by Laura Hogg
"Mr. Taylor, I assure you that I am no fearful coward of a man. I took first place in several informal competitions this year in pugilism, including fighting the previous year's champion, and I was not even the heaviest man there!"
"Hmm, well, you lead a charmed life. Relief will likely find her hero defending another."
"I can only hope she never finds herself in a dangerous situation."
"Do not worry about her."
The Viscount rubbed his face. “She wants someone brave. My little corner of the city does not offer much chance of proving such a quality. America did,” he practically whispered.
"I must leave now, my lord. I have another appointment. Next time we may be able to talk longer, and I might arrange the meeting. I told her about you, and she is intrigued. She asks me many questions."
His lips turned up, and she trembled. She looked at her hands, shocked at his power to draw such feelings from her.
Relief's thoughts whirled around. Damn if it didn't become almost unbearable not to touch his hand. She wanted him to squeeze hers, to hold it. Her heart sped up. A soft moan escaped her lips as she fought the feeling at the pit of her stomach that said she was in danger of falling in love with him. She saw something in his eyes that she respected. She saw strength and kindness. Could he be different than all the rest?
"Perhaps, Mr. Taylor,” he interrupted her thoughts, “I can picture myself gallivanting on the rougher side of the city trying to win the heart of the one woman who would be worth it.” He leaned forward, “And, sir, I would not tell anyone about it. I do have a reputation to maintain.” His smile made her heart warm.
She gasped. Dear God. Her heart leapt and left her straining to control the rush of romantic images that made her blood heat. She imagined him pressing her against himself and kissing her as if he would die for her, even knowing her secret. If only a man could love her so. She stood up, turned on heel and rushed out before he saw her flushed face, burning with lust, affection ... and respect.
Four
One of his friends, the Earl of Hawksworth, a short, stout, consistently over-dressed man, entered his salon inviting him to White's for the evening. He offered his friend a glance, and then returned his attention to the gazette he had been scanning.
"No, my friend, I have other arrangements.” He planned to enjoy a bit of adventure—the kind his friends could not be made aware of.
"Perhaps you will drop by later then?"
"Perhaps,” he responded in bored tones.
The Viscount looked up from his seat to see the Earl nod.
He returned the gesture.
"I'll take my leave. I have some gambling to do!” Lord Hawksworth stated and exited the salon, his cape flapping behind him. The Viscount sat in contemplation. He thought of the intriguing Mr. Taylor, compelled to spend time with the chap.
He shook his head, finding this to be an odd occurrence. The lad was utterly out of his class. He was a street punk, an adolescent ragamuffin. Still the Viscount knew he respected the young man. He admired and liked him. After all, it took courage and integrity to put oneself in danger regularly for the sake of others. Mr. Taylor had spunk and personality, and he saw the world from an exciting and selfless viewpoint. His company interested and stimulated him. Lord Cheltham knew he could count on being surprised and not bored whenever he was with him.
Yes, he decided, I will seek out a friendship with Mr. Taylor, and not just because I want an entrance into the life of his beautiful employer.
* * * *
Night hung a velvety black curtain over the skies of the Town. He chose a Tilbury carriage for its light, fast and sporty way to travel into the heart of the city. Feeling the pull of adventure in his heart, he headed for a part of London Town he normally avoided.
A mass of distasteful noises and sights surrounded him, for he enjoyed fresh, country air for the better part of the year. Intrigue and a charming lady impelled him into unknown territory.
When he recognized a bit of the ancient snobbery lurking in his attitude, an unwanted intruder, he counteracted it with self-talk of the promise of new things ventured, and a lady to impress. Surely Raphael would tell Miss Moore all about how he, Lord Cheltham, was brave and interesting and not just a bored aristocrat, for truly he no longer was. He shook his head grinning and muttered, “Adventurous Americans."
