by Henke, Shirl
“Then why did you wait until now to ask me, Edmund?” she retorted, struggling for patience.
His narrow face twisted as his pale eyes shied away from hers. “I...I know what a burden I've been to you, Coz. I tried to borrow the sum from some chums, but they're down on their luck, too.”
“Then I don't know what I can—”
“Crikey, I have it! You can take the coach and meet his lordship's heir while I cash your signed draft and retrieve my clothes. Then I can meet you at Hambleton House and escort Mr. Cantrell inside. You know ever so much more about dealing with fine gentlemen anyway. You've rubbed elbows with the peerage ever since coming to London.”
“I don't know, Edmund. Meeting the earl's heir—”
“Oh, please say you'll do it. After all, you've had dealings with Americans before and I have not. They're an odd lot, from what I hear.”
“My only dealings were rather indirect. I was hired by Lady Rushcroft to tutor her granddaughter's young friend. I only met the baron quite by chance when she interviewed me for the position, and I must say that he was not in the least odd.”
“There, you see. You'll know just what to do. The driver knows the ship's berth. The gentleman's name is Mr. Joshua Cantrell, soon to be Viscount Wesley,” Edmund said, rooting through scraps of paper he dug from his coat pockets. He handed her the hastily scrawled note with the name and time on it, smiling pleadingly.
“Oh, very well, since there's no way you will be able to arrive in time,” she said crossly, relenting as she always did with her baby cousin.
“You're an absolute trump, Coz! I shall be at Hambleton House by one, 'pon my honor.”
Sighing as Edmund dashed off with her bank draft in hand, Sabrina walked briskly into her bedroom and selected her best hat and cloak. After all, one could not greet a gentleman such as Lord Hambleton's heir unless dressed properly for the occasion.
* * * *
The wharves down the Thames from London Bridge were crowded with people and merchandise from around the globe. One had only to watch the varied parade of solemn Indians, ebony-skinned Africans and deferential Chinese to realize just how far the British Empire stretched. The stench of wharf rot was almost obliterated by fragrant spices from Ceylon blended with the pungent aroma of West Indian molasses. Over all hung the miasma of coal smoke belching forth from the factories and furnaces of British industry.
Sabrina never came to this part of town and was alternately awed and appalled by the contrasts of opulence and poverty that surrounded her. An emaciated beggar girl offering a grimy little fistful of wilted pinks for sale was almost run down by a young buck driving an expensive gig that nearly overturned as the nattily dressed driver swerved to avoid a cart loaded with melons.
Because of this terrible congestion, she was late. But a ship the size of the Galveston Star surely would not disembark passengers before she could locate Mr. Cantrell. According to the scribbled notes her cousin had given her, the gentleman was tall with black hair and green eyes. He would be wearing the Hambleton signet ring and looking for his great-uncle's coach near the foot of the gangplank. The driver assured her he knew the direction.
When they pulled up to the berth, cargo was being unloaded and it looked as if all the passengers had already disembarked. Sabrina bit her lip in vexation. It would serve Edmund right if his lordship dismissed him. She scanned the crowd, searching for a tall, aristocratic gentleman, but the only tall, dark man she saw was well down the wharf, engaged in an altercation with two ugly ruffians over the affections of a perfectly horrid-looking street doxy. He was dressed in some sort of fringed leather coat and the oddest boots with heels nearly as high as her own. That certainly was not Lord Hambleton's heir! Why, he looked positively shabby and dangerous.
“Let the girl go,” Josh repeated as the skinny young prostitute huddled behind him, using a filthy handkerchief to stanch the blood from a blow delivered by her pimp.
“Whot's it to ye, bloody foreign bloke! Mitz is me gel, she is. You got no claim on 'er...lest ye wanna pay,” the heavier of the two men said with a cunning leer that revealed he'd lost two of his front teeth.
Too bad he might soon lose the rest. “You were beating her,” Josh said, realizing he was drawing a crowd, hoping it would include a member or two of the local constabulary. “Where I come from, men don't hit women.”
“Then go back where ye come from,” wheezed the little skinny fellow with the beaked nose. “Mitz's been 'oldin' out on ole Pepper. She's ‘is preacher's daughter.”
