She grabbed her skirt and lifted the fabric to avoid tripping and ran.
“Adeline,” she shouted, weaving through the horde of people, unsure if the woman would hear her or if the man were close on her heels. She slowed when a woman carrying a tray of oranges stepped in her path, but quickened her pace once more when she saw the blonde woman flanked by another hooded figure. It had to be them. “Adeline…Georgie!”
Relief flooded Theo when the pair turned, revealing their familiar faces partially hidden under their hoods.
The reprieve didn’t last long as she slowed, thinking she was out of danger, only to have an hand grasp her once more.
Adeline started toward Theo, only to freeze. Her hood fell back to reveal her look of utter terror.
It was as if the entire crowd stopped, captivated by the sight before them as Georgie let out an audible gasp.
A part of Theo knew her time was limited—help was not coming, and her dear friends would be of little assistance against the man holding her arm so tightly it was certain to bruise.
If anything, her friends shrank back in an attempt to escape.
It was up to Theo to free herself.
With a shriek, she turned on the man who held her, her nails raking down his face to his neck as she kicked out at him once more; though the man was smarter this time, and he sidestepped her assault, brushing her arm away from his face before she could do any real damage.
Theo only saw red as she allowed her anger and indignation to consume her at the physical attack levied on her by this stranger—a man who cared nothing for her, or who she was, or what her future held.
He released her arm and grabbed both her hands, pushing them to her sides as he pulled her around once more to face him.
She didn’t want to see the man, didn’t want the last image in her mind to be of him.
“Theodora,” her spoken name cut through the terror and fury that filled her. Her eyes focused, and relief flooded her—only for panic to return and take its place when she spied the man who held her close, their bodies pressed together, not an inch separating them. “Theodora, stop fighting me.”
“Alistair?” she almost cried. Tears burned the backs of her eyes, brought forth at her indecision of whether she should embrace him or continue fighting for her freedom. “How did you find me?”
Chapter 7
Before Alistair knew what was happening, Theo slammed her foot into his shin, and he couldn’t help wondering what drastically incorrect decisions he’d made in life to find himself in the middle of a crowded park in Whitechapel, holding his shin in pain—felled by a slip of a woman. In the next moment, he saw her elbow heading for his gut. Maybe it was his parents’ need to bear so many children, especially the petite, hooded blonde scurrying away from him—or more likely his insistence he could handle all eight of his siblings for one season in London to afford his parents a bit of privacy during his father’s illness.
Certainly, it was not his rash choice to track down Lady Theodora’s residence this morning in search of his missing sister. No, his intentions had been pure, born of his protective nature—something ingrained in him as a gentleman and an older brother.
A crowd started to gather as he released Theo, who immediately rushed toward his fleeing sister, flanked by another hooded female.
His life was spiraling out of control, and he was helpless to do anything to right it—let alone keep the fall from being so steep.
“Lady Theodora,” he called, resignation in his voice. “Please, halt. I mean no harm.”
At first, he did not think his plea was heard over the boisterous crowd as their interest waned and they went about their business, forgetting the scene they’d witnessed the moment before. Theo would run farther into the crowd, and Alistair would have little choice but to pursue her—and his sister.
She had almost reached his sister when he called, “Adeline!”
His wayward sibling sent a brief glance his way before looping her arm through Theo’s and dragging her until the crowd swallowed them.
A loud trumpet sounded, and a man shouted, “All archers to their posts—Round One is about to begin!”
Had Adeline come to watch the tourney? Maybe she’d snuck away in hopes of seeing a man she was smitten with, or she‘d come to…he was unsure what he hoped she’d been attempting when she’d lied to him; however, when he pushed through another grouping of spectators, the sight that greeted him was anything but what he’d expected.
His unpredictable, combative, precocious sister was armed with a long archery bow and was in line to take her place among the other competitors, her hooded companion behind her.
A spark of unease filled him as he searched for Lady Theodora, spotting her on the fringes of the crowd, farther down from him.
He started toward Adeline to stop her before she took her place on the field. Whitechapel—and archery tourneys—were no place for a proper debutante, especially one as young and naïve as Adeline. Any chance he had of securing favorable matches for his other siblings faded as Alistair pictured someone in the crowd—or another archer—recognizing his sister among the participants. The scandal would spread through society faster than a wildfire, taking his entire family down with it.
The crowd parted to allow him through as the line of archers, bows and quivers slung over their shoulders, marched to their places. He watched as Lady Theo tapped Adeline’s companion on the shoulder, taking her bow as she took a place behind Adeline in the procession, blocking Alistair from reaching her.
“Ye cannot go any farther without a bow, sir,” a man called, halting Alistair.
He glanced around in search of…of what, he did not know, when an elderly man held a bow out to him. Alistair eyed the offering. The weapon looked a century old, and he hadn’t so much as set eyes on his archery gear since before he left for university.
This entire debacle was maddening—and likely to turn embarrassing if he chose to compete.
