Authors: Lisa Kleypas
“You’re jealous of him,” Sara said.
“Jealous?” His face crinkled in distaste. “I’m not jealous ow a man what’s got one foot planted in May-fair an’ the other in the East End. Pox take ’im! Bloody fool doesn’t know who the ’ell ’e is.”
“So you believe he shouldn’t mingle with social superiors? I’d call that reverse snobbery, Mr. Jenner.”
“Call it what you likes,” he said sullenly.
Oh, he was jealous indeed. Now Sara understood the bitter rivalry between the two men. Jenner represented all that Craven had tried to escape from. Every time Craven looked at him, he must see the mocking reflection of his past. And Jenner was clearly annoyed by the way Craven had reinvented himself from a street urchin into a rich and powerful man.
“If you’re so indifferent to Mr. Craven and his success, then why—” Sara began, but she fell silent as the carriage stopped abruptly. Her mouth fell open as she heard a cacophony of sound: shouts and screams, breaking glass, even explosions. “What’s happening?”
Jenner shoved aside the curtain at his window and stared at the tumult outside the carriage. He made a startling sound, something between a howling laugh and a roar of encouragement. Sara shrank back into the corner of her seat. “It’s a mob!” Jenner cried. He opened the door to confer with the pasty-faced driver and footman. “ ’Ow many streets does it cover?” he asked. Another snatch of conversation, and then Sara heard him say, “Try a roundabout way, then.”
The door closed and the carriage started again, turning sharply. Sara gulped with fear. A few rocks pelted against the side of the vehicle, and she jumped in her seat. The shrieking mob sounded like a demon chorus. “What’s going on?”
Jenner continued to gaze out the window, grinning at the carnage that surrounded them. His enjoyment increased with every second that passed. “I likes a good mob, I do. I led one or two in my time. We’re in the middle ow it now.”
“Why are they rioting?”
Jenner kept his eyes on the window as he replied. “Does the name Red Jack ring a bell?”
Sara nodded. Red Jack was a notorious highwayman who had earned his nickname by murdering at least a dozen people on the busy coach route from London to Marlborough. “I’ve heard of him. He’s being held at Newgate, waiting to be executed.”
A bark of laughter escaped him. “Not anymore. Offed ’imself yesterday—cheated the ’angman’s noose.
Can’t say as I blame these lively bastards for runnin’ riot.”
“You mean they’re angry because he committed suicide? Why should they care, as long as he’s dead?”
“Why, ’anging’s a good spectacle. Ewen the old women an’ the chiwdren come to watch ’em piss an’ twist in the wind. Would’ve been a good show. Now they want a taste ow ’is blood.” He shrugged and regarded the rioters sympathetically. “They dug ’im up tonight to pull ’is guts out. I say let ’em ’ave a bit ow fun.”
“F-fun to publicly dismember a c-corpse?” Sara gagged at the notion and stared at him in horror. Her disgust was lost on him, however. Jenner cheered lustily for the drunken mob engaged in looting, breaking windows, and setting fires. Several heavy thumps caused the carriage to lurch and rock. The vehicle ground to a halt. As Jenner pushed the curtain aside, Sara saw hands and faces wedged against the window. They pushed and shoved, threatening to turn the carriage over.
“Driver’s gone,” Jenner said. “I wondered ’ow long ’e’d last.”
“Oh, God!” Sara cowered in the corner, staring at him with wide eyes. “They’ll tear us to pieces!”
“Don’t worry. You’re safe with these to look after you.” He held up his heavy fists as if they were dangerous weapons.
The ceiling shuddered and sank downward as people piled on top of the carriage. Sara scrambled wildly for a way to protect herself. God knew what she had done with her reticule. She was defenseless without her pistol. The door burst open like a clap of thunder,
and Sara screamed at the nightmarish sight of dozens of hands reaching for her.
Enthusiastically Jenner flung himself through the opening, landing on three men at once. His arms swung in a steady rhythm, plowing through the rioters like a scythe through grain. Sara leapt after him. Reaching for the back of Jenner’s coat, she clutched handfuls of the thick fabric and followed him with her head lowered. She gritted her teeth as she was jostled and elbowed by the crowd. Miraculously they broke through the free-for-all. Sara gripped her companion’s burly arm.
“Mr. Jenner,” she begged, “get me away from here.”
He laughed down at her, his eyes bright with excitement. “No taste for a little brawl, eh?”
