Hero Wanted

by Betina Krahn

  “W-we haven’t set a date yet,” Lauren responded.

  “Really? You’re only young once, you know,” Mrs. B. said with a teasing tone. “You must enjoy it while you can.”

  Lauren could almost feel Rafe’s groan at that.

  The clerk arrived to ask what she wanted, and Mrs. Buffington hurried off to the counter to complete her purchase. Lauren told the clerk what she wanted and took a deep breath. As she waited for her books to be collected and wrapped, she strolled from counter to bookcase and made another selection. When she looked up Rafe was holding the shop door for Mrs. B., who paused and turned to raise her voice so the whole shop could hear.

  “I suppose we will see you at Lord Drummond’s, then?”

  Lauren was caught off guard, unable to recall what was happening at the Drummonds’ home. “Oh, yes.”

  Mrs. Buffington smiled, gave a finger wave, and exited.

  * * *

  When Lauren and Rafe emerged minutes later she was carrying two parcels, one a tall, thick rectangle wrapped in brown paper and string, and the other flat but similarly wrapped.

  Once in the cab and safely underway, she took a deep breath.

  “Clearly Mrs. Buffington hasn’t read about us. Around the parish, she is known as a rather strict adherent. I doubt she reads scandal sheets.”

  “Prefers her gossip firsthand, then.” Rafe settled back in the cab with a side glance at her. “Did we look betrothed and besotted enough for her to tell everyone from Mayfair to Seven Dials?”

  “Only time will tell,” she said, handing him the flat package.

  He sat straighter, turning it over in his hands.

  “Is this what I think it is?”

  “Open it,” she said as he eyed her offering with dread.

  * * *

  Rafe pulled the string, folded back the paper, and drew a long-suffering breath. Another copy of Ivanhoe. She was determined to torment him with the damned thing. When he looked up she was watching him with mischievous pleasure.

  “I wouldn’t want you to go without, considering how generous you were with young Jims.”

  “You honestly expect me to read this?” He held it up and looked straight into her eyes. Big, beautiful, blue eyes with feathery golden rings around the very center. He blinked to clear his vision, but they were still the same. He had never seen eyes like hers. How had he not noticed their unusual coloring until now?

  “I hope you will. I think it might—”

  “Make me more courageous? More heroic?”

  She paused for a moment, meeting his irritation without flinching.

  “It may help you understand why I feel the way I do.”

  “I already know why you dislike me. I am not one of your grand, mythical heroes—daring to the point of insanity, selfless, and willing to sacrifice life and limb to right the wrongs of the world.”

  “That is not as naïve and ridiculous as you make it sound,” she said.

  “Have you ever met a real, bona fide hero?” He narrowed his eyes and realized his face was throbbing. Was his eye swelling again?

  “I have . . . read their stories. The Duke of Wellington, Admiral Lord Nelson . . . William the Conqueror . . .”

  “Your expectations keep exalted company,” he said with an eyebrow raised. “So, you want a warrior, a knight errant, a leader of men and lover of all mankind . . . with the possible exception of Frenchmen.”

  “I do not expect perfection,” she defended herself. “I do, however, believe a man of worth should be interested in the welfare of others . . . in making the world a better place. That means having the willingness to act when one sees trouble or others in danger.”

  She met his gaze with a resolve so genuine that he had to credit that she believed it. And she clearly applied that standard to her own conduct. It struck him that she wanted a man who was willing to do what she herself would do. That gave him a moment’s pause. In a mature man of the world that would be laudable. But in a young, unmarried female it was . . . unthinkable ? . . . absurd?

  He scowled and looked down at that cursed book.

  Did she honestly believe some sort of spell, some alchemy of the soul was worked by Walter Scott’s words? If so, he absolutely refused to read it. He would not have some head-in-the-clouds scribbler puttering around inside his soul!

  “If you prefer, we could take a picnic to the river and I could read it to you.” The smile that accompanied her offer looked like innocence itself. He knew better.

  “And me without a horse blanket?” He thrust the book into the narrow space between them and then crossed his arms. “Not on your life.”

