A Night in Grosvenor Square

by Sarah M. Eden

  Should I yell again? Try to grab the knife? The stable hands could very well be bluffing . . . except they’d already hurt her, and they seemed every bit as likely to continue doing so.

  Four men hurried out of the mansion door, two holding lanterns. They rushed to Davis as they drew their own weapons—much larger pistols. While their clothing was clean and pressed, it didn’t look expensive or formal like Davis’s.

  “What’s going on?” one said. He had a strong American accent. The men flanked Davis, two on each side, offering their support to whatever threat lurked in the darkness.

  “I heard something in the park up ahead. I’m quite sure a young woman of my acquaintance is in trouble.”

  Eric scrambled to his feet, arms raised. “Let me go, and I’ll tell you every—”

  Hank yanked Eric down by the belt, but even he knew it was too late. They’d been found. He angrily thrust his boot into Eric’s stomach, then got to his feet, pulling Anne with him, the knife still digging into her neck. It had moved slightly, leaving scratches that stung in the night air. Were any of them bleeding?

  “Come close, and I’ll kill her!” Hank called. “Don’t think I won’t!”

  The five Americans looked ready to charge headlong into the gardens, but Hank’s words made them hesitate.

  “Where’s your friend?” Davis said.

  “The sniveling rat. You can have him.” Hank nudged Eric’s form, and the other man scrambled out of the way, then ran as fast as he could to the line of security. One of the guards promptly restrained him with some kind of leather bindings.

  “You won’t get away free,” Davis said. “There are five of us, and we already have your friend. Surrendering now will be much better for you.”

  Hank let out a scoff of a laugh. “Better than what? You think I’m afraid of a few Yanks? It’s you who should be scared. One little push with my knife, and this pretty face dies.” With his free arm, he tried to pull her close again, back to his chest.

  This time, she didn’t allow it. In one swift movement, she reached up with her now-free hands, grabbed his forearm with them both, and twisted his arm down and out. Before he could recover from the shock, she grabbed his shirtfront and held on for leverage, then thrust her knee as hard as she could into his nether regions. Hank bent over with a grunt of pain. His eyes seemed to bulge out of his head. Anne grabbed the knife from his hand and ran. But after expending such effort, and being beaten, her legs felt no stronger than custard. A pace away from Davis, her step faltered, and he caught her before she could fall, but she gasped as pain shot through her, for his arms held her exactly where Hank had kicked her ribs. Davis gently lowered her to the ground.

  “Better?” he asked gently.

  She wasn’t sure if she replied, but she tried to nod. She shook head to foot at what might have happened even as her head, stomach, and back throbbed with pain.

  Somewhere in the back of her consciousness, she heard the guards make chase, and soon after that, both Hank and Eric cussing up a storm as they were led away to a constable, both bound and no longer a threat to anyone.

  She could not bear to think beyond this night. Whether they’d broken her nose, turning her plain features downright ugly. Whether her reputation would be ruined for having been alone with two men at night, regardless of the circumstances. Whether when she returned to Gunter’s covered in bruises and one or both eyes swollen shut, she’d be able to keep her position or be forced to find work elsewhere.

  But I’m alive. Thanks to Davis, I’m alive. Tears of relief built up in her eyes and spilled onto the sandy soil below her, made worse as the excitement of the events wore off and the pain of her injuries reared its head. She couldn’t breathe without pain.

  He knelt beside her and gently smoothed the hair from her face. “What did they do to you?”

  She tried to look at him, but the slight movement brought with it more pain than she could bear. I’m too weak to walk home. What will become of me?

  “I knew those men were trouble,” Davis said. “And they’re not so bright—attacking a lady at a diplomatic event that’s bound to have plenty of security about.”

  Carefully, he slipped his arms about her—one under her arms, the other under her knees—and stood, cradling her like a child. He adjusted his hold, which sent more stabbing pains up her right side. She hadn’t realized she’d winced until Davis stilled and said, “I’m so sorry. I’ll be gentler.”