Sara glanced back at the carriage, which was being demolished. “The horses,” she said anxiously fearing for the animals’ safety. The rioters had unhitched the team from the carriage and were leading them away.
Some of Jenner’s amusement faded. “My ’orses! I paid a king’s ransom for ’em!” He left her to stride after the thieves. “Stop, you thieving scum, those are mine!”
“Mr. Jenner,” she pleaded, but he appeared not to hear.
It seemed she was going to have to fend for herself. Carefully Sara made her way through the street while looters rushed by her with armfuls of stolen goods. A bottle flew past her ear and shattered on the pavement nearby. Sara flinched and drew closer to the shadows. She looked in vain for a night watchman or a stray police officer. Fire cast a ruddy glow over the ramshackle buildings. She didn’t know what direction she was
walking in, only hoped the path she was taking wouldn’t lead to a thieves’ kitchen. She passed a gin shop and an evil-smelling ditch. People swarmed from one street to another, scuffling, quarreling, giving bloodthirsty cries as they hurled rocks and sticks through the air. Sara pulled the hood of her cloak over her face and stumbled around a row of wooden posts rising from the flagged pavement. All the giddy warmth of the wine she had drunk was driven away. She was sober and terrified.
“Damn,” she said under her breath with each step she took. “Damn, damn, damn…”
“Egads, what have we here?”
Sara stopped short as she saw a man’s broad silhouette before her. He was dressed in a dandy’s clothes, fine and disheveled. Precisely the kind of young buck who frequented Craven’s club and went slumming to attend blood sports in Covent Garden and visit prostitutes at the Strand. They gambled, drank, and went “skirt-hunting” to relieve their boredom. Profligates, libertines, yes…but gentlemen by birth. Sara began to feel relieved, knowing that this man would be honor-bound to see her to safety.
“Sir—”
He interrupted her with a cry to unseen companions. “
À moi,
my good fellows—come meet the enchanting wench I’ve discovered!”
Immediately Sara was surrounded by three chortling young men, all reeking of liquor. Crowding around her, they gloated over their new acquisition. Alarmed, Sara spoke to the first one. “Sir, I’ve lost my way. Please guide me safely away from this place, or…at least stand aside and allow me to pass.”
“My sweet bit o’ skirt, I’ll lead you ’zactly to the
place you belong,” he promised with a lecherous grin, sliding his hands down the front of her body. Sara jumped back with a muffled cry and found herself restrained by the rake’s companions. They held her tightly, laughing at her struggles.
“Where shall we take her?” one of them asked.
“To the bridge,” came the ready suggestion. “I know just the spot to have her. We’ll wait our turns politely—as gennelmen should—an’ if she makes a fuss, we’ll toss her in the Thames.”
The other two burst out laughing.
“Let me go! I’m not a prostitute. I’m not—”
“Yes, you’re a good girl,” he soothed. “A young, pretty wench who shouldn’t mind a bit of folly with a few randy bucks.”
“No—”
“Don’t worry, darling, you’ll like us. Splendid fellows, we are. Never given a wench reason to complain before, have we?”
“I should say not!” the second man chimed.
“You’ll likely offer to pay
us
after!” the other added and the three rocked with drunken hilarity as they dragged her along with them. Sara screamed and fought with her nails and teeth, lashing out with all her strength. Annoyed by her frantic clawing, one of them cuffed her across the face. “Don’t be a little fool. We’re not going to kill you—just want a tail-tickle.”
Sara had never made sounds in her life as she did now, mad screams that rent the air. She found unexpected strength in her terror, feeling her nails rip across skin, her half-closed fists striking hard against the bonds that held her…and yet it wasn’t enough. She was half-carried, half-dragged. Her lungs shuddered, drawing in enough air for another ear-splitting
scream. Suddenly she was dropped to the street, landing hard on her buttocks. The scream was knocked out of her throat. She sat on the ground in stupefied silence.
A slim, dark figure passed before her eyes, moving with a peculiar catlike grace. Sara heard heavy thuds as a weighted cudgel swung in vicious arcs. Two of the men who had assaulted her collapsed, groaning sickly. The third screamed in outrage and skittered back. “What are you doing?” he shouted. “What in blazes? You ignorant
swine
…I’ll see you hanged for this!”
