Compromising The Duke's Daughter. Mary Brendan
Chapter Sixteen
‘Get us from this infernal place at once, you stupid boy!’
‘Calm yourself, Aunt, and please don’t shout at Pip—it will only make matters worse. If he panics he might overset the coach, or trample somebody underfoot.’
‘I wish the horses would trample the savages to death!’ Dorothea warbled hysterically.
‘Hush!’ Joan slammed an unsteady finger to her soft mouth, hissing from behind it, ‘If we infuriate these people, heaven only knows what will become of us all!’
Lady Joan Morland was attempting to combat her fright as well as pacify her companion. Joan knew she was to blame for their terrifying predicament, but her aunt’s callous remark about running over their attackers had shocked and angered her. Just a short while ago Joan had been sitting in the same room as these folks’ youngsters and she’d not willingly orphan any child.
Joan had wanted to visit a ragged school in the eastern quarter of the metropolis to assist her friend the Reverend Walters teaching at his vicarage. Thus, she accepted that it was her fault that their novice driver had taken a wrong turning and ended up in the heart of a slum. Pip was into his apprenticeship and was now allowed to drive the smaller carriages, but this calamity had proved that he hadn’t the necessary experience to negotiate a detour about the London stews as his master would have done. The youth had plunged headlong into the midst of a crowd of spectators at a street fight. Their crested coach and team of fine chestnuts had drawn interest in the way bluebottles would swarm to a joint of prime beef.
‘Get away...you vile creature!’ Dorothea flapped her handkerchief at a bold urchin who’d clung to the side of the vehicle and was thrusting a grimy hand at her, palm up.
‘Come on, lady, give us summat or I’ll have them baubles off yer chest instead.’ The boy bared a set of brown teeth in a grin while his filthy fingers mimicked an approaching spider.
Dorothea squeaked in alarm, jamming a hand over the pearl mourning brooch pinned to her cloak.
‘Here...take this and please leave us be.’ Joan slid forward on the seat to throw the boy some coppers dug from her reticule. He caught them deftly and leapt down.
Had Joan thought more carefully about it she would have realised that her action was inflammatory rather than calming. Within seconds of the boy whooping with glee, his hand aloft displaying his treasure, a horde had clambered on to the running boards. Youthful and aged faces began competing for space at the windows, all with the same wide, avaricious grins stretching their mouths. Dorothea clung to her niece, shivering, as the vehicle swayed precariously from side to side with the weight of unwashed bodies hanging off the coachwork.
‘We are about to be murdered!’ the hysterical widow screeched before rolling sideways on to the seat in a dead faint.
Joan pressed herself back against the luxurious squabs of her father’s coach, her heart hammering in consternation beneath her breastbone. Although her aunt had been raving moments ago, Joan had preferred Dorothea being conscious. At least they might have both alighted from the vehicle and attempted some sort of escape. Now Joan knew she was hampered by the need to stay with her aunt’s comatose form because she couldn’t in all conscience abandon her relative to save herself.
‘Pip!’ Joan yelled above the noise of the baying crowd. ‘Can you hear me? Are you all right?’
‘Can’t move an inch forward or back, my lady. Hemmed in good and proper, we are,’ the youth wailed, sounding on the point of tears.
Joan glanced fearfully at the prominent face at the window. A man who appeared to be middle aged, but might have been considerably younger beneath the caked dirt, was lasciviously licking his lips while looking her over.
‘Reckon your daddy might pay more’n a handful of coins to get you back. You’re a sight fer sore eyes and no mistake.’ He dropped a crusty eyelid in a lewd wink.
‘Miss High ’n’ Mighty won’t be worth a farthing if you tumble her first,’ a rough female voice called out from behind and started off some raucous laughter.
Suddenly the lecher’s face disappeared as he was yanked backwards and the door was flung open.
Joan shot to the furthest corner of the coach, her fists raised in readiness to beat off an assailant. Although she was quaking with fright, there was a piercing sadness in her breast that she’d chalked letters with children who had no better future than this brutishness to look forward to.
‘What in damnation do you think you’re doing here?’ a cultured male voice barked. ‘You stupid little fool!’
Joan blinked in astonishment and her jaw sagged. Heat streaked into her complexion at the sight of a man, stripped to the waist, his muscled chest and solid broad shoulders glistening with sweat. And so were his features, beneath a tumble of matted silvery hair that clung to his bronzed forehead and cheeks. It was a face that seemed familiar, yet she couldn’t understand how that could be. Shock had rendered her speechless thus she was unable to demand he satisfy her curiosity by giving his name. And then he was gone.
But she could hear him shouting abusive commands at the mob and no more people leered in at her. A moment later the coach jerked one final time, then was set into motion. After a laboured start the vehicle picked up speed.
Stunned into inertia for some minutes by her ordeal, Joan shook herself into action and patted briskly at her aunt’s dropped jaw to try to bring her round. When that didn’t work she delved into Dorothea’s reticule for some smelling salts. Having unstoppered it, she thrust the bottle beneath her aunt’s nose, but the woman remained stubbornly unresponsive to her ministrations.
‘Oh, well done, Pip. Oh, very well done, indeed.’
Joan felt light-headed with relief. She slid across the hide seat to peer out of the window at cottages and carts and people going about their business. Thankfully, it seemed they had taken a turning out of that awful place.
‘I shall let my father know how excellently you are learning the ropes, Pip...’
But never must he know all the details of what has gone on today, Joan inwardly wailed. If the Duke of Thornley discovered what dangers his daughter had risked that afternoon, he’d have her under lock and key till Christmastide! Joan knew it would be hard to make her aunt button her lip. Dorothea was the world’s worst blabber and reported to her brother every little slip her niece made.
‘Pip...are we approaching safety yet? Where exactly are we?’
‘Cheapside...now settle down and be quiet,’ growled a rich baritone voice very unlike Pip’s.
Joan dropped the bottle of smelling salts and craned out of the window, looking up. But she couldn’t see any more of him than a long breeched leg and a single sinewy forearm terminating in grazed fingers entwined in the reins.
‘Stop the coach at once. Whoever you are you may pull over immediately! I didn’t give you permission to drive my father’s coach!’
He obeyed her order with such alacrity that Joan tipped off the seat on to her knees on the floor and Aunt Dorothea almost landed on top of her.
Joan was scrambling upright just as the door opened and without a by your leave an athletic figure vaulted in and sat down at the same time she