  * * *

  Barnaby Pinkum watched the Townsend swell escort the Alcott girl to her front door, turn back to his cab, and depart straightaway. There was no lingering press of hands or exchange of touchless cheek kisses common in the upper crust. It was hard to say if the marriage was on or off, but at least he had collected enough evidence for another article. The Alcott chit was a do-gooder through and through, but from the looks he gave her, Townsend didn’t share her selfless impulses.

  To meet his deadline he’d have to use the “angel” angle again. Angel of the Streets now . . . swooping in to rescue a motherless urchin unfairly accused of theft . . . then seeing to it the nipper had a nourishing meal before seeing him safely home. His own stomach growled and he rubbed it with a frown. Damned guttersnipe ate better today than he did. Well, he intended to remedy that with a story so good it would feed him for a week.

  Eight

  The next day Lauren had planned to begin with a ride on Rotten Row at ten. Rafe had agreed to arrive at that time, suitably mounted, to escort her to the park. Afterward she planned to take him to the parish school for reading time, then to the Seven Sisters to meet Jims and his siblings. It was an itinerary crafted with visibility in mind, and one that was likely to grate on Rafe Townsend’s nerves.

  Assuming he had nerves.

  During yesterday’s activities he had remained cool and detached from everything but steam engines. Now, as she watched him dash through the pouring rain and up her front steps in riding clothes—tall, broad-shouldered, and determined—she thought of Aunt Amanda’s scandalous musings on his husbandly qualities. What would it take to rouse aloof, self-possessed Rafe Townsend to a display of affection?

  Seconds later he was in the entry hall, grumbling about the rain and rejecting Weathersby’s assistance in drying his water-spotted boots. When she stepped out into the hall, he straightened and handed Weathersby back the towel.

  * * *

  “A fine morning you chose for a ride,” he said. “It’s pouring.”

  “I am aware.” She made a moue of regret. “I fear we shall have to alter our plans.” She paused for a moment. “I was thinking of finding someplace sheltered or indoors. Perhaps an arcade—”

  “Or a turn around the Crystal Palace,” he supplied. “The gardens there are interesting, and there are plenty of people and places for refreshments.”

  She considered that for a moment, then agreed it would be a suitable alternative.

  Weathersby summoned a cab because the Alcott carriage had been let down for fair weather, and Rafe once again found himself seated close to his difficult intended. She wore a shapely green skirt and jacket with gold trim and another swallow-shaped hat—this one with handsome, gold feathers that played with the lights in her burnished hair. The woman knew how to dress for impact. And undress. He forced himself to look out the window and focus on his plans for the morning.

  “I opened that blasted book last night,” he said without looking at her. He didn’t need to look; her image was burned into his mind. “I managed to make it through six whole pages before I fell asleep. That has to be the most somniferous tome ever published.”

  Surprised, she studied him for a moment. “Well, the first chapter is really background. Sir Walter is something of a historian. The real story starts in chapter two.”

  “It would have
been nice to know that,” he grumbled, squeezing his eyes shut, hoping to banish the effects of her appearance. “The man drones on . . . throws in every word he knows . . .”

  “Start with chapter two. I usually do.”

  That made him turn. “You skip some of your precious bard’s words?”

  “I prefer to get to the meat of the story.”

  “As do I,” he said, studying her face. Lovely skin, pert nose, and those unusual eyes. Something hungry was stirring inside him, but he was determined to resist it.

  “At least we have that in common.” She studied him the way he studied her. Realizing she was staring, she pressed her lips together and looked away.

  What did she see in him that put her off so? He wasn’t accustomed to being found lacking. Heaven knew there was nothing lacking in . . . her eyes . . . that feathery, golden circle inside the blue . . . a morning sunrise at their centers. He abruptly redirected his gaze.

  They spoke little for the rest of the ride, simple comments on the shops, architecture, and landmarks they passed. He was surprised to find that she had a penchant for Georgian style, which he himself favored. His parents’ house was a recent Gothic monstrosity smothered in heavy velvets, stuffed with bric-a-brac and whatever curiosities were in vogue. She surprised him by saying she had found his mother a very warm and engaging hostess. As he turned that over in his mind, they arrived in the plaza of the Crystal Palace and found that the rain had slowed to a drizzle.

