“Godamercy!” A high-pitched scream filled the air, drowning out every other market noise. It sounded like the voice of a tormented soul who was being torn asunder. Allegra dropped the dog and began to run in the direction of the Beastmarket, whence had come the scream. She shuddered as the cry was repeated again and again. She elbowed her way through the milling crowd and stared in horror.
If there was a God of retribution, he had surely taken his revenge. One of the dog-tormenting farmboys lay on the ground, beneath the paws of the great brown bear. His face and chest were slashed and bloody; one side of his lip was torn and hanging slack. Each time he tried to wriggle out from under the bear, the savage creature would roar and swipe at him with a razor-sharp claw, bringing forth another cry of agony.
Only one link of the chain still remained attached to the ring in the bear’s nose; from the handful of spent fireworks that lay nearby, Allegra could imagine what had happened. The sparks and the sharp noise had clearly enraged the bear, who had snapped his chain and turned on his tormentor.
The bear’s owner stood above him, clutching his broken stick and chain. He shouted curses at the animal, and beat him with the stick. It was a futile effort. The bear merely shook him off and returned his attention to his prey. He bent his massive head and began to gnaw on the boy’s shoulder.
The boy screamed piteously. “Oh, masters! Help me! Have mercy. Oh, sweet Jesus!”
In response to the boy’s plea, there was the stir and rumble of horrified conversation among the onlookers, and a chorus of sympathetic groans. Several merchants turned about and tried to urge their neighbors to action. But nobody moved to help.
“For the love of God, someone fetch a net or some ropes!” Grey Ridley’s angry voice rose above the crowd. He pushed his way through the cringing spectators, threw down his cocked hat, and strode to the bear and his trainer. Snatching the staff from the man’s hand, he put it around the bear’s neck and tugged on it with all his strength.
With a ferocious growl, the bear rose to its full height, nearly lifting Ridley off the ground. He wrestled valiantly with the beast, trying to keep behind the animal and evade those sharp teeth, the vicious buffets of the paws that swung at the stout staff and his vulnerable arms.
Allegra held her breath. At times it seemed like such an uneven contest that Ridley would surely fail. But still he clung tenaciously to the creature, the muscles in his neck bulging with the strain of his superhuman effort.
At last—and to Allegra’s relief—men came running with ropes and a large net. In a few minutes, the bear was subdued and contained. Gasping to catch his breath, Ridley shook off the thanks of the crowd and urged them to see to the boy, who was now moaning in an extremity of pain. He retrieved his hat and limped away, still breathing hard from his struggles.
Allegra followed him down the High Street. She was sure he hadn’t seen her in the throng, but she wanted him to know how much she had admired his bravery. How moved she had been by his nobility and strength of purpose. She hurried up beside him, then hesitated. She felt timid and awkward at the last moment. “Milord…” she began, tugging at the cuff of his coat.
He stopped and looked at her. He seemed almost sober, which heartened her. “What? Is it the fair Allegra?” he said in a teasing voice. “And frowning on such a fine day?”
“I…I saw what happened. You might have been killed.”
“Would you miss me? More to the point, would you miss my kisses?” His sensuous mouth twisted in a mocking, lecherous smile.
“Milord…I…” She bit her lip in dismay. She had wanted to be kind, and he was turning her solicitude into a cruel joke. She curtsied, meaning to leave him. “By your leave, milord. Find another to torment.”
He stopped her with a gentle hand on her sleeve. His eyes were unexpectedly warm, searching her face as though he hoped to read her heart. “No. Don’t go. I should thank you for your concern, not vex you.” He sighed. “Upon my oath, I think that if I were to die tomorrow, you would be the only soul who would come and put flowers on my grave.” His hand slipped from her sleeve to caress the bare flesh of her forearm, then to take her fingers in his.
She trembled and looked away from his glowing-amber gaze, dropping her eyes to the hand that rested on hers. She gasped aloud. “By all the saints, you’re hurt, milord!” Blood was seeping from beneath the ruffled cuff of his shirt.
He pulled his hand away and hid it behind his back, like a little boy embarrassed to be caught fighting. “’Tis of no consequence.”
