My Runaway Heart

by Miriam Minger

  "So that might make two letters posted today to Cornwall," the old Scotswoman appeared to say more to herself than to Lindsay, Matilda's slightly bowed back to the bed as she returned the gown to the wardrobe. "One to Sir Randolph and one to his wife. Aye, mayhap this whole tangle will unravel itself in a few days' time and not a week, and we'll have a fine spring wedding to plan. If not, well, I suppose my mistress will be writing another letter once she learns . . ."

  Lindsay found her heart beating wildly when Matilda fell to clucking again and she lunged from the bed, not wanting to hear any more.

  Nor would she consider for a moment that one week wouldn't be enough time to convince Jared that she could be the bride of his dreams. She threw her fringed shawl around her shoulders, her chin rising a notch. "Oh, no, my lord, I've finally found you and I'm not going to lose you now."

  "I'm sorry, miss, did ye say something?"

  Lindsay didn't answer, her footsteps determined as she flew down the hall thinking of pineapples and cherry brandy and a kiss that made her heart want to leap from her breast.

  Chapter 8

  "Please, my lords, no, I simply can't dance another step."

  Lindsay extricated herself as gracefully as possible from a quintet of disappointed-looking gentlemen, the English country dance she'd just endured barely ended before she and her winded partner, Lord Sotherby, had been surrounded. And Lord Sotherby had even wanted her to dance with him again, although the poor snowy-haired fellow, nearly three times her age, had wheezed and puffed so wretchedly that she had feared he might expire on the dance floor.

  "Oh, Lord."

  Lindsay veered sharply, ducking into the throng surrounding the refreshment table as she spied Lord Ambrose Lamb heading her way. No wonder she was beginning to feel as if she were caught in a maze! There seemed to be no escape from the constant attention, Almack's proving as much a trial as she had imagined, and with no immediate relief in sight.

  Grabbing a small glass of lemonade and retiring to the shadows under the musician's gallery, Lindsay glanced across the huge assembly room to where Aunt Winifred sat conversing merrily with Maria, Lady Sefton, the Patroness who had granted them a voucher, Matilda sitting patiently behind them. Her beaming aunt was clearly in her glory, the night as much a triumph for her as she had enthused during the carriage ride to King Street that it would be for Lindsay.

  But it had become more a torture than anything else, Lindsay thought with a sigh, feeling the same traitorous twinge that she found it so difficult to enjoy herself even for Aunt Winifred's sake. Truly an almost unbearable torture since her fears had been confirmed about Jared.

  Almack's had clearly turned its back upon him; she had been looking for him all evening, but to no avail. And within moments the clock would strike eleven; no one would be allowed to join the assembly after that hour, which meant she had no hope of seeing him tonight, no hope of thanking him for the night before and arranging another rendezvous—

  "Ah, Lindsay, there you are!"

  As Lord Ambrose bore down upon her, she quickly emptied the tiny goblet so she might press it into his hand and ask him to bring her another, then effect a hasty escape. But frustration filled her when she saw he carried two brimming glasses of lemonade, though she somehow forced a sunny smile.

  "How gracious of you, my lord."

  "Yes, well, I thought you might enjoy something refreshing after so many dances—though I'd have liked that more of them were with me, I must admit."

  The earnest expression on Lord Ambrose's face reminding her uncomfortably of the other night, Lindsay decided to skip over his wistful comment altogether as she accepted one of the glasses. "This lemonade is lovely, don't you think?" She took a tiny sip, no more, her stomach still feeling a bit uncertain. "So much tastier than ale."

  "Ale?"

  She nodded, suddenly resolute that if she couldn't escape him, perhaps she could shock him into leaving her in peace. "Oh, yes, we drank quite a bit of ale at home in Cornwall, especially me. But my stepmother has warned me that too much could make me broad as a house one day."

  "Oh, no, Lindsay, I doubt that would ever happen. You're so beautiful—"

  "Ah, but heftiness runs in my family, I fear." She cast a meaningful look in her aunt's direction, Lord Ambrose's eyes growing wide as he followed her gaze. "Yes, and you should see my father—such a pity, really. If he isn't trussed, his stomach nearly touches his knees—"

  "I say, Ambrose!"