  He bolted from the cab, took a deep breath, and assisted her down the steps. He found himself reluctant to release her when she reached the ground, and when her hand slipped into the crook of his elbow he felt an unsettling surge of . . . satisfaction? pleasure?

  He stiffened, refusing to think of contact with her in such terms.

  Yes, he found her attractive; he had from the first time he set eyes on her. But he reminded himself that she was also impulsive, stubborn, and impossible to predict. He couldn’t afford to fall into lustful fascination with her. If she was difficult and prickly now, imagine how she would respond when she watched her entire fortune being poured into ships and warehouses instead of being used to feed and clothe hungry urchins.

  He paid for their admission and they paused inside the entry to take in the grand expanse of iron and glass that was now filled with greenery, fountains, and natural exhibits. Wooden paths wandered here and there, taking them through collections of ferns, exotic palms, and copses of small trees from commonwealth lands. At the crux of the main gallery and side exhibition halls, stood an English oak that nearly reached the barrel vault of glass that formed the main roof.

  “It’s remarkable,” she said, gazing all around and then up at the distant roof. “A work of engineering and art comingled.”

  He steered her out of the stream of visitors to a fish pond surrounded by stone sculptures and filled with water lilies. The air was warm and humid, and he noted that her cheeks were sweetly flushed.

  “I was here more than once as a child,” she said, gazing up at the vaulted roof. “I didn’t understand how grand it was. I was more interested in the dinosaur statues outside and the shaved ices than the exhibits.” She smiled, and he found himself smiling back. It was the first exchange of genuine goodwill between them. He was caught off guard.

  “Do you find it too warm?” He motioned to a stand farther down the main path. “We could get you some chilled water or a lemon ice.”

  Before she could answer he had her hand in his and was pulling her through exhibits and around knots of well-dressed patrons. He looked around as if searching for something or someone, and then escorted her to the north junction of the grand hall. He halted at an open-air café filled with white, wrought-iron tables and chairs.

  “This will be more comfortable, I’m sure.” No sooner had he said it than his name boomed from across the café.

  “Sink me—if it ain’t Townsend! Ain’t seen you in a whale’s age!”

  A moment later Rafe was engulfed in a crushing embrace by an older man with frizzled gray hair and a scruffy face. The fellow pounded Rafe on the back, exclaiming in less than polite terms his pleasure at their meeting.

  “You crusty old salt, how have you been?” Rafe seemed pleased to see the old fellow and abruptly invited him to join them at the table Lauren was standing beside.

  “An’ who’s this fair lass?” The old man was thick and compact and missing a leg from the knee down. But the awkward wooden replacement didn’t keep him from darting to the table, grabbing her hand, and giving it a much-too-exuberant kiss.

  * * *

  Lauren recoiled from that frontal attack, but too late. Her hand was held captive in the man’s bearlike grip and she was taken aback by his leering grin and the smell of spirits wafting from him.

  “Captain, meet Miss Lauren Alcott of the East Anglia Trading Company Alcotts,” Rafe said, clearly pleased. She had never seen him smile so genuinely. She couldn’t take her gaze from the way his face lighted from within.

  “Miss Alcott, may I present Captain Harlow Stringer, the hero of Bonasera Bay.”

  She forced a pleasantry and managed to free her captive hand. When Rafe pulled out a chair for her the captain plopped down in the only other chair at the table, leaving Rafe to borrow one from a nearby table.

  These two, she realized, knew each other well. Her next observation concerned the faded wool and tarnished gold braid of the captain’s aged uniform. Crumbs were stuck in his beard and on his coat front, but there were two complete ranks of medals pinned to his chest.

  “Imagine finding you here,” Rafe said as he settled beside Lauren.

  “Where else’d I be?” The old boy licked his lips. “Best damned place in London to see folk and—” he gave Lauren a looking-over that made her shiver—“ogle the pretties. Where’d ye find this slip o’ muslin?”

  “In my father’s ambitions,” Rafe answered. “She is my intended.”

  “Damn me—yer pa’s lookin’ out fer ye good an’ proper.” The captain’s eyes widened. More ogling ensued.

  “When it suits him,” Rafe responded.