Brick walls lay about everywhere. When smoke burned his eyes and dirty air filled his lungs, he began to wonder at his choice of a roofless carriage in which to explore the city. A couple of whelps in ragged clothes chased each other past his vehicle. They had come a bit too close, and the Viscount yanked on his reins, causing his horse to stop the carriage. Lord Cheltham glared at the boys. Soot painted their smudged cheeks gray. The taller one, a boy with untidy blond hair, stopped and picked up a soiled cap to the left of the horse guiding the Viscount's light carriage. He placed the hat on his greasy head, and the Viscount cringed, watching in fascination.
"Look at me!” the boy mocked, shouting at the other youngster. “I'm a fool who was out in my nightclothes!” He held out his arms and stumbled around as if he were blind. “'Ere is my member mug? I need to take a piss!"
His spider-shanked playmate lurched for him and knocked the hat off of his friend's head.
He received a smart punch to his arm in return. “I will dress your hide neatly, for that one!” He tackled his friend.
Lord Cheltham asked himself if their parents knew where they were. The elder stood up and ran, and the other gave chase.
The Viscount looked about from the relative safety of his carriage seat and judged potential trouble everywhere. It's fortunate this vehicle with its large wheels can travel fast. Now a bit of gladness over his choice came over him.
A man who wore a singed shirt that reeked of smoke strode past. He grinned widely and rubbed a gold trinket of some sort in an avaricious manner. Lord Cheltham frowned. The smoke-scented man probably stole that piece of jewelry while pretending to assist someone during a fire. He shook his head in disapproval.
People discussing their out-of-work status strolled along the streets here and there with hollow, hopeless eyes. Two drunken men wobbled on the edge of the road singing a rum chant. A village horse and cart stood still, the empty cart tipped over. The Viscount assumed the unfortunate owner must have lost its contents to those in need within moments after his accident.
A basket-seller, a woman in a rough linen dress with woven hampers on her arm, visited from a smaller village that specialized in that kind of thing, perhaps Berkshire or Somerset, the Viscount guessed. Trailing behind her a skinny little boy reached for her free hand.
Lord Cheltham continued down the boisterous road, guiding his horse, not regretting that he had not brought along his groom to drive. He passed a butcher's shop, a tailor, a saddler, a cooper, a small general store and a tiny inn. He looked just to his left and stopped his horse once again. A boy eyed a middle-class gentleman from behind as he glanced into a store window. He obviously prepared to relieve the man of his purse. The Viscount held onto the reins with his right hand, leaned over his carriage rim, and reached out an arm, tapping the boy on the shoulder. He spun around with wide eyes. Lord Cheltham scowled at the little natty lad. The boy ran and almost collided with the scaffolding that a bricklayer sat upon, drinking his ale. The gentleman turned and tipped his head at the Viscount, eyeing him.
"Thank you. I ‘aw the boy in da glass."
Lord Cheltham smiled and turned forward, snapping his reins. He didn't get five yards when a well-endowed woman ran to the side of his Tilbury, smiling. He scoffed and stopped his horse once again. This lady lacked a couple of teeth. He looked daggers at her and curved away from her.
She reached up and laid a hand on his arm. “Would a fine gentleman such as you care for some company?"
A prostitute.
He smirked, now to his surprise, amused. “Stubble it; I'm not interested."
"'Old my tongue? You askin’ me ta ‘old
my tongue?"
He shook his head and quickly snapped the reins of his horse, continuing forth as she shouted something derogatory towards him. He ignored her.
Suddenly his heart caught in his throat. A few yards ahead Raphael leapt over a crumbling wall. A homeless family slept against a short unfinished brick wall—a man, holding a woman's hand in sleep, and a small boy curled in his mother's lap-all three in threadbare clothes.
The Viscount winced watching his new friend Raphael barely miss nicking the father on the shoulder as he flew through the air, over the wall, chasing a man who had a lady's pouch in his hand. The poor woman screamed, “Stop him!” and staggered after them, grasping her long skirts.