“Take it,” the old man prodded. “Ye look ta be a fine shot. But know ye be split’n da prize with me if’n ye best all these other men.”
“Kind of you, sir.” Alistair accepted the bow, took the man’s offered number for the tourney, and entered the field. With only one spot left, Alistair took it and leaned forward to see Adeline and Lady Theo several places down. The other hooded woman had moved back to where Theo had waited with the other archer’s companions.
Lady Theo seemed overly focused on the tourney as she counted out the paces to her target. She looked up to the sun and returned to her post. Licking her finger, she held it high to test the wind strength—or lack thereof, as Alistair was becoming very aware of. The gathered crowd, boxed in by buildings on three sides, allowed no breeze through. Within a few hours’ time, the heat would be unbearable, even for this time of year.
The hooded robe Adeline wore would cause her to overheat—he only prayed she lost in the first round and he could take her home—where she belonged.
Another trumpet blared, and a man strode onto the field between the archers and their targets then turned toward the gathered spectators. “There are fifty archers to complete. The first round will consist of five lines of ten. Each archer will have one arrow in each round. Ten advance to the final round. There is only to be one winner.”
The line of archers surrounding Alistair all called out their agreement to the tourney rules.
“Archer number one!” the announcer called after he’d safely departed the field. “Loose your arrow when ready!”
The crowd went silent as the man who’d taken the field first removed an arrow from his quiver and raised his bow in salute to the audience.
Alistair noticed the archer’s feet were spread far too wide, and his back was arched—his arrow would hit the top of the target, far from the red center.
The crowd applauded as the man sent his arrow flying through the air—the tourney officially underway.
As predicted, the arrow hit the top of the targ
et, slightly to the left, and quivered but held its spot.
Another round of cheers and clapping erupted from the spectators’ area.
The archer gave the crowd a quick wave before departing the field to wait for his place in the second round, confident his shot would secure his advancement. The next three men aimed and released their arrows in quick order, two sticking to the target and one missing it completely. The crowd issued the appropriate cheers or calls of displeasure as the round moved on.
Too quickly, it was Adeline’s turn—and Alistair wondered how long she’d studied the sport. It had been years since she’d sat and watched him and Abel with their bows, begging to have a turn. She’d been far too small at the time, her arms not long enough and her strength to slight to pull the string back far enough to launch the arrow.
Alistair watched in amazement as she took a deep breath, her figure and face still shielded by her cloak, and hefted her bow—his bow!—to position. Where had she acquired his old bow? Her feet were set solidly at the appropriate width, with her dominant foot in front and her shoulders squared. It was the exact stance he and Abel had spent months learning from their father—her confidence was something unteachable, though. Even Abel had given up the sport after injuring his fingers several times.
Alistair inhaled sharply, holding his breath in until he thought his lungs would explode from the force.
After another breath, Adeline released her arrow, and it soared—hitting the red, outer circle on the target.
The crowd screamed in merriment as the announcer informed the crowd that Lady Archer Number One had struck in a better position than the previous four men. His sister, ever the showwoman, held her bow high to the crowd, inciting another round of applause.
Next was Lady Theodora, her face exposed to the crowd, the only other woman in the tourney besides Adeline. He watched her set her feet, much like his sister had, but her fingers held the arrow to the string in a far different fashion—a feat he’d never seen before. She shook her head, her loose hair falling from her face and down her back. From his vantage point, Alistair could see only her side profile—her lips compressed in concentration and her eyes tiny slits of focus.
The fragile, innocent-looking debutante he’d spoken with only hours before had turned into a woman utterly at ease with a bow. She was far more adept in her method than he—but how had she and his sister gained such skill?
“Lady Archer Number Two, proceed!” the announcer called.
Lady Theo gave the smallest of nods and adjusted her aim slightly—and released her arrow.
Alistair held his breath once more as the projectile flew through the air. The crowd jumped to their feet, recognizing it was a shot worth cheering for. Unfortunately, Alistair was incapable of taking his eyes off Lady Theo. Her hair hung over her shoulder in dark waves, and her skin—ever so lightly sun-kissed—glowed, her compressed lips breaking into a smile and then a smirk as she pivoted to face him. Her chin lifted, challenging him to best her shot.
The minx had no idea the gauntlet she threw.
Alistair missed the next archer altogether as he continued to stare at Lady Theo and Adeline as they departed the field. Glancing to her mark, Alistair saw that she’d hit the target square in the center of the red circle.
A perfect shot.
A feat most accomplished archers struggled to attain.
He’d misjudged the delicate Lady Theodora, written her off as nothing but another debutante—newly arrived from the schoolroom—in London to secure a husband.
The draw of friendship between Adeline and this woman became clear. Though Lady Theodora was far more reserved than his dear sister, they had a strength about them that most men would envy, a confidence lacking in most women of their age—and innocence.
And Alistair was helpless to look away, or forget what he’d seen in her, as much as he knew there was no other option. The weight of his burdens could not be made any heavier by the draw of a female. He already had five he had no idea what to do with.