She scowled and snatched at his other arm. “And this one, as well! How can you be so foolish? Come and let me tend you.”
“I haven’t heard such a stern voice since my last nursemaid,” he said with a slow smile that lit up his face. “Will you scold me if I refuse?”
“As your servant, I haven’t the right, milord,” she said with dignity.
He chuckled. “But, as my saucy stillroom maid, who never flinches from insolence…” He laughed again, a lovely sound, friendly and enveloping.
She melted and returned his laughter with a smile. He was sober, praise be to God, the day was beautiful, and he had done a good and brave deed. “As your stillroom maid, who must devise cures if the infection sets in,” she corrected him, “I give myself leave to insist. Come and let me tend your wounds.”
“Fair enough.” He nodded and allowed her to lead him to the High Cross, which was now almost deserted, the crowd having rushed to see the drama at the Beastmarket. While Ridley took off his coat and seated himself on the steps, Allegra moved to the fountain opposite.
She removed the large linen square that modestly covered her bosom and tore it in half, tucking one piece into her pocket and moistening the other in the crystal waters of the fountain. “Now,” she said, as she returned to the Cross, “let me see the damage.”
She sat on the step above him and placed his arms on her lap. His shirtsleeves were rent with several long gashes, as though someone had taken a knife to them, and their snowy whiteness was stained with drops of blood. Gently she unbuttoned his ruffled cuffs and tucked them back to his elbows. She was relieved to see that the scratches from the bear’s claws, though numerous, were not very deep. She sponged away the blood with her wet cloth, working as carefully as though she herself felt the sting of each cut. “I’ll bind them to keep them clean,” she said, “and mix up a healing salve when I return to the Hall.”
She finished her task, then examined his arms once more to be sure that she had found every scratch. His right forearm bore a deep scar that ran from elbow to wrist—a thick ridge upon which the dark, curly hairs no longer grew. It looked as though it had been a cruel and painful wound. “Where did you get this?” she asked in sympathy.
He shrugged. “Fighting against the Old Pretender in Scotland.”
“You were a soldier?” Lady Dorothy had told her so, but somehow she had never connected Ridley to the reality of an actual battle.
“Does that surprise you?”
Everything about him surprised and bewildered her, she realized with a start. But how could she begin to ask him about the contradictions she saw in him? She busied herself with her work, at a loss to think of what more to say. She tore the rest of her neckerchief into strips and wrapped them around his forearms, pulled down his sleeves and carefully refastened them. For the first time since she had begun her work, she allowed herself to look him full in the face.
He was watching her with an intensity that made her shiver. Head down, eyes glowing beneath his dark, shaggy brows. She was suddenly aware that her bodice—stripped of its covering handkerchief—exposed far more of her swelling breasts than she would have wished. Had he been staring at her all this time? She blushed furiously.
Godamercy, she thought a moment later. She was behaving like a goose today. In another minute, he might think that she actually gave a fig whether or not he looked at her! He was already beginning to smirk. Best for her to say something—anything!—before he
turned her blush to his advantage. She cleared her throat and willed her foolish cheeks to cool.
“That was very courageous of you, milord,” she said. “To wrestle with such a savage animal.” It seemed sensible to turn the focus back to him. A little genuine praise to soften his sharp wit. She had no wish to be humiliated for her weakness. “I’m sure that everyone at the Hall will be pleased to learn of your bravery.”
If she was hoping for a simple acknowledgment of her words, she was disappointed. The smirk deepened, the devil peeped out from his golden eyes. “What? Compliments for a monster?”
“No…milord, I…” she stammered.
“Don’t deny it. You have called me monster. And upon more than one occasion. I do remember what happens, even when I’m drunk.” He chuckled, a surprisingly unpleasant sound from deep in his throat. “And now you praise the monster? What do you hope to gain? A month from your bond contract? Two, perhaps? For such a piddling compliment?”
She felt helpless and defeated once more. “By your leave, milord,” she said with a sigh, “I have purchases at the apothecary.” She started to rise, but he clasped her hands and pulled her down beside him.
