most important there be some outside space. Enough for both a kitchen garden and a recreation area.”

  He frowned, which seemed to be his natural expression, though she got the impression he was considering rather than annoyed.

  “What will you teach in this school?”

  “Oh, reading and writing and numbers, of course, but also skills that girls who might otherwise be led into, well, the darker side of life, might use to support themselves. I have some skilled seamstresses who will teach the girls to sew and embroider and cut patterns so they might find work in a dressmaker’s shop. I hope for those who are most enterprising that perhaps we may even help them to begin businesses of their own. In return, they would take on girls from the school as apprentices. For those who are not so inclined, they can choose to learn to cook, and everyone will do a little work in the gardens to keep the kitchen garden productive, under the guidance of a proper gardener, naturally. I hope also to have a small eatery on the premises. With luck, it might raise some of the funds to keep the school, if not completely self-sufficient, then at least not wholly dependent on charitable contributions. If the model works, I shall open another school for boys, too.”
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br />   “An ambitious project.”

  “Not in the least. The ambitious part of it is to have schools like this all over England.”

  Eliza put up her chin, too used to the condescending remarks that usually greeted her when she spoke of her plans. Not from anyone in her family, of course. Her father was not entirely happy about her ambitions, but only because he feared she would overtax herself. Before her accident, he had been content to help her with her school project. So much had changed since then, not least Eliza herself. Now she did not want to play at it with her wealthy, powerful father smoothing out the wrinkles for her. She wanted to make it happen by herself. Papa did not know she had gone out looking for a property today, though, nor all the days previous, and if he found out… well, he would worry himself to death, no doubt. Eliza looked back at Mr Demarteau, a defiant edge to her expression, and was startled not to find a patronising glint of amusement, but something that looked suspiciously like admiration in his eyes.

  “I have a building that might suit you.”

  Eliza stared at him, wondering if she had heard him correctly.

  “Oh, and here we are, home at last,” Martha said, a panicky note to the announcement.

  “You do?” Eliza said, ignoring her maid.

  He nodded.

  “But where? How? When can I see it?”

  She sat forward, aware her excitement had become obvious, most unbecoming in a young lady, who must never show signs of overt enthusiasm, but remain placid and calm as a mill pond. What nonsense. She was so tired of being placid and undemanding.

  She watched Mr Demarteau. His face had become unreadable once more, and she suspected he waged a silent battle with himself. No doubt he did not wish to spend any more time in her presence. He’d been determined to avoid her since their last meeting, and he had, for months. She remembered too clearly that he had promised her their paths would not cross this season and yet, finally, here he was. Deliberately this time, to see if she could incite the same reaction, she licked her lips.

  He stilled, riveted, his dark eyes fixated upon her mouth.