  Feeling genuinely safe for the first time in years, Anne relaxed into his arms as he carried her away.

  Chapter Nine

  Anne’s body suddenly went limp in Davis’s arms. He stiffened, and his step came up short as he looked her over. An inexplicable fear gripped him, and as he held her close, he wished for a free hand with which to pat her cheek and otherwise attempt to rouse her.

  Cheeks pale as death. She needs a doctor.

  Her chest rose and fell, a sight that made him let out a huge sigh. She was alive, if unwell. He looked about the square, suddenly aware of movement and voices in every direction. The ball must have been disrupted, as the square was filled with guests in their finery.

  “She needs a doctor,” Davis called toward some bystanders as he walked their way. “Please help.” He gestured toward Anne’s unconscious figure in his arms. “Where can we find a doctor?” He’d reached the edge of light spilling from the mansion door. Several people turned their attention from the arrest of the stable hands toward Davis. An older lady gasped and turned away, pressing her face into her husband’s shoulder.

  Another man looked at Davis and held out a hand. “Stand back, sir. You cannot expect ladies of the ton to look upon such things.”

  Davis looked about and only then realized that most of the women also had their faces covered, whether by a hand, a fan, or, as he’d noticed with the older woman, a gentleman’s shoulder. Did they truly not want to help? Was looking upon a fainted, injured young woman so grievous? He looked down at Anne and fully realized why those gathered—including several men—looked horrified. An entire half of Anne’s head was covered in blood, including her hair, ear, and sleeve. Some had dripped onto his boots. He looked over his shoulder and found a trail of blood he’d left behind.

  His worry only intensified. Unsure where her wound was but disturbed by the sheer amount of blood, he set Anne onto the walkway as gently as he could, then pulled off his suit coat, rolled it into a ball, and propped her head on it in lieu of a pillow. He searched for the source of the blood, wiping her face and hair with a handkerchief until he found a cut over her ear. He pressed the cloth against it to stanch the flow, then searched the crowd. He spied a boy standing alone some feet off.

  “You.”

  The boy pointed at himself, eyebrows raised.

  “Yes, you. Do you know where to find a doctor?”

  The boy nodded. “Dr. Spencer is staying at the hotel.”

  “Good. Go fetch him,” Davis said. The boy glanced about as if unsure whether he should be taking orders from this American instead of the Hamptons, or whomever he worked for.

  “Now,” Davis implored.

  The young man jumped into action, his legs pumping as he disappeared into the night in the direction of the hotel.

  “I need a shawl or wrap or something,” Davis said next, this time scanning the women decked out in fine attire. He tilted his head toward Anne, indicating her wound and the now-blood-soaked handkerchief that he held to it. His was bright red from blood, and his coat under her was covered, too. “Please.” He understood that any wrap worn at tonight’s event would be an expensive one. He also knew full well that the women who attended this event had the means to replace them, too.

  From inside the door, Sainsbury called, “Make way!”

  The group parted, and the butler ran through, carrying what looked like a worn but clean blanket. He dropped to Anne’s side and held out the blanket. Davis took it, wadded it up, and pressed the fabric to her wound. “Thank you,” Davis said
softly.

  “Of course,” Sainsbury said.

  “Is there a place we can take her?”

  The butler looked at Anne and then at Davis, clearly sizing up their positions in life and what that would mean for proper accommodations. “There is room in the basement,” he said. “An extra bed, too, where a former scullery maid used to sleep.”

  “That will do nicely, thank you,” Davis said. He moved to pick her up again, and the butler grasped the blanket to keep pressure on the wound.

  “Are you . . . ” Sainsbury began, but his voice trailed off. His gaze darted to the onlookers and then back to Davis. He turned his back to the group, which prevented Davis from moving forward. The man looked in earnest.

  “What is it?” Davis asked.

  The butler’s expression bore such intent that Davis felt as if the servant had a critical message that he was trying to convey silently. Sainsbury lifted his eyebrows and asked in a deliberate, oddly slow tone, “Are you a relation of the poor girl’s?” His brows remained up, and his eyes widened, emphasizing his secret message.