“No. Wait. Stay with me for a little.” He scanned her face with eyes grown suddenly serious, then looked away. “God help me,” he muttered, “sometimes I don’t know why I say the things I do. Stay, I beg you.”
How could she refuse when she heard the pain in his voice, felt the warmth of his hands, the throbbing of his fingers in hers? “As you wish, milord.”
“No. Not milord. Call me Grey. Just once. Let me hear you say my name. As though we were equals, friends. Lovers.”
“Oh, I cannot, milord,” she said, startled by such an intimate request.
“Please. Grey. ’Tis not so difficult.” He leaned toward her; she could feel the silken caress of his breath on her cheek.
She was blushing again, frightened and stirred by his sudden and unexpected tenderness. “Grey,” she whispered at last.
He smiled into her eyes. A smile of warmth and gratitude. And something else? She dared not guess at what she saw in those liquid depths.
Gently he pushed back her straw hat and smoothed a stray curl at her temple. “Do you know how beautiful you are?” he said. “There is healing in your face as well as your hands. It soothes my soul just to look upon you. Your nightly visits to my rooms—I wonder if it’s the cordial or that lovely face I so anticipate. Do you know how much I watch you while I’m enjoying your concoctions?”
Her face was now on fire. She had known he watched her, of course. But she had always thought that the intensity of his gaze held nothing more than lust. She was moved and touched that he would admit to something deeper in his need of her. She remembered his kindness in the almshouse, his secret charities, and her eyes filled with tears of frustration at his willful self-destruction.
“Why must you drink so, milord?” she burst out. “You’re a good man, I think. ’Tis only the drink that makes you cruel. If you would put aside your gin, I would stand before you all day, still as a statue, to bring you peace.” Helpless to stop them, she felt the burning tears fall from her eyes.
He stared at her, awestruck. “Tears? For me?” He brushed her cheek with the pad of his thumb and rubbed the moisture between his fingers, as though he were a miser who doubted the worth of his gold. He shook his head in amazement. “There’s an ancient Irish tale about a maiden who wept on the eyes of a blind man and restored his sight. Are your tears magical? Will they restore me? Will they be my salvation?”
Her voice shook with grief and pity. “If it would ease your pain, milord, I would weep an ocean of tears.”
“Oh, God,” he said with a groan, casting his eyes to the cross above him. “Is there hope for me yet, do you think?”
“Oh, milord. Don’t give yourself to despair. Take my tears to heal your soul.” She ached with the desire to hold him in her arms and comfort him against the unknown sorrows he bore.
He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a burning kiss into her palm. “Sweet, generous Allegra. I have my horse. Come with me. Weep your tears against my breast. If God forgives me, you may yet be my cure.”
She pulled her hands from his and stood up, blotting at the tears on her face. She felt the first stirrings of unease. “Come with you?”
He stretched out his arms to her. “Come with me. Lie with me. We’ll find a meadow of sweet clover on the Edge. Come.”
She frowned and backed away from him down the steps. He was clever and he wanted her. Was this just another of his attempts at seduction—to play the tormented soul and win her sympathy? His pain had truly seemed genuine. But what did she know of the ways of clever rakes? Of men who would try anything to satisfy their hungers?
She hesitated, torn by the longing to give in, to taste again his sweet, hot kisses. She yearned to believe the words he spoke—to think that she, above all women, could restore his wounded heart. But perhaps she was only a fool and a dupe.
She gasped in sudden shock. She felt a strong hand grab her around the waist, and another snake over her shoulder to plunge into the bodice of her gown and clutch at her breast. As Ridley jumped to his feet in alarm, Allegra was pulled against a hard, masculine body. She breathed the sickly scent of heavy perfume, and heard a rasping voice behind her ear.
“Now, you insolent chit,” said the voice, “I intend to take my pleasure of you.”
Chapter Nine
Allegra recognized the voice of Sir William Batterbee, the jack-a-dandy from the Beastmarket. The ruttish pig! She tugged at his hand, striving in vain to pull it from her bodice.