The Viscount stared in enthrallment, temporarily overcome with great surprise at the speed and agility of his young friend. Raphael overcame the thief, twice as large as him. He ducked a punch from a huge, meaty fist, spun around, and kicked the man in the grubbery. The large shapeless man reminded the Viscount of a well-stuffed couch. He stumbled back but composed himself, lurching at Raphael.
Lord Cheltham watched, gaping. Raphael did a series of unusual moves that he had never seen before. It wasn't boxing or wrestling, but it was terribly effective. He thought that maybe he'd once read a book about people in Asia fighting like that. There were quick sharp blows with open hands, parrying with the legs, leaps, kicks and spins like he had only imagined when he had read about this type of fighting.
When the thief at last lay insensible, Raphael grabbed the pouch and spat on him. The woman ran up to Raphael, took her purse and promptly placed her lips on his in a big sloppy kiss. Raphael pushed her away, frowned and quite openly wiped his mouth dry.
"Blah!” he said.
The Viscount lifted his brows. He approached Raphael, laughing.
"Not your type, eh?"
Raphael smirked. “Not in the least. What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you."
"What?"
He placed his arm around Raphael's shoulders. Raphael looked at his hand.
"Just because I did not welcome that particular woman's interest doesn't mean that I—"
"Stop, I didn't mean that, Mr. Taylor.” He dropped his arm. “You are like a little brother to me, in a way. I have been bored lately, and you have presented me with plenty to think about, important things. My perspective has widened."
"If you want entertainment, go to a performance at the theater.” He gave him a teasing smile.
"Mr. Taylor, where's a good place to drink around here?"
"I know the perfect place for a bit of twankay."
Raphael gestured and led the way. They had one drink, and then another and another. By the middle of the night, they were drinking and singing sailor songs together and leaning one on the other. They were drunk, and so Raphael held his glass up cheerfully to the Viscount. Lord Cheltham laughed and clanked his cup up to his. Some clear liquid spilled out over the side. This rum chant they were bellowing—was this not the same one he had heard others so gloriously shouting out earlier?
* * * *
Relief, disguised as Raphael, invited him on several more excursions over the course of the week, and they had a brilliant time, every time. Lord Cheltham even stopped a thief on one occasion. She had looked at this new friend, impressed, Lord Cheltham's fists still in the air, having knocked out a man bigger than himself.
One day, a few days later, she brought the Viscount a slightly ragged suit and told him to put it on. Lord Cheltham snuck into a small parlor wearing it, and she gave him a smart look.
"There, now you are fit to come about with me. A bit of swig stained on your shirt, soiled cuffs-that's it! Now you look appropriate! Let's go to the poorer side of London Town and stir up trouble!” she said, wearing another boy's hat pulled low over her eyes. She stood with her feet apart and her arms crossed over her chest as a man would.
"Great idea, my boy!” Lord Cheltham laughed. “I've never had so much fun!"
Relief smiled, excited for the night to come, and happy to be in his company.
"I'll change first and meet you."
"I understand. Your people can't know you do this."
The Viscount nodded.
Three hours later, on this warm evening, they walked along the dirty, animated city roads, and Lord Cheltham tapped her arm. “Look there; it's a pickpocket."
Relief touched his shoulder and complemented by pointing in another direction. “A bird of paradise is looking for her man of the evening—er, hour."
"Shall we stop a crime together today, my good lad?"
She turned to face him but quickly looked down and scuffed the toe of her boot on the ground. “You are enjoying this, my lord."
"Please, no more, ‘my lord.’ I consider you to be a most valuable acquaintance now, a friend."
"How about Cheltham then?” she joked.
The Viscount tossed his arms up. “Pray tell, why not? But only in private."
"I like this less pompous version of you, Cheltham."
The Viscount grinned. When he turned his back, Relief gave him a long, hard look. The noises and smells of the city faded away. Something stirred in her chest. She imagined touching his shoulder and spinning him around. She visualized placing her lips upon his. They would be warm lips. He would kiss her deeply with an open mouth, exploring hers slowly with his tongue, beckoning her to greater and greater levels of passion. He would touch the back of her head and release her hair. It would fall down her back. He would slide his hands sensuously over her and mutter endearing words of love.
