Hero Wanted

by Betina Krahn

“I couldn’t get my skirts off.”

  Relief poured through him and he laughed.

  “There’s a first time for everything.”

  Thirteen

  On the dock the bystanders heard a scream, followed by a splash. Someone had gone overboard—a woman, from the sound of it.

  The next second Lawrence was searching frantically for a boat and harbor officers to row out to the ship. Horace joined him in the boat and they were halfway to the Clarion when a fireboat arrived and hailed the master of the ship. Through the fog and smoke they heard voices, but the roar of the water and the racket from the fireboat’s pumps soon drowned them out.

  Lawrence was beside himself, certain that the scream had been Lauren’s and that she was in peril. “God knows what they’re doing to my sweet girl.”

  Horace cut him a glance and muttered, “Whatever it is, it’s probably not half of what she’s doing to them.”

  When the fireboat repositioned to the far side of the Clarion, they were able to maneuver closer and called out to the ship, demanding to speak to the captain and to see Rafe Townsend and Lauren Alcott. Moments later Rafe and Lauren appeared at the railing above, and the sight of them was both a reassurance and a shock. Rafe had blood on his face and Lauren was disheveled and appeared to be dripping wet.

  “You’re here. Good!” Rafe called down to them. “You can give us a ride back to shore. Things appear to be well in hand here.”

  “Well in hand? The damned ship is on fire!” Horace bellowed as Rafe disappeared above them. He turned to Lawrence with a look of outrage, but he was staring up at his daughter, demanding to know if she was well.

  “I’m fine,” she called. “Just wet. And cold.” She appeared to have a blanket around her. “I . . . fell in.” Her voice was higher than usual and uneven . . . she was shivering. “What is happening on the dock? Is the cargo being saved?”

  “It is,” Lawrence said, finding new reasons for anxiety, and turned to the officers in the boat. “We have to get her to shore—she’s freezing.”

  Rafe pulled a couple of the crewmen away from rescuing cargo to rig the boarding swing, and as soon as she was aboard, he stepped onto it beside her. Together they were lowered, and Lawrence nearly upset the boat as he rushed to reach her. He hugged her and set her back to look her over.

  “My little girl—what have they done to you? I’ll see the wretches in chains, I swear.”

  “I wasn’t looking and was knocked overboard, Papa. It was an accident. I just need a good, hot bath and some dry clothes.” Her words were brave, but her teeth were chattering and she was paler than usual.

  He scowled at Rafe. “It seems every time you two are together my daughter comes home looking like she’s been used for bait.”

  Horace, on the other hand, greeted his son with a stiff nod, then ordered the rowers back to the dock. “I’ll have an accounting, boy.” He settled opposite Rafe and gave him a searching look. “Were you or were you not being held for ransom?”

  “A full accounting in due time,” Rafe answered. “Is the cargo being taken to our warehouse?”

  “God knows,” Horace said, rubbing his face. “Though I saw men I recognized from our warehouse in the mix. Where is that scoundrel Pettigrew? I would never have taken him for such a conniver. He always struck me as a dependable fellow.”

  “Pettigrew is dead,” Rafe said, watching Lauren lean her head on her father’s shoulder. “Didn’t they tell you? Of course not. The one who took over as acting captain, Juster Morgan, is responsible for our detention.”

  “Pettigrew, dead?” Horace was stunned by the news. “Then how did you get free? And how did the blasted ship catch fire?”

  * * *

  Barnaby Pinkum crept through the crowd on the dock, watching the strange tableau of the burning ship unfolding. It was called the Clarion, and the crew, in an effort to save some of the cargo, had started tossing it overboard. It was being salvaged by enterprising dock workers and whisked away, though its destination was a mystery. None of the men involved would say where it was being taken. Then he spotted Horace Townsend and crept close enough to hear him insisting it was his cargo and quizzing the longshoremen rescuing it.

