Lost With a Lord

by Emily Murdoch

  “Threw you into the sea!” George’s mouth fell open at the accusation. “I assure you I did no such thing! A small accident, nothing more; I did not see you when I turned around, and you evidently did not see me – ”

  “I had not expected you to run yourself into me like that,” the woman said angrily, throwing back her head with vehemence.

  George laughed. It seemed quite absurd that this woman, beautiful as she was, could throw herself into such a passion because he prevented her from descending into the ocean. “Excuse me, but if it had not been for me, you would have fallen in, to your certain death!”

  She scowled, her nose wrinkling and her eyes flashing. “If it had not been for you, I would have never gone anywhere close to the edge – even you can see that, surely!”

  It was infuriating, to be sure: George had never met a woman like her. There seemed to be fire rushing through her veins, not blood, and there was something deep inside him revelled in the sparks flying between them.

  She was not like any of the women he knew in polite society, that was for sure. So who was she?

  “And,” she was continuing, “a gentleman would have stepped aside for a lady.”

  Now George felt heat rising in his chest. Was he to be lectured by this woman? Was she to dictate who and who did not fit into society’s expectations? “And a lady would not be out here, in the docks, at this time,” he said curtly, far more curtly than he had intended.

  The barb rang true. “Just because I am here does not mean I am not . . . and you are here too, sir, so evidently you are no gentleman!”

  George stood there, his fists clenched at the accusation, but was distracted by the steady rise and fall of the lady’s silk gown as she breathed heavily. Her dark skin, eyes, hair, they were intoxicatingly different to anyone he had ever met.

  “Your lack of gallantry, combined with your dubious nature, tells me more than I need to know,” she said cuttingly, “and if I had known it would have been you to rescue me, I would have rather decided to fall in!”

  And with that, she turned around, heaving her luggage with her. George stared at her, his heart beating faster now, anger and another emotion he could not quite place hurtling through his mind.

  “Are you seriously suggesting,” he said, moving forward to match her pace as she threw him an irritated look, “that you would prefer to be soaking wet and freezing cold, in the Thames, instead of walking here with me?”

  “I am not walking with you,” she shot to him, staring forwards and trying to increase her pace. George lengthened his stride, and thanks to the extra five inches in height, easily kept apace with her.

  An irritated noise escaped her lips, and George grinned. “I think we are walking together.”

  “I have business to attend to,” she snapped. “Business that does not include you.”

  He grabbed her arm and stopped her in her tracks. Could this be – could this be the biggest coincidence of his life? After over an hour of wandering up and down this blasted dockyard, could this be . . . “Teresa?”

  The woman stared up at him while her fingers plucked at his own, desperate for release, loathing in her eyes now. “Florence. May I go now, sir?”

  The odious man was still staring at her, and Florence’s wrist was beginning to burn again – though not entirely due to his roughness. There was something about this man; something that drew her to him, something that made her stomach twist. Something that made his touch burn her skin.

  She didn’t like it, but a traitorous thrill passed through her heart.

  “Where are you going?” he said roughly. “Tell me!”

  Florence rolled her eyes. Were all men the same, no matter which country of birth? “Does your lack of gallantry know no bounds? Sir, my business is my own and I am under no obligation to share it with you. Let go of my arm.”

  “Is this man bothering you, miss?”

  She started, and gazed upwards into the eyes of the grizzled captain she had just been conversing with. He was staring at the two of them with a dark look on his face, and Florence suddenly realised just how odd they must look: a gentleman and a lady, near nine o’clock in the evening, with one held tightly by the wrist by the other.

  The captain repeated his question. “Is this gentleman bothering you?”

  Her captor released her wrist in an instant. “No, just a conversation, sir, nothing more.”

  Florence stared up at him. If she did not know any better, she would have said a flush was creeping over his cheeks – but surely not.

  “I am quite at my leisure, thank you Captain,” she said smoothly. “This man and I are just conversing, he is not ‘bothering me’.”

  She could not put her finger on exactly why she lied at that moment – if indeed, it was a lie. There was something about this man, after all, that drew her to him. She could not deny the warmth she felt when she was aware of his gaze upon her, as she did now.

  “Well then,” said the captain unconvinced. “You just yell out if you need to, miss. I’ve a daughter your age meself, and I wouldn’t want her in the clutches of a rogue.”

  He stomped away into the darkness, and Florence could not help but smile. “There, you see: I am not the only one to see you for a blaggard. Now, I will take your leave, sir.”

  But he did not bow his head as a return to her parting curtsey. Instead, his dark eyes drilled into her, and she tried to ignore the potent strength emanating from him. “Florence, you said your name was. Florence . . ?”

  For a moment, giving up her name seemed to be revealing a part of herself that felt a little too intimate. And then she blushed at the very idea; her name was just her name. Why did she feel so threatened by this man? So vulnerable?

  “Florence . . . Florence Capria,” she said slowly. His jawline tightened, and she was suddenly very conscious of his broad shoulders, his serious eyes. “And you are?”

  He swallowed, and for a moment he looked closed off, somehow, to the world around them.