“Archer number ten, please ready yourself to shoot,” the announcer called, pulling Alistair from his thoughts of the intriguing Lady Theodora. “Release at will.”
Alistair quickly took in the few targets before his, another two men had completely missed with their arrows. One held on at the very edge of his target.
So far, Lady Theodora had the best shot.
This round would only secure two spots in the final—Adeline being the second best at this point; however, Alistair had been an accomplished shot in his youth. He’d practiced so many hours, he’d eventually bested his own father, though the man had blamed it on his failing eyesight.
The arrow the elderly man had offered Alistair was of fine quality, likely handmade by the man himself—the stock crafted precisely and the weight between tip and end balanced perfectly as it should be. He’d expect the shaft to be made of ash, a flexible, less expensive wood, but this one was made of yew, far more lightweight than other woods: a wood not normally used by the lower classes due to the expense of procuring the material.
His first observation of his bow was that it was older than he. Under closer inspection, he noted the fine quality of the gear. It was debatably superior to his bow—the one Adeline had shot with.
Alistair glanced over his shoulder to Lady Theodora, who watched him intently from the side of the field, scrutinizing his every move, with Adeline and the other hooded girl flanking her.
He needs must win this tourney—or at least shoot well enough to knock his sister from the competition. If she were to win—or Lady Theodora—their identities would be made public. The Post was certainly in attendance, and if a woman won an archery tourney, they would not stop until they’d exposed the hooded female’s name. The story would not halt there either, as they would find some scandal attached to the lady and write damaging articles to that effect. His sister—or Lady Theodora—could be ruined before their season officially began, crushing any hope Alistair had of attaining suitable matches for any of his sisters.
The notion of journeying back to his family estate with all eight siblings in tow was terrifying.
His body moved of its own accord, taking a stance he hadn’t practiced for many years; his muscles hadn’t forgotten though he’d forsaken the sport for pugilism and fencing in recent years. London proper did not afford the necessary practice areas to hone one’s skills in archery without the risk of inadvertently injuring a bystander. As Alistair shot with a right-hand bow, he placed his feet shoulder-width apart in a square stance parallel to the shooting line, and his left foot in front.
Alistair lowered his shoulders from the fencing position he’d become accustomed to and tucked his hips in to flatten his back.
The mental checkpoints his father, Viscount Melton, had hammered into his head all those years ago returned. The technique and practice had developed not only muscle memory and increased his endurance, but it had also taught him focus at a very young age.
Now it returned out of necessity.
Finally, Alistair raised his bow, his fingers securing his arrow on the string, ready to fly. His shoulders remaining at ease, and his chest relaxed. He pulled the string back as he adjusted his line of sight for his shot.
The air was still—stagnant and hot—decreasing any chance the breeze would catch his arrow and alter its course.
Alistair released his string, and the crowd gasped before erupting in cheers.
He’d hit the center, only a hair above where Lady Theodora’s arrow had struck.
Turning to where the previous archers gathered, Alistair found Lady Theodora in the crowd, her mouth slack with shock over his impressive mark. Next to her, Adeline stamped her foot and crossed her arms before turning and walking back to the practice area. Her brother had knocked her from the tourney—bested her.
A bit of remorse flared, but Alistair was unwilling to allow either woman to win—their ruination, and his family’s name—hung in the balance.
; Chapter 8
Theo waited as the final round of archers took their places in their shooting order. The time had dragged by as she’d done her best to keep her stare anywhere but on Alistair, who’d been pushed to wait farther down the line of competitors who’d already taken their turn. Adeline had returned to watch the following round, despite her anger over being bested by Mr. Price.
“I am sorry,” Georgie whispered. “My hands were shaking something fierce, and I worried my arrow would miss the target altogether.”
Her dear friend was timid to begin with, but finding Mr. Price had followed Theo to the tourney had been enough to send the girl into hysterics, rendering her unable to compete. They’d used their last coin as their entry fee for two archers—Theo was left with no other option but to take Georgie’s place in the tourney or risk losing any chance they had at helping Miss Emmeline if Adeline was outshot.
That precise thing had happened, being Theo’s fault for unwittingly leading Mr. Price to his sister. The man had tricked her into rushing to Adeline—all along planning to follow her. She hadn’t expected her actions to be so predictable.
“Do not blame yourself or feel bad, Georgina.” Adeline did enough casting of blame and spreading negativity for the three of them, Theo would not do the same. “My arrow held true, and I will move on to the final round. I still believe not a soul in attendance can best me.”
“But Mr. Price?” her voice quivered.
“What about Mr. Price?” she demanded a bit too forcibly, causing Georgie to recoil.
“His arrow was nearly better than yours.”
“But it wasn’t—and you must remember, I have mathematics on my side: the correct calculations needed to hit the target dead center with each shot.” Theo gave Georgie a reassuring smile as another round ended, and Adeline huffed. “Do not be so upset, Adeline. We will continue to practice, and you shall do better in the Grand Archers’ Competition—it is the only one that matters, after all.”
Theodora Page 7