  Startled by the interruption, Lindsay remained silent as Peter Bench, Lord Bridley, another of the young men who had plagued her for dances all evening, came running up to them to elbow Lord Ambrose in the ribs. A tall, lanky fellow known for his booming voice, he laughed and loosed it upon them.

  "Dashed if I haven't just heard the news! You'll never believe it—oh, forgive me, Miss Somerset."

  Her curiosity piqued, she inclined her head. "What news, my lord?"

  "Actually, I fear it's nothing that would interest a young lady like yourself, Miss Somerset." Lord Bridley ran his hand through a shock of unruly brown hair and glanced excitedly back at his friend. "But there's going to be a mill this very night at Offley's—"

  "Offley's?"

  This time both men looked at Lindsay, Peter Bench appearing perturbed that he had been interrupted.

  "A sporting hotel on Henrietta Street near Covent Garden."

  "Ah." She gave a light shrug as if to say the location meant nothing to her, and took another sip of lemonade as Lord Bridley continued with barely contained excitement.

  "It could be the match of the decade, Tom Cribb and some young upstart from Wales! Everyone's going to be there—look!"

  Lindsay did look, her eyes widening as formally dressed gentlemen began to leave the ballroom in droves. Some even whooped and called out wagers to their friends as they ran down the steps to the street while young damsels, wives and Lady Patronesses clustered in disgruntled groups.

  "Well, are you coming, man?"

  "By Jove, wouldn't miss it for the world!"

  Lindsay jumped as Lord Ambrose grabbed her hand and planted a clumsy kiss on her white-gloved fingers.

  "I'm sorry, Lindsay—deuced abrupt, but there it is. I know we'll see each other again."

  She had no time to respond as Peter Bench slapped his friend heartily on the back, the two breaking into boyish grins as they seemed to forget her and half ran from the ballroom. But within the next instant she had virtually forgotten them, her mind racing as she spied Aunt Winifred bustling toward her, Matilda in tow.

  "Oh, my dear child, such a disgrace!" Aunt Winifred's fan fluttered at double time, and her round face was flushed with indignation. "How could such a thing spoil your lovely evening? A boxing match! Barbaric! Ridiculous! Oh, my, and look, all the men are leaving—"

  "It's all right, Aunt Winnie, truly." Hoping she sounded convincing, Lindsay took care to avoid Matilda's eyes. "In fact, I'm so tired. I've been dancing all night."

  "So you have, dear girl, as should any belle of the ball! Such a glorious triumph!"

  "Yes, well, I thought perhaps you wouldn't mind if we could return home. It's been such a long day—a lovely day, a lovely evening," she quickly amended, "but bed right now sounds just as lovely to me."

  "And so we shall return home," proclaimed Aunt Winifred, snapping her fan shut. "Although I was most willing to stay late—anything to see you having such a wonderful time, but a boxing match, of all things! Dreadful business. Ah, well, shall we see to our good-nights?"

  "Oh, Aunt Winnie, could you thank Lady Sefton and the other Patronesses for me while I go wait in the carriage? My heels are so blistered I fear I should sit down at once."

  Lindsay didn't wait for an answer but headed for the stairs; she doubted she had more than a few precious moments before Aunt Winifred and Matilda would join her. Her heart beating madly, she ignored curious glances as she dashed down the broad marble steps and out the front door. King Street was clogged with waiting carriag
es. Most were private, but a few coaches for hire were vying for passengers. Lindsay approached the nearest empty one.

  "Need a carriage, miss?" shouted the wiry coachman, flashing her a gap-toothed grin.

  She moved close to the driver's box, keeping her voice low. "Yes, I do, but not right now. Sixteen Piccadilly at quarter past midnight—I'll pay you well. Can you be there?"

  A speculative look lit his narrow face, making Lindsay feel no small amount of discomfort.

  "Yes or no, sir, or I'll find another—"

  "I'll be there, right as rain, miss. Sixteen Piccadilly."

