by Syrie James
Alexandra’s feet were beginning to hurt, and she was growing tired. She was more alarmed, however, by the darkening clouds and increasing chill in the air. Shivering, she noticed a chimney sweep leaning against a wall and approached him. “Is Brown’s Hotel nearby?”
“Brown’s Hotel?” The sweep scratched his head beneath his cap. “Well now, miss, if you’re headed for Brown’s Hotel, you’d best take a cab. It’s a good three or four mile from here, and looks like rain any minute.”
Alexandra’s spirits fell. Three or four miles! Clearly, she’d wandered very far out of her way. “I have to walk,” she replied with resignation. “Can you please point me in the right direction?”
He barked out a few instructions, then indicated an alley just up the street. “You can cut through that lane beyond the Horse ’n’ Hound; it’ll save you ten minutes.”
Alexandra thanked him, and they moved off in opposite directions.
She turned into the narrow, refuse-strewn alley, and was halfway down it when a big man in a rough coat and cap emerged from a doorway and stopped directly in front of her.
“Well, well, well, what’s the hurry, lassie?” he called out in a thickly accented voice which was slurred from drink.
A foul stench emanated from his body. Alexandra wrinkled her nose, more irritated than afraid of this unexpected disturbance. “I’ve already been robbed once this morning,” she declared flatly as she attempted to dodge around the man. “I have nothing left to give you.”
He grabbed her forcefully by the arm, grinding her to a halt. “I wouldn’t say nothing, lassie.” With beady eyes, he studied her slowly from head to toe, then back up again, giving her a leer that exposed a mouthful of rotten teeth.
Alexandra’s pulse now quickened with apprehension. “Please, let me go.”
“Not until you gives us a kiss.” He pressed his free hand to her back and yanked her against his chest.
“Don’t!” Panic surged through her as she turned her face away, struggling to break free.
The man persisted, pressing fleshy lips against her neck. He reeked so strongly that Alexandra felt bile rise in her throat. Her arms were trapped, so she kicked at him, landing a good one against his shin. He roared in pain and fury. Still gripping her upper arm, he raised his other hand as if to slap her, when all at once the skies opened up and unleashed a sudden, cold, and very heavy rain.
Her attacker started in surprise, the unexpected downpour causing him to loosen his grip. Alexandra took advantage of the reprieve to free herself and fled back down the alley. The pelting rain came so fast and furious that, in seconds, she was wet through.
At the lane’s end, Alexandra burst onto the sidewalk—and plowed directly into someone. She heard the sound of breaking glass, glimpsed a man’s startled face. Spinning in a half circle, she staggered backward into the street.
What occurred next came all in a whirl: the clatter of hooves. A horse’s whinny. The sight of a vehicle bearing down on her. The world tilting as she dodged sideways. A sharp pain in her head.
And then she knew no more.
“Bloody hell!”
Thomas Carlyle stared at his recent purchase, now smashed to bits on the sidewalk, the victim of a collision with a woman who’d raced out of the alley.
As he stood there, pelted by freezing rain, he saw the woman careen into the street, directly into the path of an oncoming vehicle. He gasped in horror as the woman stumbled and fell to the ground, where she lay unmoving as the horse and carriage thundered past, narrowly missing her.
Was she dead? He hoped not—the carriage didn’t appear to have touched her. A few people hurried by, huddled beneath their cloaks and umbrellas, paying no attention to the prone figure lying in the muck and mud.
He ought to do the same.
This is not your affair, an inner voice warned. He was cold and wet. He had work to do. He shouldn’t get involved. But another, stronger voice insisted, This is partly your fault. If she—whoever she was—had not run smack into him, she might not have stumbled backward into the road.