Odd slang, but Josh knew that it meant she was a whore. Young. Alone in a big city, frightened and hungry. Just like the girls Gertie had taken in at her place. Ones like his own mother. “You're not taking the girl,” he repeated stubbornly. “I'll pay for her services,” he added, reaching for his money clip, then thinking better of it with so many thieves and pickpockets surrounding him. Where the hell was that much-vaunted English law enforcement?
Before he could decide whether or not it would be wise to draw the Colt Lightning covered by his long jacket, the big beefy fellow with the missing teeth swung at him. His well-chewed ears gave further testimony to his time as a prizefighter—a bad one. Josh easily ducked the roundhouse swing and came in low and fast, landing a left-right combination to the tough's ample gut and face. Yep, more teeth gone. Oh well. He was poised on the balls of his feet, ready to finish the job, but then saw his opponent's greasy little companion pull an ugly blade from inside his filthy coat.
“Damn, now why’d you have to go and do such a fool thing?” Josh said, spinning around and kicking the fellow in his gonads. Beak Nose dropped the knife with a bleat and stumbled back, curled into a ball. Josh turned his attention to the bigger fellow, who moved in again, this time connecting with a clumsy right to his face. Hell, he'd have a beaut of a shiner, he thought as he quickly countered with another series of punches.
The little man Josh had kicked tumbled against an orange seller's cart, overturning it. Then the gap-toothed boxer stomped on a longshoreman's foot when Josh knocked him backwards, and suddenly the altercation erupted into a full-blown riot. Up and down the wharf, men began kicking and punching each other while street boys lifted purses from the unwary. Boxes and barrels smashed and tumbled along the rough planks, thrown by cursing, yelling men.
Mitz, the damsel in distress, vanished into the melee like fog evaporating on the Texas Gulf at sunrise. Her two keepers had been joined by a third fellow of equally unsavory looks, and the three of them closed in on the American with murderous intent.
Sabrina stood surrounded by cursing, shouting men of the lowest social order, utterly horrified that she'd been so foolish as to venture alone from the carriage toward the ship. Somehow when the fighting had begun, the two footmen accompanying her had disappeared. She found herself being jostled by the odoriferous mob as she struggled to make her way to higher ground from which to view the scene in relative safety.
The gangplank. If only she could reach it and climb up to the ship! Surely Mr. Cantrell had remained aboard. How horrified he must be at the disgusting carnage below. Just as she placed her hand on the railing, a large, dirt-encrusted paw seized her wrist and yanked her back.
“Whot 'ave we got ‘ere, eh?” he said in a coarse voice, his breath reeking of rotted teeth and stale cabbage.
“Unhand me, you ill-mannered lout!” Sabrina cried, trying in vain to jerk free. He was too strong for her, pulling her close to his body. As she thrashed and kicked, she could feel the sharp pull of her hat pin against her scalp. Her best Sunday hat tumbled to the rough planks and was quickly trampled, further igniting her fury. She pounded against the brute's chest with tiny gloved fists and used her pointy-toed shoes to good advantage, connecting sharply with one shin. He let her go with a snarled oath.
When she turned to flee, she could feel her hair pulling loose from its pins and flying out behind her like a banner. Her jacket was askew and the top three buttons on her high-collared shirt had been ripp
ed away, revealing a shocking amount of bare skin. The ghastly fellow had even left filthy handprints soiling her pristine dove-gray skirt. How on earth could she face the new viscount looking like this!
Then directly below her, she heard a voice distinctly accented in that peculiar drawl spoken by Americans such as Lord Rushcroft. It was the tall ruffian who had started the whole melee, and he was still on his feet, swinging his fists with savage joy.
“Yeehaw! Haven't had this much fun since my first trail drive back in eighty-four,” Josh yelled as he drove his fist deep into the boxer's gut, doubling him over. If only he could clear a path to the relative safety of the ship from which he'd so recently disembarked, he could watch over the pretty little gal he'd seen standing like a lost kitten on the middle of the gangplank. It would also be a good place from which to hold off his three adversaries.
