A Study in Scandal (Scandalous)

by Caroline Linden

  But she had made it to London, and would not be deterred by something as trivial as being lost. Samantha went into the posting inn and asked for directions to Hyde Park Corner. She knew how to find the parade ground from there. The harried innkeeper pointed the way, and Samantha set out.

  This London was a very different city from the one she had seen before. Omnibuses filled with people rumbled past. Elegant carriages with ladies out taking the air rolled past, on their way to the shops. Vendors stood on every street corner, calling out their wares. A ragged little girl with a basket of flowers ran after her, calling her “Your Worship” and begging her to buy a flower. Samantha was shocked by the child’s spindly legs, bare below her too-short dress. She dug into her reticule for one of her last ha’pennies and handed it over in exchange for a bunch of daisies. The girl gave her a gap-toothed grin and scampered back into the crowd, crying to another woman to buy her flowers.

  Samantha contemplated her daisies. They were slightly limp, as if they’d been picked some time ago, but still bright and cheerful. They made her smile.

  “Your pardon, my lady!” A man sprang in front of her, sweeping off his hat and giving her a flourishing bow. “A moment of your time, please.”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon, sir…” She stepped backward, unnerved by his boldness. But he was handsome and well dressed, if a bit extravagantly, and perhaps people in London were more forward.

  “It’s about the girl.” His eyes strayed after the flower seller, although she had long since vanished into the crowd. “With the flowers. Do you know her?”

  “Not at all.”

  He sighed and shook his head sadly. “Have you ever seen her before today?”

  “No.”

  He grimaced. “I was afraid of that! Drat and blast. I am Wilfred Humphries, private agent of inquiry.” He tipped his hat again. “I’ve been charged with finding Lady Lucinda Radcliff, who was stolen from her parents as an infant and, one fears, sold on the streets of London.”

  Samantha gasped and twisted to look after the little girl, searching in vain for a glimpse of her ragged dress or flower basket. “Was that she?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps.” He urged her to walk alongside him. “I’ve been trying to catch her for some time now, but she’s quick. And her parents—so worried, m’lady! As you can imagine, they’re frantic to have her found. I hoped you might be a regular customer of hers and know where I could locate her.”

  “How do you know she’s the girl you seek?”

  He laughed pleasantly. “I don’t! That’s why I need to catch the child, to get a good look at her. Would you help me? She might be more willing to approach a lady such as yourself.” Samantha hesitated, and he quickly added, “Think of her mother, the Countess of Ellsford, weeping brokenheartedly every night over her lost child.”

  “Lady Ellsford?” Samantha edged away, almost bumping into another man, much larger, who had come up silently on her other side. A chill of unease stole across her skin. “I think you must be mistaken. Lady Ellsford is past seventy. Her children are all older than I am.” She was on the brink of suggesting he must be thinking of Lady Feinsworth, the matriarch of the only Radcliff family she knew, when the truth hit her. She raised her chin with a jerk and stopped walking. “I think you’re lying.”

  Mr Humphries stepped close, and she realized he looked a bit like a rabbit, with a toothy grin and big dark eyes. Before she could recoil, he’d taken hold of her arm. “Perhaps it’s a different Lady Ellsford. Come, dear, don’t you want to catch the little street brat? Just in case.”

  “Let me go!” She tried to wrest free, but he had her. The hulking man on her other side crowded closer, trapping her with a thick arm around her waist.

  “Come along, don’t cause a fuss,” cooed Humphries. “We won’t hurt you…”

  “You already are!” She struggled harder, but the big man squeezed her tighter. With a shock she felt his hand on her bottom. “Stop!”

  “Not yet, just a bit further.” Humphries smiled. His accomplice was holding her so tightly she could hardly breathe, and her toes were barely touching the ground now. “You’re such a pretty girl, so lovely. Blond hair and green eyes, what a striking combination!”

  “Nice tits, too,” grunted the giant, who was still groping her bottom. “At least five guineas for this one, I wager.”