  Lawrence Alcott joined Townsend, wringing his hands over his daughter’s safety. That was all Barnaby needed to fix on the pair, and when they heard a woman’s scream amid the splashes coming from the burning ship, his pulse jumped and his newswriter’s instincts came alive. Was that his Angel? Was she in trouble? And what the devil was she doing on a burning ship?

  He watched as Alcott commandeered a boat to go out through the fog and smoke to the burning ship. Soon the clanging of a fireboat and the roar of water from hoses masked all other sounds. Was this a rescue mission? Waiting and watching for whatever happened next, he told himself this was the best chapter yet of his Angel saga. He was going to make it a dilly.

  * * *

  Lauren was wet, bedraggled, and chilled to the bone, but her discomfort was balanced by the knowledge that her plan—their plan—seemed to have worked. Seeing officers in the boat, she and Rafe put off sharing the details of their misadventure and focused instead on the riot, the injury Rafe sustained, and her decision to go with him and take care of him. Horace seemed confused, and when he demanded details she closed her eyes and leaned into her father’s arms, while Rafe rubbed his face and complained of fatigue and hunger. When they reached the dock and saw the waiting crowd, she realized they had yet another gauntlet to run.

  Onlookers crowded close, threatening to block the way as her father helped her up the steps. At the front of the spectators she spotted a fellow in a bowler with a pad and pencil in his hands. Something about that hat and the fellow’s diminutive stature seemed familiar.

  While they waited for the carriage to arrive, questions flew at them from every quarter, including from a pair of serious-looking men from Scotland Yard. They had received a report that Lauren and Rafe were being held against their will aboard the ship that was now on fire, and they wanted clarification from the supposed victims themselves.

  Rafe’s stiff posture masked alarm that she might have shared if she hadn’t already thought of an explanation.

  She told them about Rafe’s speech to the workers protesting the tariffs and how he was struck in the riot and rendered unconscious. Several men from the ship Clarion were in the crowd, recognized him, and came to his aid. They carried him to the safety of their ship and she naturally went with them to tend his injuries. There was no time to or means of notifying their families, for which both she and Rafe apologized.

  “Captain Pettigrew was a gracious host,” she told them with an eye on the bowler fellow who was straining to hear what was said and seemed to be taking down every word uttered. “But he blamed Rafe’s injury on the intolerable tariff situation and grew more and more furious. At daylight he was in the main hold inspecting the cargo when his heart seized. He must have dropped his lantern in a pile of loose packing.”

  To her surprise Rafe joined in with, “He managed to make it up to the deck and collapsed there. In their hurry to reach the captain, someone knocked over a lantern in the passage, and suddenly there was fire all around. We barely made it out of the cabin in time.”

  “And the cargo floating in the harbor?” one of the Scotland Yard men demanded. “What about that?”

  “First Officer Juster Morgan feared he would be held responsible for the entire cargo going up in smoke,” Rafe added. “He ordered the men to begin heaving what they could overboard. Men at the docks decided to haul them in.”

  “Now, if you don’t mind”—Lauren’s father pulled her protectively against him—“I must see to my daughter’s health. If you have more questions, you know where to find me.”

  As she was ushered toward the carriage, she heard a voice ask, “How did the Angel get wet? Did she fall from the ship? Or did she jump?”

  She paused to glance back over her shoulder at the little man in the bowler. He’d called her “
the angel.” From his knowing look she realized he was indeed the one who’d started those stories about her.

  “What is it?” Rafe paused, too, and followed her gaze to the man.

  “I think that’s him,” she said, nodding toward the fellow with the bowler and writing pad. “The one writing those pieces about us in the papers.”

  Rafe made a move toward the man, but the little scribbler shrank back into the crowd and was quickly lost from view.

  She sighed silently as she clutched the blanket tighter around her and mounted the carriage steps.

  Now he had one more tale to twist to make her life difficult.

  * * *

  Rafe watched her fall asleep on her father’s shoulder when they were safely in the carriage and felt that stirring in his chest again. This time—shockingly—there was no alarm. She was so damned confusing. Canny and determined one minute and soft-eyed and yielding the next. What lay at the heart of the woman? What did she truly want . . . besides universal literacy and better nutrition for urchins everywhere? He stared at her face, the feathery crescents of lashes against her pale skin. She was exhausted and disheveled and he’d never found her so appealing.