  Exhilaration gripping her as he tipped his black hat and gave another grin, Lindsay turned without another word and looked for the Penney coach, reaching the vehicle parked on the opposite side of the street just as Aunt Winifred and Matilda stepped from the brick building. In another moment she was settled against the plush seat, smiling so broadly to herself that her face hurt.

  Everyone would be there. Yes, that was exactly what Lord Bridley had said, and to Lindsay, such news could mean only one thing.

  Jared might be there, too.

  ***

  Lindsay knew she was at the right location the moment she disembarked from the hired coach, the hearty roar of men's voices spilling from the hotel into the street.

  "I ain't one to open me mouth when it's not welcome, miss, but are you sure that you wouldn't rather return 'ome? A boxin' match is no fit place for a lady—"

  "I'll be fine, sir, but thank you for your concern," she assured the coachman, adjusting her hood around her face just as she had done last night before she'd entered Tom's Cellar. "And don't forget. I paid you extra—you won't say a word to anyone about bringing me here."

  "No, no, not a word. And you've me word on that, Ned King's pledge as good as gold. Shall I wait right 'ere for you, miss, just in case y' change your mind once you're inside?"

  "No, that won't be necessary."

  But Lindsay wasn't so sure when a trio of drunkards stumbled down the hotel steps as she ascended, one of the men making a bleary comment about her that made her cheeks flame. Something about taking a peek under her cloak . . . ?

  The coach clattering noisily down the gaslit street drew her attention from the door, Ned King, if that indeed had been the man's name, obviously having taken her at her word. Lindsay took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, but still kept her head bowed as she entered the hotel.

  And once more she allowed the unholy din to lead her, that and the motley swirl of humanity moving in and out of a pair of double doors to her right. Dapper aristocrats and prosperous-looking merchants elbowed aside plainly dressed working men even as shabby young boys, probably pickpockets much as those last night, darted and wove past legs and feet.

  Lindsay was relieved to see a few women, their high-pitched, sometimes shrill laughter sounding almost out of place in the predominantly masculine throng. She guessed at once their sort from their garish clothing and easy manner, one woman—more a girl, really—even going so far as to give her male companion a good-natured squeeze between the legs, which made Lindsay blush and look away.

  It seemed she had no sooner joined those milling nearest the doors when she was swept inside what appeared to be a huge dining room, darkened but for a well-lit square at its center, yet that wasn't the first thing she noticed. She gasped, her eyes suddenly burning as a smell so intense assailed her that she almost turned around and fled.

  Sweat.

  Male sweat, pungent and nearly overpowering. And no wonder, with so many men packed into one room, no matter how cavernous.

  Keeping close to the wall, she inched her way toward the lighted arena, past onlookers shouting so fiercely that she feared she might become deaf. Belligerent pairs here and there were cursing at one another and even trading punches, and she would have received a vicious blow to her jaw if she hadn't seen one burly fellow's swing go wide and ducked.

  "Watch yourself, you bloody fool. Didn't you see the little lady passing by?"

  Lindsay sucked in her breath in surprise as she felt two big hands suddenly at her waist, someone lifting her bodily and setting her feet on a table where a few other women had already sought refuge.

  "There you go, sweet'eart. That'll keep you out of trouble and give you a fine view, too!"

  Lindsay couldn't find her voice to thank the man, she was so stunned to be virtually on display, the other women making much of lifting their skirts and showing white flashes of thigh. She merely clutched her cloak tighter, her arms hugging her breasts; she felt tempted to close her eyes and pretend she was anywhere but standing on that table. Yet she was thankful the hoards of men seemed more interested in the proceedings in the arena, a roar of approval going up when one of the two men hammering away at each other slumped to his knees.

  "Aye, fists like legs of mutton, that's our Tom Cribb!" cried an onlooker, fresh wagers filling the air that the famed pugilist's opponent wouldn't dare to rise and fight on.

  And if Cribb was the fighter left standing, as broad as a barn and towering as an oak, Lindsay began to pray that his leaner, smaller opponent remained on his knees. She felt like closing her eyes again when the man—Lord Bridley had said the young upstart was from Wales—swayed to his feet, only to be pummeled so mercilessly that he soon crashed face-first to the floor.