Then he heard the shrill of police whistles. “ ‘Bout damn well time,” he muttered to himself as he neared the narrow gangplank. The lone female stood midway up it, frozen as she watched him approach.
Must be some higher-class whore, from the cut of her clothes. He liked all that satiny-looking bronze hair spilling over her shoulders, and from his brief glimpse of her body, the curves were in all the right places. “Haul your little butt farther up the plank, out of the way, sweetheart,” he yelled at her, but she didn't move.
Sabrina knew the accent. Unmistakably American. Subtly different from the Kentucky drawl of the baron, but it was Southern—or Western. A Texas drawl! No, it could not possibly be! Then the madman was set upon by the even more disreputable riffraff with whom he had been engaged. He pulled an enormous firearm from inside his strange-looking coat and brandished it as he backed up the gangplank, drawing nearer to her!
She shuddered.
“I wouldn't come any closer even if I was stump stupid like you fellers,” Josh said in his broadest accent, trying to hold them off until the police arrived. But the little one he'd kicked in the nuts seemed to be egging the other two on.
“Whot ye afeard o', Pepper? 'E ain't gonna shoot. There's three o' us, Jake.”
“Lordy, even stupider than a stump. This here's a six-shooter. Want to start countin', you ugly little armadillo?” Josh asked, firing a round directly in front of the toe of Beak Nose's shoe. The trio backed down the narrow gangplank, stumbling over each other in their haste to escape. Josh kept his Colt Lightning trained on them as he climbed higher. Until he collided with something soft and sweet smelling.
The classy little whore with the bronze hair.
By this time police were swarming over the wharf, and the rioters vanished like roaches in a suddenly lit cellar. Still holding his gun in his hand, Josh turned to the girl—no, make that a woman. He judged her to be enough past twenty to know her way around, but the horrified expression on her face did not seem to fit. Well, if her protector had brought her to a rough neighborhood like this, he should have taken better care of her.
“You all right, ma'am?” he asked, reaching out to steady her.
She jerked away. “Will you please dispose of that...that firearm before you actually shoot someone,” she demanded imperiously.
Josh grinned. “You're pretty as a paint pony on a sunny day, and that's no lie.”
Sabrina only glared at the offending weapon, still more shaken than she cared to admit.
Before he could holster it, two police officers came rushing up the gangplank and seized hold of his arms. “Just give over the gun, lad,” one said calmly while his companion held his nightstick at the ready.
“Josh Cantrell, at your service, officers. What in blue blazes took you so long?” He handed his Colt to the one who had spoken. “It seems like we had a little misunderstanding here.”
“Looks to be a bit more than that, mate. Half the cargo on the pier's been smashed or looted, and you're the only fellow here.”
“And the only one carrying a gun,” his fellow officer added helpfully. “You're a Yank, right, lad? Me and Reggie here is going to give you a London tour. We'll start at the Thames Police Office. Lovely place, it is. Come along now.”
As Josh argued with the two policemen, they escorted him down to the wharf. Sabrina backed away, unnoticed. Dear heavens, what was she to do now? They were arresting Hambleton's heir, and she and Edmund would be blamed for it, even though it was the dreadful fellow's own fault. The boorish oaf had started a riot, and she'd nearly been...well, it didn't bear considering what might have happened to her.
Sighing, she realized there was only one thing to do. She'd have to go to the police station and explain who Mr. Cantrell was to the authorities. And pray they'd believe her!
Chapter Two
Josh sat in the rear of the crowded stone dungeon that served as a large holding area for those recently arrested. It was immense and as cold as those ice caves he'd visited in the New Mexico mountains years ago. But where the Guadalupes were isolated and beautiful, this place was overflowing with men from the gutters of humanity. In all his years, even in the hellish jungles of Cuba, he'd never seen such privation. And this the richest nation on earth! he scoffed.
Old men with rheumy eyes sat silently in corners, staring at nothing. Boys covered with filthy running sores tried to steal crusts of bread from those too old or infirm to catch them. Scarred bullies knocked smaller men out of their way as they appropriated the most comfortable benches along the wall nearest the small, barred windows. Bad as the air outside was, it had smelled pristine compared to the rot and mold of this hellhole.