Thomas spied a carriage rapidly headed in the young woman’s direction. She could be crushed in the next instant. With no time for further deliberation, he darted into the street and scooped her up. Once he regained the safety of the curb, he stared down at the limp form in his arms, rain dotting his spectacles as he noted several things in rapid succession:
She was young and slender with long limbs and a pale complexion. Her black dress and worn boots marked her as a member of the working class. The bodice of that dress pulled tight across an ample bosom—a sight mere inches from his eyes, and from which he had difficulty averting his gaze.
Those breasts, he saw now, were moving gently up and down. Thank heavens. She was breathing. She was alive. But what on earth had happened to cause her to run full tilt like that out of the alley, without looking where she was going?
Thomas peered down the alley from which she’d emerged. No one was there. He glanced back at the street to determine if she had dropped a handbag or any other item which might help identify her, but he saw nothing other than the sodden, trampled remains of a straw hat.
The rain was coming down in buckets, rapidly washing away the street muck that had clung to the young woman’s hair and clothes. What was he supposed to do now? He considered dropping her off at the Horse and Hound, in the hope that someone would take pity on her. But no, that wouldn’t be gentlemanly. Besides, she might need medical attention. He had no idea, though, if there was a doctor’s surgery in the neighborhood.
He couldn’t just stand there holding her in the pouring rain. He lived a block away. It seemed best to bring her there and let Mrs. Gill take over.
When he arrived at the redbrick town house, unable to reach the key in his pocket, Thomas gave the dark green door a few solid kicks. “Mrs. Gill! A little help, please!”
A moment later the door was flung open. His Irish landlady, her graying hair half-hidden beneath a white cap, was all astonishment. “Mr. Carlyle! What on earth?”
“This young woman fell in the street,” Thomas explained as he brushed past Mrs. Gill into the compact foyer. “She was nearly run over by a carriage and appears to be unconscious. Pray, allow me to bring her into your parlor.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Gill cried, skirts rustling as she bustled after him. “The poor thing! Who is she?”
“I have no idea. Forgive me,” Thomas added as they entered the small, overstuffed room, where a fire was blazing in the hearth. “We are both drenched through and dripping all over your carpets.”
“Just you stand by the fire and wait, Mr. Carlyle. I’ll fetch towels and blankets before you set her down.” Mrs. Gill disappeared into the back room.
Thomas moved to the hearth, grateful for its flickering warmth as he made a more comprehensive study of the woman in his arms. She looked to be in her early twenties, a few years younger than himself. She was pretty, her oval face and delicate features reminiscent of Romney’s early paintings of Emma Hart. Her hair, too wet to determine its true shade, had come loose and hung in waves to her waist.
He guessed her to be a shopgirl or seamstress, or perhaps a servant on her day off. As he gazed down at the lovely yet helpless form he was holding against his body, Thomas felt an unexpected spark of interest and compassion. He hoped she was going to be all right.
“Here we are.” Mrs. Gill returned, her arms full of cottony fabric. She draped several towels over the sofa, and Thomas laid the insensible young woman down.
She was starting to shiver now, and so was he. Mrs. Gill removed the girl’s gloves and dabbed at her with a towel, then tucked a blanket over her, while Thomas dried off his own face and hair and wiped his spectacles clean.
“You’d best take off that wet coat, Mr. Carlyle,” Mrs. Gill advised, “lest you catch a chill.”
He obliged, shrugging out of the sodden garment, which she took and hung over the fire screen. “Now what? Shall I fetch a doctor?”
“Let’s give her a minute. She’s young and healthy-looking, no doubt she’ll wake up soon enough. A doctor would cost a pretty penny, which you and I can ill afford.”
Thomas flinched at this assessment. He had never told Mrs. Gill—nor any of his clients in town, for that matter—who he really was. If anyone knew, he would be treated differently; he certainly wouldn’t be able to stay here any longer, or to continue his work. But what she’d said was true. His finances were in a bad way. Ever since he was a child and aware of such things, he’d had the vague impression that money, for his family, was a problem. Now that he was twenty-eight years old and faced with all the sordid facts, his sense of mortification over the situation was acute.