  “You’ll be well treated, like a princess.” Humphries pried her reticule out of her grip. “Just come with us quietly, or Billy will get rough. He’s not used to dealing with ladies like yourself, his manners leave something to be desired—”

  She managed to slap him, her hand shaking. “Help!” Samantha wheezed, terror stealing her voice. But the crowds that had surrounded them just a few minutes ago had thinned out, and the few people passing now kept their heads down.

  Someone called out behind them and she craned her neck to see another man striding after them. “Help,” she said again, a split second before wondering if he was part of the plot as well. The big man, Billy, cursed and yanked her up like a rag doll, quickening his pace while Humphries stopped and spoke to the newcomer.

  Samantha’s thoughts blazed through her brain like streaks of lightning, sharp and jarring and gone in an instant. She was an idiot. She was being kidnapped. No one was going to help her. No one even knew where she was. She had to do something to save herself.

  She tried to call out again and the man carrying her shook her so hard her teeth knocked together. He was almost running now, hauling her along with his arm like a rope around her waist, and still no one seemed to pay them any mind. There was a shout behind them, and her captor glanced over his shoulder before taking a sharp turn and racing into a narrow, gloomy alley. Visions of being stuffed into a carriage and driven away, locked up and hidden until no one would ever be able to find her, filled her head. Her chest was being crushed by the meaty arm around her. She kicked, but her soft leather boots made no impact on his shins. Desperately she turned her head and sank her teeth into his shoulder. He wore only a grubby white shirt, and let out a vile curse as she bit him. His grip loosened and she managed to seize a lock of his hair and pulled with all her might.

  “Bloody bitch,” he snarled, dropping her.

  Samantha fell hard, landing on her hip and forearm. Gasping from the pain, she scrambled backward, but he lumbered after her. “Ye cost me a guinea,” he growled as he grabbed her by the hair and half dragged her down the sloping alley. He gave her a hard slap on the side of her head, and her ears rang. “Good riddance to ye.”

  And he pushed her, right into the river.

  Chapter Three

  George Churchill-Gray was having a splendid day. Not only was the light perfect for painting today, he’d finally found the right mix of pigments for his latest canvas. Sadly, his next discovery had been that he was almost all out of two of them. It was an inconvenience, but a minor one; the day was clear and bright, so he put on his hat and headed for the print shop around the corner that sold the best paints. His fingers already itched to start work. This was going to be his best work yet, he could feel it in his bones.

  He only noticed the girl because she wore a bright red spencer. She made a very lovely image, walking along the pavement with a posy of daisies in one hand, tilting her head from side to side as if she were lost, or perhaps new to London and taking in the sights. Then he caught sight of her face, and realized it was the latter. She was marveling at everything around her, her eyes wide, her lips parted and curved in the most perfect air of enchantment. For a moment he admired the scene: the closely packed buildings cast into deep shadow, the bustling crowd flowing along the pavement like a human river, and then her, lovely and unhurried like a goddess stepped down to earth for the first time. It put him in mind of the work of Raphael or Titian, the way the light seemed to pick her out of the crowd and bathe her in a heavenly glow. He was almost distracted from his errand by the desire to watch her, to sketch her for a future work. Her face was Athena, he decided, youthful
but serene, beautiful and noble.

  As he stood admiring, the idyllic vision faltered. A man leaped in front of her, sweeping off his hat in a grand bow too elaborate to be innocent. The girl took a step backward, surprise evident in her figure. Unconsciously Gray’s feet began moving in her direction.

  But then all seemed well. The pair conversed a moment. A stage lumbered through the busy street, briefly hiding them from his view, and when it had passed Gray saw that the girl was walking beside the man in the hat. Perhaps he knew her after all. She wasn’t protesting or struggling. He hesitated, torn between the urge to get back to his studio and the lingering curiosity about the goddess in the scarlet spencer. He wanted another glimpse of her face. Not that she was any of his concern, a perfect stranger walking down the street. He’d learned his lesson the hard way, impulsively asking strange women if he could sketch them. At best she would look fearful and run the other way. At worst he’d find himself apologizing to a magistrate again. Best be on to the print shop, he told himself.