One bully boy with a glass eye and matted shoulder-length hair shambled toward Josh, obviously intending to deprive him of his seat. The Texan stared the man in his good eye and drew back his lips in a cold grin. “It'd be a shame to lose a second eye,” he said conversationally.
The big fellow decided to remain standing.
Josh turned his thoughts to the colonel and wondered if his old commander would ever learn of his fate if the British justice system let him die in here. If he did, he vowed to come back and haunt the Republican Party for the next hundred years. Would his great-uncle, whatever his name was, even bother to inquire why he failed to appear? From what TR had said, the old goat had gone to considerable trouble tracking him down. Unless, of course, he found out it had all been a mistake, the real heir turned up and the earl promptly dismissed Cantrell from his thoughts. A right unsettling proposition all the way around, Josh thought ruefully.
Damn all Republicans and Englishmen to perdition!
But the immediate cause of this debacle, like most of the woes in his life, wore a skirt. First the poor beaten little whore on the dock, then that fancy piece on the gangplank. Mitz he'd felt obliged to help because she reminded him of girls he'd known during his childhood. But the second female...well, she was another kettle of fish altogether. He'd seen that big brute grab her and watched her struggling as he fought his way across the wharf to her rescue.
What a marvelous little handful she was, swatting and clawing like a Texas wildcat! If he ever got out of here, he'd love to look her up and see if all that shiny hair felt as silky as it looked. He had gotten close enough to know she smelled sweeter than a spring prairie.
Suddenly his pleasant reverie was interrupted when a loud screech of rusted metal followed by a resounding clang indicated that the guards had opened the gate. He could hear them ordering the prisoners to stand back. He stood up. Being one of the tallest in the crowd, he looked across the room, wondering what would happen next.
Then the guard who'd stepped inside called out in a loud voice, “Mr. Joshua Cantrell!”
“Well, I'll be double sheep dipped,” he muttered, not sparing a moment as he elbowed his way to the front of the crowd. “I'm Josh Cantrell.”
The guard looked at his bruised face and swollen eye, the torn, filthy remnants of his buckskin jacket and denims. “Yes, I do believe you must be. Follow me, sir.”
Once he was up the flight of hollowed-out stone stairs and inside the office
of the muckety-muck in charge, Josh breathed a sigh of relief. If he'd made it this far, could freedom be completely out of reach? He studied the elderly man seated behind a battered desk piled high with papers collecting dust. “Here's the American, sir,” the guard said with a cursory salute.
The portly fellow behind the desk rose and crossed his cluttered domain, smiling unctuously as he bowed before Josh. “I'm sorry about the misunderstanding at the wharf, your lordship, that I am. The earl's agent has just arrived to verify the report we received earlier. Of course, we couldn't credit it until we checked it. Please understand. It is...er, rather unusual to discharge firearms into a crowd on the wharf at noontime. And, considering the disturbance the police were attempting to put down, well...”
“As long as I'm free to go, I'd be happy just to mosey out of here, if that's all right,” Josh said with relief when the man in charge nodded, that false, overly hearty smile still pasted in place. Then, touching his right side, which felt unbalanced, Josh added, “Oh, as to that firearm—it's a pearl-handled Colt Lightning, and I'd like to have it back. Sentimental value.”
The old man appeared taken aback for an instant. “A gun? Sentimental value?”
“It saved my life in Texas and Cuba...and here in old London town, too.”
Within minutes, his belongings were returned to him, including his money clip, which amazingly still held all but fifty dollars of what it originally contained. He waited while a guard was dispatched to collect his Colt and gun belt from wherever they'd locked them up. The fellow handed the weapon to him gingerly—didn't these bobby chaps even know how to shoot a gun? None of them seemed to carry them, which struck Josh as more than a little peculiar, considering how rough his introduction to the city had been.
Grinning, he thanked the police officer, buckled the gun belt around his hips and started to make his way out the door, where he'd been told the earl's carriage was awaiting him. He had ambled about half the distance when the clear, cultured tones of a woman's voice caught his attention. At once he knew it was her.