Once her back was turned again, Adam found his wits, or what was left of them after being knocked to flinders by the lady’s smile. Pretending to inspect the contents of the glass cases, he edged closer. Oh, how he wished his circumstances were different, that he could make her acquaintance, if she were not already wed or promised, of course. Undoubtedly she was, being such a beauty. Her garb bespoke wealth, besides elegant taste, and the combination had to be irresistible to any red-blooded—or blue-blooded—man. London chaps could not be such slowtops as to let this prize slip through their fingers. Adam’s own fingers were itching just to touch her cheek, to see if it could possibly be as satin-soft as it looked.
He would have to settle for another glimpse of her profile under the hooded cape, perhaps a whiff of her perfume. He stepped closer still, but only detected the ribbon-tied sprig of evergreen she had pinned to her cape. Gads, his angel even smelled like Christmas! He chuckled softly at his foolish notion. What a gift she would be for some fortunate fellow to unwrap.
Jenna turned at the pleasing sound, wondering at its cause. She looked over, to find the other customer closer than she thought, more handsome than she thought, with a smile on his lips. She might have been bold enough to ask what the gentleman had found amusing among the knickknacks—after all, both Mr. Schott and her maid were there to see to the proprieties, and it was the season of good cheer—but the bell on the door rang again.
This time a roughly dressed man entered the shop. He was unwashed and unshaven, and pushed rudely past Jenna’s maid, who grumbled about his manners. Bad manners were the least of the problem, for the man pulled a knife from out of his brown frieze coat, and not one of the other occupants of the store thought for an instant that he had come to have the weapon appraised.
“Right, then,” he said with a snarl, waving the knife and looking furtively toward the door. “I’ll be havin’ the gold an’ the gems an’ the cash in the till.” He picked up Adam’s satchel, dumped the contents on the floor, and threw it toward Mr. Schott. “Fill it, an’ be quick about it.”
Damnation, Adam thought, that was his only clean shirt and his shaving gear. He took a step toward the would-be thief, but felt a small hand on his arm, pulling him back. He patted the hand reassuringly. Nothing would happen to his angel, not while he had breath in his body. While the robber was watching Adam, waiting to see if he would take action, the maid dashed for the door, shrieking.
“Blast it! Move your stumps, old man.”
But instead of moving, Mr. Schott groaned once, clutched at his chest, and fell to the floor.
Jenna gasped. The thief cursed again and grabbed up the nearest valuables he could find, brandishing the knife while he shoved a collection of snuffboxes off the counter into Adam’s satchel. Then he waved the blade in the woman’s direction, his glittering, shifting eyes focused on her reticule.
That was too much for Adam. His shirt was one thing, but his Christmas lady was another. He pushed her out of harm’s way just as the thief snatched at her purse, and swung his fist at the knife-wielder’s arm.
The blade went spinning and the satchel went sailing, snuffboxes—and one last stocking of Adam’s—scattering across the floor. But the thief had the lady’s reticule and he was making a run for the door. Adam chased after him, then slipped on a snuffbox. He caught his balance and raced onto the walkway to see the robber getting away. He made a flying leap and almost caught the blackguard, but missed. He lost his footing, landing chin-first on the pavement, catching the reticule by its dangling strings as he fell. The thief would have stayed to wrestle over the purse, but the maid was calling for the Watch, people were coming out of doorways to see about the commotion, and carriages were halting in the street. Instead the felon let go, gave Adam a kick to the ribs, and started to turn for the nearby alley. Despite the agony, Adam reached out and grabbed the man’s leg, sending him, also, tumbling to the ground. The cutpurse lay still, his head against a lamppost.
Winded, his chest afire where the heavy boot had connected, and certain his teeth were loose from the jar to his chin, to say nothing of the blood, Adam could only blink at the contents of the lady’s reticule, spilled from the torn fabric. Ten small gold coins, just like the one in his pocket, were inches from his nose. Not nine, not eleven, but ten. He counted them, rather than count his broken ribs. Hadn’t he wished his own penny was increased tenfold? He shook his head to clear it from the absurd notion.