  Davis scrambled to determine what the correct response would be. Of course he wasn’t a relation; he could scarcely be called an acquaintance. How can that be so, when it seems as if I’ve known her for so much longer?

  “Are you a relation?” the butler asked again, this time leaning forward.

  He wants me to lie. Davis looked over Sainsbury’s shoulder at the other guests, whose attention, now that the ruffians had been carted away, was focused on the American and the English girl. Davis had never understood all the proper rules of British Society and their class system. His father had come to America from England and raised himself from a lowly station to a respected, relatively wealthy one—something nearly impossible to do in England. They see Anne as below them. And ladies’ reputations are as fragile as feathers here, it seems.

  “Mr. Whitledge?” the butler said, bringing Davis’s attention back to him. “Is she a relation of yours?”

  “Yes,” Davis said, lifting his chin slightly. The butler’s mouth softened into the hint of a smile. Encouraged, Davis raised his voice so everyone else could hear. “In fact, she is my wife.”

  A murmur of surprise rippled across the gathering. Miss Hampton looked most displeased, folding her arms and lifting her nose into the air and deliberately looking away from him. He half expected her to stomp her foot like a child. He hadn’t encouraged her attentions, but rather the opposite. If she had thought that he sought after her in any way—or was available for courting—that assumption was entirely on her. Married men often danced with other women at balls; that was seen as the gentlemanly thing to do—preventing women from having to sit out if the numbers of bachelors was not in their favor.

  Even if I were married, she’d have no basis to complain.

  “Your wife,” Sainsbury said with a nod. “Very good, very good. I’m sure Lord Hampton will be most pleased to see to her care.” With that, the butler led the way inside, still holding the cloth to Anne’s head.

  Let’s hope none of them recognize her from Gunter’s, he thought as they walked by. It’s dark enough that they might not see her features well. Now that the rush of initial panic had subsided, Davis noted that Anne looked a bit more polished than usual. She wore a more delicate-looking apron than he’d seen on her at Gunter’s. Those ones were thick canvas, with a myriad of stains across them. This apron was torn in several places from the attack, and streaks of dirt surely bore witness to more of what she’d endured. Though the twist in her hair was askew now, it was a much more elaborate style than he’d ever seen her wear. She must have arranged her hair in the evening and changed her apron, at least, all to improve her appearance for her important front-door delivery. And look what it had gotten her.

  Mr. Sainsbury led him through a hall and then down a short flight of steps to what was clearly the servants’ quarters. Another hall—spare and stark, if clean—was lined with doors.

  “Here.” The butler opened the fourth door on the left and ushered Davis, who yet carried Anne in his arms, inside.

  As Davis gently laid Anne onto the bed, a wiry woman with a gray bun swooped in. “What is this?” When she saw Anne, she gasped. “Oh my.” She turned to the butler for an explanation.

  “Mrs. Fripps, this young woman was attacked in the square. Fortunately, the culprits have been caught.” He paused and eyed Davis, who’d pulled up a chair so he could sit at the head of the bed. He took Anne’s hand in his. The butler nodded toward at him. “Her husband here . . . stopped the attack, and Lord Hampton’s men are fetching a doctor.”

  The housekeeper clearly didn’t believe much of what she’d heard. She said not a word as she took in the room and everyone in it, including Anne. The fact that only one of them had been a party guest did not escape her. Even a child would have been able to tell, from the style of her clothing to her worn boots and tanned face. She did not belong to the class of people who attended aristocratic or diplomatic events. She’d likely never seen servants’ quarters this fine.

  At last, Mrs. Fripps clasped her hands. “Well then. How providential that you happened upon your wife at such a time.” She smiled, but it was tight-lipped.

  “Indeed,” Davis said, not daring to say more.

  Let me stay, he thought, stroking the back of Anne’s hand, careful not to touch the raw scratches. A bit of hair had gotten stuck to her temple, and he gently brushed it aside.