A soft moan issued from the direction of the sofa, interrupting his thoughts. Glancing over, he saw that the young woman was moving restlessly beneath the blanket—hopefully, a sign that she would soon wake up.
An Excerpt from Summer of Scandal
Keep reading for a look at
Summer of Scandal,
book 2 in the Dare to Defy series!
Chapter One
Bolton, Cornwall, England
June 21, 1889
The brisk wind bit Madeleine Atherton’s cheeks as she stepped down from the train. Cornwall might be known for its temperate climate, but it felt more like November than June. At least the rain had stopped—for the moment.
The rural station at Bolton was much smaller than Madeleine had remembered. Just a redbrick building that resembled a cottage, with a single wooden bench facing the tracks. The platform was empty. Beyond the station stretched a single street lined with small houses and shops. Beyond that, wide green meadows were bisected by a narrow road as far as the eye could see. There was no sign of an approaching carriage.
Where was Alexandra?
Madeleine had spent the entire seven-hour train ride from London thinking about this moment, how wonderful it would be to see her sister again, and how happy Alexandra would be that Madeleine had dared to come. But no one was here to meet her.
Madeline pulled her velvet cloak more closely about her, worried. She had sent a wire yesterday to inform her sister of her plans. I’m stealing away, she had written, just like you did last year. Well, stealing wasn’t exactly the right word. She had simply left a note, packed a trunk, donned her best green traveling suit, and slipped out of Brown’s Hotel early that morning while her mother was sleeping.
As the second of three daughters of one of the richest men in the United States, Madeleine understood that she was expected to make an exceptional match. The quest for a titled husband might be her mother’s ambition, to further the family’s standing in New York society, but Madeleine had agreed to give it a try. It had worked out so well for her sister, after all. Alexandra had fallen madly in love with Thomas Carlyle, the seventh Earl of Longford, and was now happily married and a countess.
Madeleine wasn’t actually opposed to the man her mother was urging her to marry. In fact, she rather liked him. The problem was, unlike most of the girls unleashed on the London Season, Madeleine wasn’t a wide-eyed, immature debutante. She was twenty-four years old. She was a college graduate. This was her second Season in London, taking into account last year’s half Season, when she’d hastily crossed the Atlantic to take part after Alexandra’s impromptu exit.
And Madeleine had specific goals in mind.
Like her sister, Madeleine wanted love to figure into the equation in any match she made. And not just any love. Madeleine wanted a man who adored and respected her, but who also understood her and would be supportive of her dreams.
Was Lord Oakley that man? She wasn’t certain.
Her abrupt departure from town would no doubt enrage her mother, but Madeleine desperately needed a few weeks away to clear her head. She had a life-altering decision to make. And she needed her sister’s advice.
“Is this everything, then?” The query from a mustachioed porter broke into her thoughts. He and another man had deposited Madeleine’s trunk and two bags onto the platform.
“Yes, thank you so much.” Madeleine tipped both men, who touched their caps in thanks.
She was trying to decide what to do when she caught sight of an approaching carriage on the horizon. Thank goodness. Alexandra was coming at last!
Just then, from another car farther along the train, a tall, well-dressed gentleman descended, carrying a leather satchel. Madeleine’s breath caught in her throat.
It was Charles Grayson, the Earl of Saunders. The best friend of her sister’s husband.
A man she had no desire to see, much less speak to.
But he had already spotted her. His eyes widened in surprise as he closed the distance between them, then greeted her with a bow. “Miss Atherton!”
Madeleine gave him a terse smile and a dutiful curtsy. “Lord Saunders.”
“I had no idea you were on this train.” His voice was just as deep as she’d remembered, just as cultured and refined. He regarded her with calm detachment and a hint of something like curiosity, as if unsure where he stood with her or what to make of her. “I spotted you last month at the Fitzhughs’ ball,” he added, “and another time at the races. But each time I sought you out, you seemed to disappear.”