  “What the devil were you on about back there?” His father broke through his thoughts. “Pettigrew is dead and his idiot first mate panicked at the fire and ordered the cargo overboard?”

  “Captain Pettigrew is indeed dead, of a heart attack,” he said. “Juster Morgan took over and decided to force the issue and hold us for ransom. When the ship caught fire I convinced the crew to toss some of the cargo overboard—it seems we got at least a quarter of it, perhaps more, ashore underneath the Customs officers’ noses.”

  Horace appraised his disheveled son. “Damned enterprising. . . taking advantage of the situation to save our goods.” His gaze darted back and forth as he assessed the situation. “You can bet the Customs men will be at the warehouse first thing tomorrow morning.” He grinned. “We’ll have some explaining to do, boy.”

  * * *

  There were tears aplenty from Aunt Amanda when Rafe carried her through her front door, wet and shivering. He had picked her up, despite her father’s protest and his own father’s insistence that she still had two good legs to walk on. Rafe carried her up the stairs, deposited her on her bed, and then stood for a moment looking down at her with an unreadable expression on his face. Aunt Amanda hurried into the bathing room to light the water heater, leaving them alone for a minute. He picked up her hand and gave it a squeeze that sent a shiver through her.

  “We made it.” His voice seemed husky and his gaze lingered.

  “We did.” She smiled. “Did you think we wouldn’t?”

  He gave a chuckle. “I confess I had a doubt or two.” His gaze dropped to their hands and he stroked her skin gently.

  “I didn’t,” she said softly. “I knew you could convince the crew.”

  He paused for a moment. “All I did was give them a reason to do the right thing.”

  “That’s all some people need,” she said softly.

  She caught his gaze, and for a moment her heart skipped several beats. She watched his broad shoulders sway as he released her hand and exited.

  He might not know it, but he was in grave danger of letting his head and heart join forces to make him into something truly wonderful.

  * * *

  As Lauren stepped into a tub of hot water in her bathing room, Aunt Amanda insisted on checking the water temperature and bringing her French toweling, scented soap, and rose oil. Lauren would have been happy to have some time to herself, but her disappearance and homecoming had overwhelmed Amanda. She insisted on staying close and sharing her worry over Lauren’s disappearance.

  “We were beside ourselves,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “Your father nearly wore ruts in the floors with his pacing and I didn’t sleep a wink for two nights, fearing what was happening to you. I was so relieved when that Townsend fellow carried you—” Her voice cracked and she dabbed her eyes again and blew her nose.

  When Amanda recovered she insisted on having the details of Lauren’s abduction and subsequent escape. “Tuts” and gasps aplenty greeted the tale of what had happened to her and Rafe at the harbor. There was no need to hide that she and Rafe had been held prisoner before they secured the cooperation of the crew and hatched a plan to escape and salvage what they could of the cargo. She saw no cause to mention how the fire actually started. When she finished she reached for the toweling and climbed out of the tub.

  Clothed in a warm gown and tucked into bed, Lauren asked about Amanda’s time reading to the children and how they had liked the books she had chosen for them. Amanda was happy to report that the children were wide-eyed, attentive, and thrilled to be given books of their very own.

  “I confess, I rather enjoyed reading to them.” She smiled. “I might be persuaded to join your reading hours at the parish school.” Then her smile faded. “Speaking of reading . . .” She produced a newspaper and read aloud a piece about Lauren in yesterday’s edition of The Examiner.

  The published description of her heroics was accompanied by details of Rafe’s attempt to bring reason to the mob of angry dock workers. The accompanying drawing, however, showed only her angel depiction pleading for peace as the protesters throttled one another around her feet. The writer declared that after she called for restraint, she had disappeared in the violent crowd and hadn’t been seen or heard from since. He concluded the article with a dramatic appeal to Fortune to return their generous Angel to London’s needy streets.