Which was when the maid, panicked into thinking Adam was a partner in crime to the fleeing felon because he still grasped the reticule, hit him on the back of his skull with Miss Relaford’s gift to her uncle, the carved wood bookends.
3
Well, at least he would not have to worry about paying for a room that night, not while he had free accommodations. Of course there were bars on the window, no candles left burning, and nothing but a straw pallet under Sir Adam’s aching bones, but someone had strapped together his ribs and put a sticking plaster on his chin. Now if only the prisoner in the next cell would stop the banging, he might be able to figure a way out of this latest catastrophe. The banging, unfortunately, was coming from inside his own head, so he closed his eyes again and tried to shut out the pain. His thoughts would not let him. What a disaster this whole London trip had turned out to be. He would wish the entire thing undone, except for the image of the fur-trimmed female. She was almost worth hanging for, although Adam did suppose Mr. Beasdale would vouch for him. Then again, the blasted banker might tell the authorities how desperate Adam was for money, heaping motive upon happenstance. If he was going to hang, though, he would love to get his hands on the miserable old gull-catcher who had handed him the blasted coin. He might as well swing for murder as thievery.
Adam sighed and tried to rub the pain away. Nothing could be done until morning anyway, but, Lord, how he wished the lady did not think he was a scoundrel.
“Here now, get up. You’ve taken enough space as is.” A tall man with stiff, pointed mustachios and a red waistcoat was standing in the narrow doorway, gesturing for Sir Adam to leave.
The baronet rubbed his eyes, looking at the tiny cell where he had spent the night. “You mean I am not under arrest?”
“No, we just had nowhere to put you, unconscious as you were. Found your card in your pocket, Sir Adam Standish, correct?”
Adam nodded, then thought better of the movement when his head started to pound again.
“Of Suffolk, but it didn’t say where you were staying here in London, naturally, so we brought you to Bow Street after the surgeon did his job, after seeing to Mr. Schott. The lady insisted.”
Adam sighed in relief. “So she didn’t think I was partners with the thief.”
“She swore you tried to help, and that you recovered her reticule.” The Runner peered at Adam, who was sure he was looking as disreputable as any street beggar. “That’s correct, isn’t it?”
“Yes, on my word.”
“Well, it was her maid who did you in, anyway. Harum-scarum female. Wept in my office for hours, even though the surgeon said you’d live. Old man Schott, too.”
“He wept?”
“No, he’ll live.”
“I am glad. He seemed a decent sort. But you say she cared?” Adam did not mean the maid, of course.
The Runner knew it, of course. He’d seen the lady, too. “Aye. She came herself, as soon as she made sure the old shopkeeper was settled, in case we had any doubts as to the circumstances. Gave a complete deposition, too. Cooperative, not like that maid what did nothing but caterwaul.”
“What is her name?”
“The maid? Hessie or Henny or something. Oh, you mean the lady?” he asked with a grin, smoothing the point on his waxed mustachio. Then he handed Adam a card.
Miss Jenna Relaford was inscribed on the card, with an address in Half Moon Street.
“Miss,” Adam murmured, not quite to himself. He could not keep from smiling, either. “Miss Jenna.” Just right. “Miss Relaford.”
It rolled off his tongue and left a sweetness behind, and an undoubtedly foolish grin on his face, for the Bow Street man laughed.
“A rare treat, she is. Best not keep her waiting.”
“What, Miss Jenna—Miss Relaford—she is here?”
“Aye, wanted to thank you in person, she said. She brought you your satchel, she did, and the maid cleaned your other shirt. They brought you a new neckcloth, too, seeing as how yours was used to mop up the blood on your chin.” The Runner handed over the carpetbag and another parcel. “The necessary’s out back, and there’s a mirror by the rear door.”
Adam was already trying to comb his curly hair with his fingers, in the places that did not hurt too much to touch. “A minute. Tell her I will only be a minute. Two, maybe, to tie the neckcloth. There is nothing I can do about the bloodstains on my coat, I suppose, or the scuffs on my boots or—”
“I don’t suppose that’s what she came to see.”