  At the corner he glanced back, unable to resist entirely. The crowd had thinned a little, and he had a good view. Another man had joined the first, flanking the young woman. She no longer looked content, though; she kept edging away from them, and as Gray watched, the bigger man slid his arm around her waist. She jerked, trying to pull free, and Gray turned to follow without a second thought.

  He lengthened his stride, not taking his eyes off her. She was struggling, but the men weren’t letting her go, and they seemed to be almost carrying her between them. Gray cursed under his breath. What was the world coming to, when a woman could be picked up and carried off against her will in broad daylight, right in the middle of London?

  As he got closer he sized up the men. The first was a handsome fellow, slim and short. He wouldn’t be much trouble. The other man was bigger, uglier, and probably much stronger. He was the one holding the girl while the first man talked rapidly to her, petting her hand the whole while. Any doubts Gray had about her willingness vanished when she slapped him.

  Gray broke into a run. “Pardon me,” he called. “Are you in trouble, miss?”

  She twisted to look back. Her eyes were green—and wide with fear. “Help,” she said, her voice wheezing.

  The bigger man pulled her off her feet and walked away, leaving the shorter fellow to face him. “Let go of the young lady,” Gray commanded. His hands balled into fists.

  The shorter fellow raised his hands calmingly. “She’s a runaway,” he said in a soothing voice. “A girl of good family, but with a wild nature. Her father hired us to find her and return her to him, safe and sound. Surely you don’t want to interfere with the reunion of father and daughter? I certainly advise you against it, he’s not a man to be trifled with…”

  He took another look at the girl. The big man was hauling her down the street at a good clip, and she was still fighting him as best she could, kicking and pounding with her fists. But she was a slight figure, nothing at all to the hulking figure carrying her. “Oh? Her father asked that she be carted about like a sack of corn?”

  “She’s headstrong, good sir, liable to run away again without a firm hand.”

  It could be true. It could also be a lie, and if so, Gray would be abandoning a woman to unknown horrors. “Excellent,” he said. “I’ll just come along and see her safely returned to her family.” He threw his arm around the shorter man’s shoulders. “It will be my good deed for the day.”

  “That’s not necessary,” hissed the fellow, trying without success to wriggle free.

  “It is to me,” Gray assured him, holding tight. He caught sight of a constable on the other side of the street. “In fact, it looks like your man needs a little help with her. Let’s gather a party to return her to the bosom of her loving father. I say, there’s the very person we need. Constable!” He raised his free hand to hail the officer in question.

  With a snarled curse, the man under his arm twisted, wrenching loose and sprinting after his partner. By now the thickset man had put quite a good distance between them, the girl still caught in his arm, still kicking her feet in protest. Gray took off after them both, shouting at the startled constable to help him prevent a murder.

  The shorter fellow shouted something at his partner, who glanced back with an ugly glare. At the sight of the constable and Gray, he bolted down a side street. The first man kept going straight, but Gray veered after the second, keeping his gaze on the girl. When her captor realized he was still being followed, he ducked around another corner, in a narrow and dark alley. Gray slowed on instinct, as the constable was still some way behind him, but then he heard a curse, followed by a cry and a splash. He surged forward again and discovered that the alley led to a little inlet off the river. There was no sight of the big ugly fellow, but down the steep embankment in the swirling water of the Thames was the girl in the cherry red spencer, thrashing frantically but ineffectually against the pull of the water.

  He stopped short. The water wasn’t very deep here, but if she got pulled out much farther, he’d have to swim after her. He paused long enough to strip off his jacket, then slid down the slope and waded out to catch hold of her skirt. It was fine fabric, and tore in his hand as he tried to pull her back in. Gray swore under his breath and stepped farther out, until the water rose to his chest. She reached toward him, her fingers groping, and Gray recognized panic in her eyes.

