Regency Collection 2013 Part 1. Louise Allen
Bishop has been so imposed upon, but, as you can see, I appear to be the victim of some outrageous practical joke.’ It had to be that, she recognised with a sense of relief. There was no other explanation for it.
As the flustered cleric plunged back into the mob, Lily scanned the crowd from her vantage point on the top step, ignoring Fakenham’s agitated attempts to make her go back inside. It felt hideously exposed, and the noise was building again as the people who filled the street came to the realisation that here was the person who had—apparently—commanded their appearance. They began to push forward again. The crowd was packed out even more by figures who seemed to be nothing more than curious onlookers, drawn by the free entertainment.
‘Come inside, ma’am, please. It will be all over the newspapers by tomorrow.’
‘Oh, where are the constables?’ Lily stood on tiptoe to try and see the street entrance. One tall man, dark and hatless, was making his way through the press. Not an officer, but somehow her gaze was drawn. He did not seem to be pushing or shoving, but people made way for him like a shoal of fish parting before a predator. She could not take her eyes from him. Jack Lovell.
Chapter Three
‘Look here, miss, did you, or did you not, order these chickens?’ The heated demand from the foot of the steps jerked Lily’s attention back, but her heart was thudding.
‘No, I did not. Now, please, go away and stop waving that poor bird at me!’ She flapped her hands at the cloud of feathers that the struggling chicken was shedding. This was hopeless, but they could not leave the front door undefended and she could not abandon her staff to face the chaos either. And Jack Lovell was coming.
The slender, red-headed woman on the top step was, indeed, Miss France. He had not been surprised at the formal tone of her letter referring to his advertisement in the newspaper; she would not wish to refer to their first meeting, not in writing.
What this bear garden in the street was about he could not imagine, nor why she was exposing herself to it. It was bizarre, even by the standards of everyday life in London. And why, at ten in the morning, Miss France was dressed in a manner which suggested that, not only was she going to pay a morning call on the Prince Regent, but had donned most of the contents of her jewel box, he could not fathom. She seemed to have a lavish taste in dress, the only thing he had found about her so far that he did not admire. Other, of course, than her taste in men.
A snarl and a blast of foul breath to his left had him turn a broad shoulder and change his course slightly away from the shaggy brown beast. It seemed it truly was a bear garden. Dodging round the back of the coffin brake, he found himself at the foot of the steps.
‘Miss France?’
‘Yes?’ She turned and he stopped abruptly, one foot on the next step. Close to, he could ignore the ornate hairstyle, the dangling earrings, the frills and furbelows. The young woman who was staring back was the one who had stumbled into the coffee shop, and his heart performed the same futile dance it had then. She looked at him with her wide green eyes—such long lashes. In daylight he realised just how lush her mouth was. Her skin was like peaches and she had the look of a deer at bay. He corrected himself: an angry deer.
‘Mr Lovell—I do not know how you come to be here, but if you believe I have written to you, I can assure you it is all a mistake. Some malicious jest.’
What the devil was her household about, letting her expose herself to this mob? Two footmen, magnificently attired and well over the desirable six foot in height, flanked her butler, but none of them appeared to be able to control matters. It was doubtful that anything, short of a platoon of infantry, could.
‘Miss France, you really must go back inside.’ He reached the step beside her as shouts and Hibernian oaths behind him signalled that a fight had broken out amongst the chairmen.
‘I cannot leave my staff.…’
She has guts, he thought, seeing the way she moved protectively closer to her elderly butler. ‘I will stand here with them. Have you sent for the constables?’
‘Yes, some time ago. Mr Lovell, I know I should not presume upon you, but I would be so grateful for your help.’ She winced as the ripe oaths and threats grew louder.
‘Inside. Now.’ He half-turned, shielding her body with his own as he reached for the door handle. He wanted to pick her up, bundle her indoors, protect her.
She was going, almost, but she lingered, one hand on his sleeve. ‘I am so sorry about this.’
‘It is hardly your—’ The cobblestone came out of nowhere. He knew what it was as it struck his temple, then the world went black, the sounds ebbing into a sort of rushing as he went down. The last sensation he was aware of was the feel of fine cloth under his clutching fingers.
Lily knelt beside the sofa and tried to support Jack Lovell’s lolling head while she organised her panicking household. ‘Fakenham, send to the kitchen for warm water and bandages. Bring the other footmen in, close the front door and have them stand by in the hall in case anyone tries to break in—except Percy, send him for the physician.’
‘Ma’am, shall I fetch your maid to you? And, er …’ He gestured at the bosom of her gown. Lily spared it a glance. In falling Jack Lovell had caught at it, exposing her shift, the edge of her corset and the generous curve of the top of her right breast. It hardly seemed of importance now, with his face a mask of blood and the wound seemingly unquenchable.
Lily dragged the torn cloth up and tucked it into the edge of her stays. ‘Yes, find Janet. Tell her I need salves and bandages—and some pillows. And a blanket,’ she called after the butler’s retreating back.
She managed to wedge Mr Lovell back against the sofa cushions, heedless of the effect on the fine striped satin. Head wounds bled a lot, she knew that, but knowing something in theory was a far cry from facing the gory reality. Lily dragged her handkerchief out of her reticule and pressed it to the wound—where had that girl got to?
‘At last!’ she snapped as the door banged open. ‘Bring the bandages here, quickly.’
‘Lily, what the devil do you think you are doing?’ It was not her maid, it was Adrian.
‘What does it look like? Please, give me your handkerchief. This scrap of lace is no use.’
‘I will do no such thing.’ He stalked over to peer at the man on the sofa, then stepped back with a grimace of disgust. ‘Lily, you are covered in blood. Stop that at once.’
‘And let him bleed to death?’ she demanded. Oh, he was slumped so awkwardly now she could hardly get any pressure on the wound. She tugged at the broad shoulders, but he was too big for her to move. ‘Jack! Jack, can you hear me?’
The man groaned and shifted slightly, letting his head fall on to her breast as she struggled to keep the handkerchief in place. The door opened. ‘Janet, finally! Make me a pad with those bandages. Good, now stop cringing and help me—’
‘Get out.’ She was so taken aback by Adrian’s curt command that for a moment Lily could only gape at him from her crouched position by the sofa. Janet gave a little squeak of alarm and scuttled out before she could call her back.
‘How dare you! What right have you to order my maid—’
‘I have every right, and the sooner you learn it the better, if you intend to be Lady Randall. I come here and find the house the focus of some sort of vulgar riot, I have to enter through the back door like a servant and I find my soon-to-be wife half-naked, clutching some tradesman to her bosom. Who the devil is he?’
For some reason, she was not prepared to admit she knew Jack. ‘I have no idea. He came to my aid and was hurt by a flying stone. And I am not half-naked, my gown was slightly torn as he fell, that is all.’
‘No idea?’ His voice sneered. ‘I heard you call him by name. Do you take me for a fool?’
‘No,