Adam gathered his wits and returned to terra firma. “No, she simply wishes to thank me, as you said. A courtesy from a polite lady.”
If the Runner had any opinions, he kept them to himself, pointing Adam to the rear door, and to his office, where Miss Relaford and her maid were waiting. “Oh, and you’ll have to sign for this when you get there,” he said, handing over a small leather purse.
Adam raised his brow in inquiry.
“It’s the reward, a’course. No, I forgot you slept through the hearing last night. There was a bounty out for Fred the Flick, one of the nastiest customers we’ve come across. You’re the one what apprehended the gallows bait, knocked him straight out, you did, so he was quiet as a lamb for us to get the shackles on. None of my men had to face him and his knives, for what we’re all grateful, asides getting him off the streets. So you get the reward. Enough to buy you a new coat.”
To the devil with a new coat. The hogs would not care if his had bloodstains. The purse felt hefty enough for small Christmas gifts for his servants and the tenants’ children, and for a fine feast for everyone in the Standings tradition. Perhaps there might even be a bit left to live on, once Mr. Beasdale had his money. The reward would not extend to seeds and stud fees, of course, but it was something, by George, something more than he had before. And he had Miss Relaford waiting. Hadn’t he been wishing for an introduction, some way to see her again? Why, it was almost worth the broken ribs, the battered chin, and the bashed-in skull.
He hurried out the rear door, painfully shrugging out of his coat as he ran. The Runner called out after him; “Good luck, sir. Good luck to you.”
She was even more beautiful today. Her fur-lined hood was down so he could see the dark brown hair piled atop her head, with tiny wisps of curls trailing across her forehead, onto her cheeks, and down her neck. She still looked like an angel to him, a wealthy angel whose father would laugh at the notion of Sir Adam Standish paying his addresses, if the man did not have him horsewhipped for the presumption. But if a cat could look at a queen, Adam could look at Miss Relaford. And so he did, instead of speaking.
Her maid, waiting by the door again, coughed. Jenna worried that perhaps the poor man had been more injured than the surgeon had declared. Perhaps his mind was disordered, or his jaw was cracked, not just his chin.
She had been her uncle’s hostess for years now, and an accredited beauty before that, so she was used to men: men of rank and fortune and authority, as well as their aides and assistants. One stolid young baronet with sticking plaster on his chin and his tongue stuck to his teeth was not going to faze her. Well, not much, she told herself, feeling an odd weakness in her knees.
“Please forgive my presuming an acquaintance when we have not been formally introduced,” she said when he had still not uttered a word, “but I saw your card. I am Miss Jenna Relaford, Sir Adam, and I am in your debt.” She made a curtsy, then held her gloved hand out for him to take.
Instead of the polite salute she expected, a handshake or a sham kiss inches above her fingers, Sir Adam took her hand—and held it. “The debt is mine, ma’am, for not acting sooner, for allowing that muckworm to upset you.”
“Gammon, it is not your duty to protect every woman you encounter.”
He still held her hand warmly in his bigger one, looking into her eyes. “I would make it my duty. That is, a gentleman always looks after those weaker than he is.”
“How chivalrous, but what could you have done? Attack the miscreant in the store while he still held a knife? Then you might have been injured worse, and all for a silly reticule.”
“It is yours. He had no right to take it.”
“Of course not. But no one should die for my paltry possessions. Bad enough you were hurt in my defense.”
“I do not feel the pain.” That was not a total lie. All he was feeling right now was the slight pressure of her hand in his—and a loathing for ladies’ gloves. Even through the leather, her hand was soft and small, yet strong enough to get a grip on his heartstrings.
“No matter,” she said. “I do wish to thank you for your efforts. I would not like to have lost the coins my late father sent back from his travels. I might have sold them if they proved to have any value, but I did not wish to see them stolen.”
“I have one, you know.”
Jenna took her hand back, needing more self-discipline than force to retrieve it. “No, I counted. I had ten to show to Mr. Schott and I had ten when I picked them up from the ground.”