  “Still at odds with th’ old man, are ye?” Captain Stringer shook his head, dislodging crumbs in his beard. To Lauren’s surprise, he turned to her to explain, “Yer man’s square of beam and keel. Not one t’ take skiffy orders, even from his pa.” He clamped a hand on Rafe’s arm as it lay on the table. “Ne’er saw a better midshipman.”

  Lauren blinked and looked at Rafe. Midshipman was a naval rank . . . a young officer in training. Rafe Townsend had been in the navy?

  He saw the question in her eyes and answered it. “I went to the Academy. Against my father’s wishes.”

  “Academy boys—all pisser an’ no bollocks,” Harlow declared. “Wouldn’t give a ha’penny fer a score of ’em—’til this lad. A crack navigator, he is.” He tapped his temple with a canny expression. “Reads stars and marks charts wi’ the best of ’em.”

  “You’ll turn my head, you old flounder,” Rafe said with a grin. “And here I thought all you talked about these days was Bonasera Bay.”

  “Ahh, Bonnie Bay. Fer that I’ll need to wet me whistle.” He gave a sly look, and Rafe pulled a flask from his inside pocket.

  A waiter hurried over to take their order, and Harlow Stringer downed a pull from the flask and sighed. “Damned temperance ranters got it so ye can’t get proper grog in this place.” He looked to Rafe with a wicked twinkle in his eye. “Lucky though . . . I got friends.”

  Rafe chuckled and nodded to the old man, who took it as his cue to launch into his favorite story.

  “I capt’ned a Guard cutter out of Sussex. Hard work an’ dangerous. Smugglers don’t give up easy. They’d as soon take their chance of gettin’ pinched as dump a valuable cargo.” He leaned toward Lauren. “Things got dull after Crimea, so I asked fer postin’ to the Coastguard.”

  He looked down and pointed to four medals on the top rank—one of which had clearly been polished and cared for
more than the others.

  “A man gets used to action, see. After years of bollocks-out battles, fightin’ gets in yer blood. Makes it tough to settle down.

  “The Battle of Bonasera.” He tapped another shiny medal on his chest. “The bloodiest, fiercest fight o’ my life. I were in the Baltic, ye see, back in ’55. Helped take down the fortifications at Sevastopol in th’ Crimea.” He huffed. “’At were a tea party compared to Bonnie Bay.

  “Three smugglers aimin’ to rendezvous, tho’ we didn’t know that at first. Frigate-size ships ridin’ low—manned by salts wi’ the grit to fight to the last dog howl.”

  Rafe glanced at her and she could have sworn he winked. She sat back in her chair, sensing that this meeting was more than happenstance. He’d brought her here on purpose, to see this gritty old salt and hear his story. Her gaze fixed on the old boy’s medals . . . that shiny one was a cross overlaid by a crown and a lion. If that was indeed the Victoria Cross—and what else could it be?—he had to have done something rare.

  “ . . . dark o’ the moon . . . smugglers’ favorite time . . . with Bonnie Bay set deep inside tall cliffs that made it hard fer the Guard’s Coast Riders up top to see. Black as pitch it was—not even a glint of gunmetal t’ give us away. In come the first ship—sails slack—lookin’ for easy harbor. Just as we were about to set our guns barkin’, a second sail was spotted headin’ for the bay. Change of plans. We’d have to take the first ship without firin’ a shot so the second ship would keep comin’.

  “Nineteen men I had—strong swimmers, all.” The captain took another swig from the flask. “Eighteen o’ us went over the side and swam—blades in our teeth—to the shadows of the rocks. They figured they were safe and let down th’ anchor. They were lookin’ out to sea and thinkin’ about their grog ration and the rendezvous. We come up the anchor chain and took down the watch, quiet as death. One by one, they fell, ’til we got to the crew quarters. Made noise there, I tell ye. Th’ capt’n an’ his mates come runnin’ and we got banged up a bit before we got the bastards bound an’ stowed.

  “We was feelin’ pretty good . . . thinkin’ to meet the second ship with our prize’s guns . . . when a third sail appeared. Lights blinked from its crow’s nest. We hadn’t reckoned with signals. When we didn’ answer the bastards run out their guns. Next thing we knew, we was in th’ fight of our lives!