  He caught her arm and pulled, but his feet slipped on the mossy riverbank and he went under for a moment, almost losing his grip on her. The swirling water tried to suck her away again as he staggered back to his feet. The girl slid beneath the water’s surface, her hands flailing frantically, and Gray dragged with all his strength, hauling her back until he managed to get his arms securely around her. For a moment he stood there with her against his chest, trying to catch his breath and steady his footing while she coughed river water all over his shoulder and clutched at his shirt.

  “Ho there!” The constable had finally caught up, his round face red with exertion. “What’s the fuss, sir?”

  “Some villain pushed her into the water,” Gray told him. “A big bruising fellow, about my height but a good four stone heavier. He must have gone that way. There was another fellow, short, well dressed, with a blue cloak. He disappeared into the Strand.”

  The constable hesitated. “Well, I expect there’s no catching them now. Excellent work fishing her out. Do you know the young lady?”

  Gray shook his head. She was shivering in his arms as he waded carefully toward the bank. “Give me your hand.” He reached out to the constable, who helped him ashore. A few curious passersby had already collected, peeping around the building into the narrow alley. He tried to put the girl back on her feet, but her knees gave out and she started to fall. Keeping an arm around her, he motioned to the hovering constable. “Hand me my coat.” Again the officer did as he was told. Awkwardly Gray wrapped his jacket around the girl before lifting her again. Not only was she shaking, her dress had turned almost translucent. “We’ve got to get her warm and dry.”

  “Er…” The constable looked perplexed.

  Gray shook his head to clear the water from his face. “My rooms are very near, just in the next street. I’ll take her there and give her into my landlady’s care. Will that serve?”

  “I’ll need her statement,” protested the constable.

  “Of course. You might also try to catch the men who tried to kill her.”

  The constable flushed at the hint of sarcasm, but he helped clear a path through the small throng of curious bystanders who had gathered. Gray ducked his head near the girl’s, hoping to shield her from their rabid stares. “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “You’re safe now.” She stared up at him, her skin bluish white and her wide green eyes unfocused and glassy. Even soaking wet and dazed, she was extraordinarily pretty. “Did you hear what I told the constable?” he continued, more to keep her attention than to impart information. “He’d best get after that m
an who pushed you into the river. Do you have any idea who he was?” No response, but she was definitely breathing better now. He hiked her a little higher in his arms, unconsciously appreciating the shape of her against him. Slim waist, round hips, lovely breasts. Her bedraggled bonnet hung by its ribbons, slapping wetly against his side with every step. Her hair was a mess but he thought it was probably light brown. She was pretty, well-fed, and expensively dressed.

  What was a girl like her doing walking through the Strand alone?

  Samantha began to emerge from her daze as the strange man carried her through the streets. She had only vaguely registered his conversation with the constable. He’d saved her, at some danger to himself—he was just as wet as she was—and she remembered him shouting at the men who had grabbed her. Those men had meant her harm. This man, it seemed, did not, although she immediately reproved herself for thinking she knew anything. He might be merely a more clever version of the other men.

  “Go ring that bell,” he called to a boy sitting on a neighboring stoop. The lad jumped up and ran to obey. “Don’t worry, you’ll be warm and dry soon,” he told her as he carried her up the few steps. “My landlady, Mrs. Willis, will tend you.”

  Samantha’s teeth were chattering so hard she could only clench them together. Her mind and body both felt paralyzed by a combination of cold and fear. Part of her thought she should protest being carried along like this, by a man she didn’t know, but the other—far larger—part of her found his arms rather comforting. And since she didn’t think that her legs would support her if he did put her down, she made no protest.

  The door opened and a pink-cheeked woman in a lace cap let out a cry. “Oh, good heavens, what have you done now?”

  “I’ve been fishing,” said the man holding Samantha. “See what I caught.”

  The landlady gawked at him, then flapped her hands. “Don’t tease! Bring her in, bring her in! The poor dear—is she hurt?”