Adam reached into his pocket, where the peculiar penny still remained, despite his tripping and travails. He held it out.
“Why, it is exactly like my coins! Where did you get it, and what is its history and its worth?”
“As to its original denomination or its present value, I have no idea. That is why I was going to consult with the antiquarian.” Adam did not wish to admit he was going to sell the coin for whatever he could get, even if he had to melt it down for its metals. He had no reason to advertise his poverty beyond the condition of his clothes.
“But where did it come from?”
So he told her about the little old man in the coach, and his claim that the penny might bring Adam good luck. He laughed at the nonsense, but there he was, inches away from the loveliest woman in his experience. He took the coin back with far more respect than he had shown it before.
“Do you think he was Irish? They are a superstitious lot, I understand. Or perhaps a mystic from the East? A well-traveled Gypsy?”
Adam shook his head. “He might have been a leprechaun himself, for all I know, or a heathen witch doctor. He did appear to be a proper Englishman, although an ancient one. Perhaps he was Merlin, come back from his cave to grant a boon.”
Jenna smiled at that. “But isn’t it amazing, do you not think, that we each possess the same oddity?”
“Amazing,” he agreed, staring into the dancing brilliance of her green eyes.
Jenna blushed, and her maid coughed again.
Brought back to the matter at hand—and how did Sir Adam come to possess her hand again?—Jenna said, “Yes, well, I am afraid we shall have to wait to ask Mr. Schott. The physician recommended bed rest for at least a week. Oh, and that reminds me. He bade me offer you this.” She claimed her hand again and reached across a scarred desk for an ermine muff that matched her mantle’s lining. From the inside she pulled another leather pouch, which jingled pleasantly, to Adam’s ears.
More money! Adam felt almost rich, but he did not want Miss Relaford to think that the coins might make the least difference in his life. Certainly not that it affected how many meals he ate a day! Why, her bonnet likely cost more than his new funds added together. So he told her, “I cannot accept Mr. Schott’s largesse. I did nothing, truly.”
“You definitely kept the scoundrel from making off with a fortune in snuffboxes, and who knows what he might have done without your presence, with just an old man and two women in the shop? You deserve the reward. Furthermore, you must accept it or Mr. Schott’s feelings will be hurt
. You can always give it to charity.”
Adam gave a rueful laugh. “Oh, I think I can find a worthy use for his coins, never fear.”
Despite not understanding the joke, Jenna smiled back. “Yes, well, then I had better be going, and let you proceed about your business.”
“You had not ought to have come to such a place at all. But thank you.” There was nothing more he could say, no reason to keep her here, the devil take it. Adam tucked the money away while Miss Relaford pulled up the hood of her cape. She would be leaving, out of his life as quickly as she’d entered it, but not out of his thoughts, he feared, forever. “I wish . . .”
“Yes?”
No. It was impossible. How could he see her again when he was due back in Suffolk or when he was as out of place in her world as she would be milking his dairy cows? But how could he stop himself from wishing?
He might have said it aloud if she had not spoken first: “Perhaps, if your business is not too pressing, you would come to tea this afternoon? I am certain my uncle would also like to thank you for your efforts on my behalf. Three of the clock, at Half Moon Street?”
Adam decided he would walk to the full moon itself for the chance to spend more time in the company of Miss Jenna Relaford. He nodded. The pounding in his head turned to chimes of joy.
4
How peculiar, Adam thought, once he had left Bow Street. Ever since he had been given the odd little coin, strange things had occurred, illogical, improbable, and incomprehensible things. Like now, when he had wished for another opportunity to see Miss Relaford, and an opportunity instantly arose. Adam had never truly believed in the efficacy of prayer, although he never mentioned such to the vicar, attending services nearly every Sunday. He had never believed in the magic of wishes come true, either, whether wishes on stars, in wishing wells, or in Christmas puddings. For that matter, he had never believed much in luck, although he had cursed the Fates for his misfortunes often enough. Was that the same?
Regency Christmas Wishes (9781101220030) Page 2