Sara passed a hand over her eyes and gazed at the apparition in trembling wonder. At first she had thought Jenner had come back to rescue her. But it was Derek Craven’s scarred face she saw, harsh as a primitive war mask, lit by red fire-glow. He stood with his legs splayed and his chin lowered. One hand was wrapped around a neddy, the weighted club preferred by rookery brutes. He didn’t spare a glance for Sara, only stared at the remaining man like a hungry jackal.
He spoke through his teeth. “Take your friends and leave.”
The fallen libertines struggled to their feet, one of them clasping a hand to his bleeding head, the other holding his side. The third, divining the accent in Derek’s voice, did not move. “Well-dressed for a cockney, aren’t you? So fine feathers are to your taste, eh? I’ll give you money for more. You’ll be the Beau Brummell of the East End. Just let us have the woman.”
“Go.”
“I’ll even share, if you want a taste of her first—”
“She’s mine,” Derek growled, and raised the club a few inches.
By tacit agreement the two injured men lurched away. The third stared at Derek in angry indecision. “Thickheaded knave!” he finally exclaimed. “Have the little bitch all to yourself, then!” After biting his thumb in a contemptuous gesture, he hastened to join his companions as they shuffled down the street.
Sara stood up and staggered toward Craven. He was upon her in three strides, with a swirl of black cloak and a face so harsh that she half-believed he was the devil. Her shoulders were seized in a brutal grip. She was ushered without ceremony to an ebony horse waiting nearby, its sides gleaming with sweat. Silently she endured Craven’s rough handling as he more or less threw her into the saddle. He took the reins and swung up behind her in a lithe movement, his left arm clamping hard about her.
The horse sprang into a canter. Dismal shacks, broken storefronts, and swarming streets flew past them. Closing her eyes against the biting rush of air, Sara wondered dully if he was taking her back to the club. Miserably she turned her face into the fine wool fabric of his cloak. Each rising surge of the horse’s gait urged her closer against him. She had never been held so tightly, her body caught hard against his, her lungs squeezed until her breath was short. But strangely she found a measure of solace in his painful grip. With the sinewy strength of him braced behind her, nothing and no one would harm her.
She’s mine,
he had said…and her heart had throbbed in answer…recognizing it as truth.
Strange, unknowable man, who had once deliberately driven the woman he loved into someone else’s arms. Worthy had told her the story of how Derek had practically thrown Lily into Lord Raiford’s bed.
“Mr. Craven feared that he himself was falling in love with her,” Worthy had confided, “and so he virtually gave her away to the earl. He did everything possible to encourage their liaison. Mr. Craven doesn’t know how to love. He recognizes it only as weakness and folly. That’s part of his attraction for women, I believe. They each hope to be the one who will finally capture his heart. But it’s not possible. He’ll never allow it, no indeed…”
Weakness and folly…Tonight she had indulged in a hearty share of both. Words of apology and gratitude hovered on her lips, but she was too ashamed to say them. Instead she closed her eyes and clung to him, desperately pretending that time had vanished and they would keep riding forever, off the edge of the earth and into a sea of stars…
Her fantasy was short-lived. Soon they reached a small park bordered by quiet streets. The glass globes of suspended oil lamps cast ovals of feeble light across the road. Reining the horse to a halt, Derek dismounted and held up his hands to her. Awkwardly Sara slid down from the saddle, guided by his hands at her waist. He let go of her as soon as her feet touched the ground and walked to the edge of the park.
Sara approached him and stopped a few feet away. Her lips parted and her throat worked, but no sound came out.
Derek swung around, rubbing his jaw as he gazed at her.
She was swamped by a feeling of utter hopelessness as she waited for him to destroy her with a few caustic words. But he continued to watch her silently, his face unreadable. It seemed almost as if he were waiting for
some cue from her. The dilemma lasted for several seconds, until Sara solved it by bursting into tears. She jerked her hands up to her face, blotting her streaming eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she gasped.
Suddenly he was next to her, touching her shoulders and arms lightly and then jerking his hands back as if burned. “No, don’t. Don’t. You’re all right now.” Gingerly he reached out to pat her back. “Don’t cry. Everything’s fine. Bloody hell. Don’t do that.”
As she continued to weep, Derek hovered over her in baffled dismay. He excelled at seducing women, charming and deceiving them, breaking down their defenses…everything but comforting them. No one had ever required it of him. “There, now,” he muttered, as he had heard Lily Raiford say a thousand times to her crying children. “There, now.”