Grey Ridley bounded down the steps, his eyes as cold and hard as stone. “If you value your life, you will release my servant at once, sir,” he said through clenched teeth. He stood tall and threatening, a match for any man.
With a languid movement, as though it signified little to him, Batterbee removed his hand from Allegra’s breast. But his voice, when he spoke, was filled with false bravado; he was clearly intimidated by Ridley’s tone and bearing. “And who might you be, sir?” he drawled.
“The man who will batter you to a pulp if you don’t remove your other hand from the girl’s person. Forthwith.”
Batterbee laughed nervously, relinquished his hold on Allegra, and gave Ridley an apologetic little bow. “A jest, you understand, sir. I meant merely to frighten the girl. She was insolent to me.”
Ridley curled his lip in disdain. “Insolent? My servants are never insolent. I have no doubt you provoked her. Give her a guinea for her pains.”
Batterbee’s jaw dropped. “By God, sir, I will not.”
“By God, sirrah, you will!” Ridley strode forward and clutched at Batterbee’s lace cravat with his two fists, lifting the man bodily off the ground. Batterbee squeaked in alarm. “You mangy cur,” growled Ridley. “I’ll not have my servants pawed by the likes of you.”
“’Odds fish, Billy boy. Will you get yourself into mischief the minute we turn our backs?”
Allegra whirled to see Batterbee’s companion, hands on hips, grinning at his friend’s predicament. Sir Henry Crompton, his large bulk swathed in velvet, came puffing up beside him. He mopped his red face with a lace handkerchief and scowled. “Ridley? Begad, is that you? What the devil are you doing to my cousin Batterbee?”
“Teaching him manners.” With reluctance, Ridley lowered the other man to the ground. “But, since he’s your cousin, I give him over to your care and instruction.”
Safely on terra firma, Batterbee found his courage again. “Who do you think you are, to insult the person of Sir William Batterbee of London?”
Ridley gave him a mocking bow, making obsequious circles in the air with his hand as he bent low. “Greyston, sixth Viscount Ridley. Of Calcutta, London, and Shropshire. Your servant, sir.”
Batterbee sputtered in outrage. “’Tis no wonder your servants have learned to be insolent, sir!” He took an angry step toward Ridley.
&n
bsp; Crompton put a hand on his cousin’s arm. “Come, come, Billy. This is my neighbor. We must live in peace, side by side, long after you’ve returned to London.” He held out his arms to the three men—an expansive gesture. “Gentlemen. Can we not find a tavern and share a good claret together? A joint of mutton?”
Ridley shook his head. “Not until we’ve concluded our business. There’s the matter of a guinea, which your cousin owes to my maidservant here.”
For the first time, Crompton peered closely at Allegra. “Damme, but I know that wench.” He smiled a hungry smile, his small, dark eyes appraising her thoroughly; then he smacked his lips. “She’s a damn sight better looking today than when first we met. You must keep her content, Ridley.” He turned to his friends and grinned. “He paid me for the jade. A hundred pounds.”
Allegra cringed at his words. He made her sound like a whore.
Ridley was clearly aware of her distress. He turned to her and gave her a crisp nod. Master to servant. “I dismiss you, girl. See that you stop at the apothecary on the way back to the Hall. I’ll need that salve.” He turned to the other men. “A most excellent stillroom maid, Sir Henry. I thank you for the opportunity to bring her into my service.”
Batterbee snickered. “But…a hundred quid! What else does she do, to give you your money’s worth, Lord Ridley?”
“Now, God damn you, you mongrel!” Ridley leapt for Sir William and drove his fist into the man’s face. Batterbee went down with a grunt of pain, blood oozing from his mouth. “Get up,” growled Ridley. “You deserve at least another.”
Batterbee licked at his lip and struggled to his feet, vainly holding his arms before his face to shield it from another blow.
“Your sword, Billy boy!” shouted his friend, as Ridley struck again, sending Batterbee staggering backward. “Use your sword!”
Batterbee shook off his daze, fumbled with his sword, and drew it from its scabbard. He pointed it unsteadily toward Ridley. “I challenge you, sir.”
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