She blinked. The handsome Viscount intrigued her, and it became increasingly more difficult to deny her hot attraction for him. He turned and faced her. Her cheeks warmed, and her breath suspended.
"Mr. Taylor—"
Pungent smells and voices of people calling out selling things once again came to her notice.
"Apples!"
"Baskets!"
"Call me Raphael."
"Raphael—"
"Cheltham, why have you not once mentioned Miss Moore these past few days?"
The Viscount looked at her oddly. “I thought you preferred me not to, Raphael."
Suddenly a stray tabby brushed by and rubbed against her legs. She picked it up, and it meowed in the hopes of procuring some food. Relief petted the skinny little creature absentmindedly. With one hand, she reached in her pocket; no crumbs. She continued to comfort the poor thing, scratching behind its ears.
"Would you like to make Miss Moore's acquaintance?"
Lord Cheltham grasped his chin and rubbed it. “What? You mean that—?"
"Yes. I can arrange it. Do you still want to meet her?"
She set the disappointed cat down and watched it as it ran off. She lifted her head and tilted it so she could see Cheltham through the tangled strands of hair that fell over her exposed eye.
The Viscount's breathing seemed to speed up before her eyes.
"Well?” she asked.
"Y ... Yes I want to meet her! I have great esteem for her."
She scoffed. “What do you base that on? And don't tell me it is strictly her beauty!” She rolled her eyes.
He rubbed his face in his characteristic way. “You don't find her to be exceptionally beautiful?"
"No, I am not attracted to her that way."
Lord Cheltham gave her a great look of surprise. “But you are a man! I am at a loss!"
"Someday, perhaps I will tell you a little secret about the lovely Miss Moore and myself.” She stepped ahead of him. He took a quick step to catch up to her.
"What is it?"
"It is not for you to know now."
"We are friends, Raphael."
"Yes, but there's more to Miss Moore than you know, much more."
"How could a woman who lifts me up towards heaven with her eyes and her smile not be a perfectly delightful person in temperament as well?"
"Oh, it's possible."
"What?” he snapped, looking greatly dis
appointed. “Are you telling me Miss Moore is a dreadful person?"
"Would it matter to you if she were a scab? I know you would bed her at the first given opportunity."
"I dream about her."
She stopped and stared at him. “So it matters not to you if she's an angel or a devil?"
He shifted from one foot to the other. “It matters. Is she...” He dropped off.
She could hear the disappointment in his voice, the harsh edge. “No matter; I'd still pay court to her. She moves me, Raphael. I respect her and her family. And that look, that look she gave me—it left me remembering. I want to touch her cheek and look into her eyes expressing what my heart begs me to tell her."
Astonishment drew blood from her face. This sounded like more than lust. “I just meant that I've met a lot of beautiful women and not all of them were the angels that they appeared to be."
How exciting this was becoming.
"Is my future lady among those women?"
She began to walk once again, her heart pounding. He followed and jaunted up to her side.
"Will you stop calling her that, you mutton-headed lord?” They were in the streets and not in his territory. She felt freer with him here, as if they were on equal ground, and she liked it. She had to admit though; she would never speak to him in such a way in his home.
"No."
"You obstinate man, I will not tell you. You can meet her and decide for yourself."
"I count the moments. I have read things about her that I appreciate. When do I meet her?"
"You are having a house party at your townhouse soon, are you not?"
"Yes."
"I will pass the invitation to her.” She tossed him a quick glance.
Lord Cheltham smiled. “You will accompany her as her escort?"
She stopped and looked at the ground and played with a spot of dirt with her toe, as she liked to do. “She will be accompanied by her sister Honora. Her brother is unfortunately still away. Mrs. Miller will be with the girls."
The Viscount touched his chest. “An angel will be in my home.” His face lit up. “Finally, finally! You are invited, too. I'll provide a nice suit of clothes for you if you should wish to attend."