  She could only imagine how long the fight had lasted before she arrived, and now it became clear to her that it was over, as a roar of such triumph went up from every throat that she clapped her hands over her ears. And then it happened, so abrupt a shift of attention that her gaze grew wide and fearful.

  Suddenly it seemed that all eyes had focused upon the three other women displaying themselves atop the table, the boldest of the trio baring her generous breasts for everyone to see. Grateful that the room was so dim for whatever cover it offered, Lindsay at once tried to climb down from the table, but a host of hands reached out to push her back up.

  "Oh, no, you don't, wench. Take off yer cloak and give us a look!"

  "I say we auction them off, each chit to the highest bidder!"

  Lindsay tried desperately to jump again, this time as many hands if not more forcing her back. As tears sprang to her eyes, she felt someone tug roughly at her cloak while bids began to ring out all around.

  "Five guineas for the wench with the cloak!"

  "No, ten—"

  "And I say twenty!"

  "One hundred pounds!"

  Chapter 9

  Lindsay stared incredulously into the astonished crowd, daring not to hope as she saw a tall gentleman stride toward the table. The room was so dark she couldn't see his face, but when he drew closer, such relief filled her that she thought her knees might buckle.

  "Are you daft, man? One hundred pounds and you don't even know what the wench looks like?" a portly fellow shouted nearby, his cry taken up by other raucous voices as hands reached out once more to wrench at her cloak.

  Desperately Lindsay staggered to the center of the table, kicking and striking with balled fists in a futile attempt to fend off her attackers, but she jumped when a deafening blast rocked the room, the smell of gunpowder filling the air. Other onlookers jumped, too, some men diving to the floor to seek cover, the three women shrieking and scrambling in terror from the table while Lindsay gaped at fared as he slipped a pistol into his coat. Then he held out his hand to her, a wry smile on his lips, although it didn't reach his eyes.

  "I prefer surprises. Come."

  She did, holding gratefully onto his broad shoulders as he lifted her from the table, the stunned silence shattered by uproarious laughter and shouts of approval as Jared's words were echoed from man to man.

  But sheer bedlam was created when he suddenly drew a thick handful of bank notes from a coat pocket and threw them high into the air. The place went mad. As grown men jumped up and down like frantic children to snatch at the fluttering money, Lindsay was swept off her feet, Jared carrying her from the room.

  H
e didn't speak or scarcely look at her until they had passed through the hotel, and then it was only to set her down almost rudely on the front steps, his face as grim as his gaze as he grabbed her by the hand and yanked her along with him. With a brusque wave he flagged down a passing coach, Lindsay suddenly wondering from his tense silence as he lifted her none too gently inside if he intended not to accompany her but simply to tell the driver where to take her home.

  He seemed to hesitate, too, standing there on the street as he glanced over his shoulder at Offley's and then looked back to the coachman, a low curse escaping him when he made his decision and joined her.

  "Just drive, man!" he shouted, clearly irritated. He took the opposite seat and shoved his fingers through his hair. Then he leaned back, bracing one lean leg against her seat and staring out the window as if he didn't trust himself further to speak.

  The rhythmic clopping of the horses' hooves on the cobbled street and the creaking of the carriage reigned as the only sounds for long moments. Lindsay decided it was best for once that she simply hold her tongue.

  She imagined Jared must be angry with her. She had almost found herself overcome by an impossible fix. Certainly her identity would have become known if she had been rudely divested of her cloak, for Lord Ambrose Lamb and Lord Bridley would have recognized her, if not other gentlemen of the ton with whom she was acquainted. It had not occurred to her that things might go so terribly wrong, but she hadn't been to a boxing match before. How could she have known?

  "Are you hungry?"

  Lindsay met Jared's eyes, startled more that there seemed little anger in his voice than about the unexpectedness of his query. "A bit. Actually, I haven't eaten since dinner at two o'clock, and not much even then. My stomach hasn't felt quite right since . . . well, the ale."

  "Ah, yes, the ale."

  That bloody useless ale, Jared echoed to himself with frustration, although he did his best to keep his expression calm. The ale he had foisted upon her in the hope that she would drink enough to make her good and sick and reluctant to venture out late again or have anything more to do with him.