  “George,” he said gruffly. “I – ”

  “Well, Mr George – ”

  “Lord George, actually.”

  Florence stared at him, and felt colour rushing to her cheeks. “L-Lord George?”

  If she did not know any better, she would have said he was looking a little bashful too, if that was even possible for a man who clearly, now she had time to look at him properly, was a gentleman of England.

  He nodded. “Lord George Northmere. My father is the Duke of Northmere, but as a fourth son, I have the slightest title.”

  She could not help but laugh. “Oh, it must be so difficult for you, signore, with just the slightest title.”

  Lord George’s face broke out into a grin, and she almost gasped at the way it transformed his face. Handsome now barely covered it: a natural masculinity with a magnetism that made you wonder why you weren’t already better acquainted with him.

  “I find myself lacking in that department, as far as most of the ladies I met are concerned. They are far more interested in my eldest brother, Luke, the Marquess of Dewsbury, who – ”

  “That is all very interesting,” Florence said over him cuttingly, the handle of her luggage digging into her fingers. She was wasting time, she had to keep moving. “I have a ship to find, and you have this Teresa to find, so I think it is best if we just go our separate ways, do not you?”

  He stared at her, uncomprehending. “Teresa?”

  “Teresa!” Florence clutched her hands together to keep them warm, and winced at the pain in her wrist. “There, I hope you are happy. A bruise will be there in the morning.”

  “Bruise?”

  “Dio dammi la forza,” Florence muttered under breath, and then, “Yes, signore, a bruise. A bruise on my wrist – the wrist you have tugged up, clenched, and grabbed at almost every moment since I met you, not twenty minutes ago!”

  He was silent, and then he did something she could never have expected.

  “You have my sincere apologi
es.” His voice was not meek, but it was sincere. “Not for preventing you from falling into the ocean, that was a necessity; but grabbing your arm, it is not the way of a gentleman. I apologise.”

  Florence stared up at him, and saw nothing but truth in his dark brown eyes. There was something about this man; something different, something within him that made him – she could not find words for it.

  “That is . . . thank you, for your apology,” she found herself saying. “Good evening.”

  She turned away, desperate to leave this intoxicating man behind and simultaneously unsure why she was doing so.

  “Miss Capria?”

  “Yes?” Florence could not help herself; and if she were truly honest with herself, she knew if she had any intention of walking away from this man, she would have done so minutes ago. What was it about this man?

  “I . . .” He swallowed, and Florence saw just a hint of nerves behind the courage of his eyes. “I am looking for a Miss Teresa Metcalfe, a resident of these parts who is . . . who is a courtesan. Do you know her?”

  A pink flush covered her cheeks and she could not help but raise her hands to her mouth. “A – a courtesan! Sir, what do you take me for, I am no such woman and I deal in no such business!”

  He laughed, and shook his head. Could she see a little embarrassment in his rough cheeks? “‘Tis self-evident you are no such woman, Miss Capria, or you would have taken me to your bed long ago. No, I just wondered if you knew the area, so you could point me in the right direction.”

  A courtesan! Well, that would explain it: a gentleman, clearly lost, here after dark, looking for a ‘Teresa’ . . . Florence was shocked to find herself disappointed.

  “To think such a man as you needs to resort to such pleasures,” she said quietly.

  His brow furrowed. “A man such as I?”

  Florence cursed her over-indulgent tongue. “I just meant – well, you know what I – do not make me say it!” The blush across her cheeks must surely be visible, even in this moonlight. “I have business to attend to, a ship to find, I cannot stand about all night talking to you!”

  She moved away from him, this man who seemed to be almost possessing her senses. He moved with her, stepping in time. His arm was beside hers, and it was stronger, she could see the strength in it as he walked.

  “A ship?”

  Florence nodded. “One going to Italy, preferably; I would take the south of France, at a push, but I really have no wish to be dawdling.”

  They passed a trio of young lads, worse the wear for drink, and she found herself grateful she had passed them with Lord George for company.

  “Is that where you are from – Italy?” His voice was soft, more gentle than she could have guessed, given the strength in his grip. But she was not here to make friends, and she was certainly not going to reveal any of her past to this man. She had made that mistake before, and she was not going to do it again.

  “All I want to do,” she repeated, “is find a ship going to Italy. I have no further business with you, or with anyone else. Wait – does that ship’s sign say Italia?”

  There were shouts ahead of them, and the sound of running behind them. Now the three lads had passed them, and they rushed towards two other young men, and a cry of pain rang out in the night.

  “Stop.” George – Lord George, she reminded herself – had thrown out an arm, and stopped her in her tracks.

  A fight had broken out ahead between the boys, and it was a bloody one. A man’s nose had been smashed, by the look of it, and one had a broken bottle in his hand.

  “Oh my,” Florence gasped, unaware she was speaking aloud. “Not again, no, no . . .”

  Unconscious of the danger it left her in, she shut her eyes, but she could still hear Lord George’s words uttered into the darkness.