  Aunt Amanda lowered the spectacles on her nose to study Lauren. “Clearly he knew you were missing. How could he have known?”

  Lauren shook her head, then laid back against a bolster. “He must have heard Rafe’s words firsthand because he wrote them exactly.” She sat bolt upright. “He was there this morning.” Her eyes widened. “He’s spying on us, following us.”

  In the silence that followed she sank back against the pillows.

  “Did it really happen the way you said?” Amanda asked quietly.

  “Of course.” She felt a twinge. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Why indeed? When you were held prisoner with Rafe Townsend, day and night, unchaperoned. Heaven knows I’m no prude, but . . .”

  Lauren reddened with annoyance. “All I did was tend him after he was injured.” She burrowed deeper into the covers. “They threw us both into a freezing cold cell, and I insisted on better conditions and that I be allowed to care for him. He slept forever. When he awoke we talked. He actually listened to me.” She saw Amanda’s eyes widen. “Something of a shock, I know. There may be a dormant bit of humanity in him after all.”

  She studied the canopy over her head, but saw in her mind’s eye how he looked and listened and the surprising charm of his laugh.

  “He was convinced his father would never pay the ransom, and we tried to think of ways to raise the money ourselves.”

  It struck her. “Auntie A, what do you know about my inheritance from Mamma?”

  Amanda seemed startled by the question. A blink later she was all benevolence and concern once again.

  “I have no head for money matters, dear. I leave such things to my brother.” She reached out to pat Lauren’s hand as it lay on the coverlet. “He is the one to ask. Now get some rest while I see about dinner. Oh—I meant to tell you.” She turned back. “Lady Drummond called the morning before I brought your books to that Seven Sisters place. She didn’t stay long, but she seemed keen to confirm that you and your intended will be attending their dinner party this Saturday. She said nothing about the story in the papers . . . but then she wouldn’t, being a lady of breeding and sensibility. Will you be up to it?”

  “Saturday is three days away.” Lauren sighed, feeling exhausted. “I suppose I will be recovered in time, but I can’t vouch for Rafe.”

  Amanda gave her a reassuring smile as she opened the door.

  “Strapping fellow that he is, I’m c
ertain he will be fine. I’ll let Lady Anne know we still plan to attend. Don’t fret . . . I doubt the Drummonds live and die by the nonsense in gossip papers.”

  The Drummonds might not, Lauren thought as she lay in the quiet of her bed, but others who attended might. Lady Anne’s visit to make certain she and Rafe would be there could only mean that she wanted their gossip-worthy presence to help make her night a success.

  She groaned, already dreading it.

  * * *

  Amanda found her brother in his study with his head resting against his chair and his eyes closed. He had been beside himself with worry when word came of Lauren’s abduction. Now that she was safe at home, exhaustion had taken over.

  She cleared her throat twice, then said his name.

  He started awake and for a moment seemed disoriented before focusing on her.

  “I hate to disturb you, dear, but there is something you should know. Lauren just asked me about her inheritance from her mother. Apparently this ransom demand made her think of accessing it.”

  Lawrence sat up sharply, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “To speak to you, of course.” She gave him a wry smile as she turned to go. “Everyone knows I have no head for finance.”

  Fourteen

  Flowers—huge bouquets of pink and white—arrived the next morning, just ahead of Caroline Townsend. The upstairs maid appeared at Lauren’s bedroom door carrying a vase of them for her bedroom and a summons from her aunt to come and greet her future mother-in-law.

  Fortunately Lauren had risen early enough to breakfast in her room, dress, and tame her hair into a simple chignon. She paused just outside the grand parlor doors to take a deep breath and then entered to find her aunt and Caroline Townsend chatting amicably.

  “There you are, my dear.” Caroline patted the settee beside her and Lauren felt obliged to accept that invitation. “I was so worried about you. Forgive the intrusion, but I had to see that you’re recovering from your ordeal. I tried to get details from Rafe, but . . . well, you know how men are.”