“Did I? I’m sorry,” Madeleine replied noncommittally. There was a good reason he hadn’t connected with her on either of those occasions. She’d gone out of her way to avoid him.
Looking around, he asked, “Did you travel alone?”
“Yes.” She knew it wasn’t the “done thing” for a woman to travel by train unaccompanied, but she’d had little choice in the matter. She and her mother were sharing the same lady’s maid while in England, and Madeleine couldn’t very well have robbed her mother of her only servant. She silently dared Lord Saunders to reprove her. But he only said:
“So did I. My man Evans came up yesterday with most of my things. But why have you left the Season? I pray you are in good health?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
A cloud of steam emanated from beneath the great locomotive, and the smokestack belched a dark, filthy blast.
“I hope you are not here to see your sister?” he further prodded.
His expression and tone sparked another dash of worry within her. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I received a wire from Longford yesterday morning. He and his wife and sisters are away at Bath.”
“Oh!” Madeleine’s spirits sank. “Then Alexandra never received my telegram.” What a fool she’d been to leave London on such short notice, without waiting for a reply! But it had never occurred to her that her sister wouldn’t be home. Alexandra was seven months pregnant, and had said she intended to remain at home until her child was born.
A new thought worried her. “People go to Bath for their health, don’t they? Do you know if my sister’s all right?”
“I haven’t heard otherwise. Bath is also a popular holiday destination.”
Madeleine wished she felt more reassured. The train whistle blew, a bell clanged, and the huge wheels began to turn. With a rhythmic chug-chug-chug, the locomotive moved out of the station. Leaving Madeleine alone on the platform with Lord Saunders.
“Do you know how long my sister and Lord Longford intend to be away?” she asked.
“A fortnight, I believe.”
Two weeks! Madeleine’s mind worked on the problem. If she could learn where Alexandra was staying in Bath and contact her, maybe her sister would return earlier. Assuming—praying—that she was all right. If not, Madeleine would go to Bath. In the meantime, she could wait at the Longfords’ estate, Polperran House. The carriage she’d noticed earlier was making its approach.
“Well,” Madeleine observed, “it looks as though the staff at Polperran House opened my telegram, and have sent a coach for me.”
“I am afraid that is my coach, Miss Atherton,” Saunders pointed out.
Indeed, as the coach—a smart equipage, painted red a
nd black, with large glass windows—drew up, Madeleine recognized the Trevelyan coat of arms and the coronet of a British marquess emblazoned on the side.
“I see.”
“Please, do not distress yourself.” Saunders’s smile was polite. “It would be my honor to escort you to Trevelyan Manor. You will be most welcome to stay there until Longford and his family return from Bath.”
“Thank you, but no,” Madeleine replied quickly. She had no desire to spend time with this man, nor to stay at his family’s estate. “I would not wish to impose.”
“It would be no imposition, I assure you.”
“I appreciate the offer, my lord. But I would rather find a way to get myself to Polperran House and remain there, while I send word to my sister.”
He nodded. “In that case, pray allow me to offer you a ride thither.”
Madeleine considered. It was a two-hour drive from Bolton Station to Polperran House. She could try to find a cab, but she knew it would not greatly inconvenience Lord Saunders to do her this favor. Although she’d never been to Trevelyan Manor, Alexandra had told her that it was situated near the coast some five miles beyond Polperran House, which was more or less on the way.
Still. Did she want to be cooped up in a carriage with this man for such a long period of time? It was bad enough that she’d traveled unaccompanied all the way from London. But to ride in a closed carriage with a man to whom she wasn’t related or engaged? An Atherton girl, her mother would insist, did not behave that way.
Noticing her hesitation, Saunders added: “There are no more trains today. Your only alternative is to take shelter at the Inn at Bolton—and I would not wish my worst enemy to stay at that establishment, nor even have a meal there. Unless you are absolutely famished?”