  “Mrs. Fripps,” the butler said from his position holding the blood-soaked blanket to Anne’s head, “would you fetch some warm water and clean rags?”

  “Of course, Mr. Sainsbury.” The housekeeper’s face softened as she looked at Anne. “And I’ll make some broth for her for when she wakes.”

  “Be sure to send the doctor in when he arrives,” Davis said as she headed out the door.

  “Naturally.”

  Steps sounded outside the door, followed by the appearance of a young male servant—a footman, Davis guessed.

  “Mr. Sainsbury,” he said, panting, “With the perpetrators caught, Lord Hampton is asking for you, and the constable is asking to speak to you.”

  “Of course.”

  The butler checked the bleeding, which had slowed considerably but hadn’t stopped.

  The events of the evening had happened so quickly that Davis hardly had time to know what was happening. Somehow, he felt more alive and at ease right this moment, in a servant’s room rather than in the fancy ballroom he’d spent most of the evening in. He didn’t want a fancy, expensive life like Peter had—and enjoyed.

  He wanted the comforts of life, certainly—but for many years, he’d felt empty, as if something large was missing from his life. He’d long assumed that traveling, with and without Peter, and making a success of his own importing and exporting business would fill that void.

  And for several years, he’d believed that the void was indeed filled.

  But now, as he sat at the bedside of Anne Preston, he felt an overwhelming warmth and desire to care for her and a knowledge that without someone to care for—someone to give his life meaning—he wouldn’t be fully happy. No amount of wine, no number of balls, felt as pure and complete as did this feeling he had now.

  Who would have thought I wanted a wife? He’d long assumed that he would be perfectly happy to remain a bachelor for life. After his heart had been broken by Angelique, he’d believed he could never love again. And after all, he had friendly companionship with Clara. He had means. He had family. That should have been enough.

  I could come to love someone like Anne Preston. The thought—the truth—landed in his mind and heart together with such force that he could not deny it, though he tried to resist the notion. I hardly know her.

  You know enough, his mind—or his heart, or was it fate?—replied. You don’t have much time. Act now. The rest, including love, will follow. Indeed, Anne was the first woman in over a decade to turn his head and awaken the desire for a feminine hal
f to come into his life. He hadn’t known how big the hole was until she’d appeared and seemed to fit it perfectly.

  Perhaps we can spend our lives learning about each other and learning to love each other all the more.

  Mrs. Fripps returned with a bowl of warm water and a sponge. She gestured for Davis to move off his chair. “Need to tend to her wounds, sir.”

  “I can do it.” Davis reached out for the bowl and sponge. “After all, she is my wife.”

  Chapter Ten

  Anne came to, blinking her heavy lids in spite of their desire to stay closed. Where was she? This bed did not feel like her lumpy one in the boardinghouse. Nor did the sheets feel right; these were far too new and crisp. Even the air in the room smelled different, but not at all unpleasant. Rather, she had the sense that somewhere nearby was a kitchen where a cook was at that moment working magic. The scents made Anne’s mouth water.

  She pressed her eyes closed briefly, trying to think, then opened them again and focused on the unfamiliar ceiling. Had she gone home last night? She tried to sift through her hazy thoughts to find the most recent memory but couldn’t pull one out. Out of habit, she reached up to smooth back her hair, only for pain to shoot through her head at the slight touch. She sucked air between her teeth as she pulled her hand away, then realized she’d touched something foreign. Carefully, she probed the spot again and felt what seemed to be a bandage.

  “You’re awake.” It was a man’s voice.

  Dread filled her—not a memory, per se, but the sense of clear danger and a need to escape. Her inability to escape.

  She clung to the bedclothes and held them against her body. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

  A face entered her line of vision.

  “Mr. Whitledge?” She could not have been more stunned if she’d seen a unicorn.

  After the sound of a chair scooting closer, he sat beside her, wearing a warm, disarming smile that belied the dark circles under his eyes. “I thought we agreed that you’d call me Davis.” His smile widened to show his teeth.