  “All we have to do is back away, unnoticed, and then – ”

  More groans, and the thud of a body falling onto the floor. Florence’s breath was ragged now, and she had reached out, as though she had known where it was, to take Lord George’s arm.

  “This is why I left Italy in the first place,” she whispered, and felt the warm comfort of his hand on her back. “I do not wish to see any more blood split – I cannot – ”

  Wham.

  She fell to the floor, eyes snapped open, as one of the young men punched Lord George Northmere straight into the chest.

  3

  Breath knocked out of him, sky spinning, bile rising in his throat, George spat on the ground and tried to ignore the pain radiating from where the man’s fist had collided with his stomach.

  “George – no!”

  Miss Capria’s scream was distracting and George didn’t need a distraction: he needed to concentrate on the two large men now before him, fists raised, leering grins on their faces.

  “We’ll take ‘im together,” one of them muttered, and the other nodded.

  “He looks wealthy,” said another one with a leer. “Look at that greatcoat, it’s worth at least – ”

  “We can discuss the numbers later,” interrupted the first. “Get him!”

  George took a deep breath. It had been a long time since Eton, to be sure, and he wasn’t wearing any gloves: but Lord George Northmere was one of the finest boxing champions the school had ever seen, and he wasn’t about to go down without a fight.

  A sharp pain spasmed his back as someone he had neither seen nor heard shoved him from behind.

  “No!” Miss Capria had shouted as George’s head whirled. “Lord George – George, we need to – ”

  Exactly what Miss Capria thought they should do, George never discovered: her voice ended in a scream as the three men – for there were definitely three of them now – descended on George.

  Ducking, he spun round to avoid a punch, and narrowly jumped over a leg pushed out with the intention of tripping him over. A short jab with his own fist and one of the men grunted, doubling up in pain but George felt the ricochet in his shoulder which stung from the lunge of the punch.

  Another came around, faster now and more sure, but George accepted the punch to his side to get close enough to smash into his ear, disorientating the man who fell to the ground, one hand to his head.

  “Lord George!”

  Blood was pulsing through his ears and most of his body hurt, but there was something about this determination to survive, this dedication to living that George loved; it was far more interesting than sitting at home all day, waiting for people to call.

  “Lord George!”

  Miss Capria was shouting but he couldn’t listen to her, he had two more men to fell; but there were not two men, there were five. But the thought of Miss Capria rocked his mind, and he caught a slight blow to the shoulder.

  “George!”

  George spun around to stare at Miss Capria, who was white but staring fixedly at him.

  “If we do not go now – there are nigh on twenty of them, and more approaching!”

  Absorbed as he had been with his own small corner of the fight, George had not noticed the crowd swell as sailors from each side – how the lines were drawn, he had no idea – had joined their comrades’ ranks.

  It was no longer a fight. This was a mob.

  Time for a decision.

  “Come on,” George shouted, taking Miss Capria’s hand which was warm and soft to the touch, wrenching her forward as he began to run.

  Heart pounding, boots thudding, the mob screaming: George tried to force the panic back down his throat as it rose. Where was he going to go? He had no idea where he was, no idea where he was going, and if he did not do something soon, both himself and – and here his stomach lurched – Miss Florence Capria would be in grave danger.

  “Where are we going?” Miss Capria’s voice rose above the shouting.

  Senses overwhelmed, George made out the thumping of her luggage and grabbed it from her, the thudding of their feet, the pounding of his heart, the bile in his throat, the pain in his chest, and his eyes, the weig
ht of the banging luggage that bruised his legs, trying to pay attention to the buildings they were passing on their right; most were warehouses, as far as he could see, useless as a hiding place – but there, what was that? A door, a door open with a light, and what seemed to be a chair and a table?

  “Here!” George shouted, stumbling through an open door leading into a small, dingy room with one candlestick glowing in the window – but it was enough.

  Miss Capria ran behind him, breathless. “What are we doing here?”

  “We can hide here. That rival gang will keep them busy, the fight will soon wear itself out and then we can leave again, when it is safe,” George said hurriedly. He slammed the door shut but immediately there was a knocking on the outside.

  “Come on, let us in darlin’ – we are far more fun than that dandy you’ve got there!”

  George heard Miss Capria moan in terror, and he sprang into action. “We need to barricade ourselves in. What is here, what can we use?”

  He turned on the spot, trying to see into the corners of the dark and cobwebbed room, but Miss Capria was faster than he was, desperately searching for something in the room they could use.

  “Quick – the door!” She panted, attempting to drag a heavy chest across the room. George started forward and together, they were able to pull and push the wooden chest across the door they had so recently dashed through. Her luggage was dropped on its top.

  “Is there a key?”

  Miss Capria shook her head. “Not one that I can see, but there is a bolt!”

  George pushed it home, and it clunked in a reassuringly safe way. “There. That is the best we can hope for, I think.”

  They were both panting with the effort, and George’s top hat was completely missing, having presumably fallen off in the chase. His stomach hurt with every breath, a tearing sensation that made him wonder exactly what a broken rib felt like.

  Florence looked over at him, wrapping her arms around herself, shaking in no small part to the cold and to fear.