Chapter 3
Chapter Three
K eynsham supposed that he was a little drunk.
It was unlike him to drink more than a few glasses of wine—or in this case, tankards of ale.
But then, it was also unlike him to come to this part of town. Ordinarily, he would have gone to White’s. But like all gentleman’s clubs, White’s was a hotbed of gossip. And he hadn’t felt up to brushing off impertinent questions about Miss Fairleigh, or about why he wasn’t at his grandmother’s annual ball.
Instead he’d walked aimlessly east—first along the wet pavements of Pall Mall, then along the Strand, and finally—when he realized that he was still stewing with irritation—all the way to Aldgate.
Usually exercise put him in a better temper. But tonight nothing seemed to be helping. Mrs. Fairleigh’s scheming, his father’s irresponsibility, his mother’s constant ill humor with Pomona…
And it wasn’t only that. All evening, he’d had the strange and unwelcome feeling that everything was about to change. He pushed it away. He’d had enough change already. Now he just wanted everything to stay the same.
He paused. It seemed unwise to go on to another tavern. If an obviously wealthy gentleman got too drunk in this part of London, he was liable to be robbed—and perhaps beaten, too. Although, as Keynsham spent almost every afternoon at Jackson’s, practicing bare-knuckle boxing, he didn’t consider that possibility seriously.
Still. He supposed that he ought to find a hackney and go home to hide in the library. His mother would have left by now. She’d be cross that he’d missed the ball—but as she was constantly cross anyway, it couldn’t make much difference.
He looked around for a cab. There was none in sight.
A little farther up the street he saw the figure of a woman pause under the single street light. Something about her caught his attention. She was out of place. Was she a Cyprian? No other woman would be alone in this area at night. In fact, even the whores usually stayed inside the bordellos here.
But she couldn’t be a whore. For one thing, even from here he could see that her clothing was far too modest. For another, there was a particular set to her shoulders that he recognized instantly.
It was the posture of a person who was afraid and hopeless, but forcing him- or herself to be brave anyway. He’d seen it before—in the war. He’d probably stood that same way himself, when he couldn’t let his men suspect that he had the slightest doubt or fear.
And the woman was being trailed by a pair of men, who seemed to be working up the courage to come out of the shadows where they were lurking. He’d seen that before, too.
“Oi! How much for a taste?” shouted one.
“Don’t think you can put your nose up and ignore us, slut!” shouted the other.
Really?
Yes, he was a little drunk. But he would have done what he did anyway. It was the right thing to do.
He strode quickly up to the woman, as though he knew her. “There you are, darling,” he said, sweeping his arm around her waist and ignoring the men. “What are you doing here? This is not at all where we agreed to meet your parents’ coach.”
She was too surprised to answer. He kept her firmly clasped against his side as he faced the drunken ruffians who’d been shouting at her. “Be off with you. You should know better than to harass a lady.”
“Oho! A lady now, is she?” said one.
“Not likely round here,” said the other. But they’d already backed away slightly.
He could feel the young woman trembling, but she gave no outward sign that she was frightened. “At the moment, I am making a generous allowance for the fact that you two are fools who evidently can’t hold your liquor. But if you offer my wife another insult, I will be forced to administer a beating from which you may never fully recover. Do I make myself clear?”
They stared at him a moment. He knew that they were calculating his height, his expensive jacket, his broad and muscular shoulders, and his hard stare.
The cocky expression vanished from first one, then the other’s face.
No, he wasn’t nearly as entertaining a target as a lone young woman had been.
Cowards.
Part of him suddenly wished that they would fight him. They could use a few hard blows to teach them to think twice before harassing a woman. And… well, he’d welcome the opportunity to work off some of the general annoyance that he felt.
But he could already sense that they were going to cut and run. And cut and run they did—disappearing into the dark mouth of a nearby lane. In moments even the sound of their footfalls was swallowed by the clamor of the city.
The woman wrenched away from him. “Let go of me.”
He stepped back. “I beg your pardon.”
“You have no right to touch me. And—and your breath stinks of alcohol!”
“I apologize if I alarmed you, madam.” He made her a sarcastic bow. “Perhaps you failed to notice that I was saving you from being mugged—or worse.”
“I could have warned them off myself.” Her eyes—what color were they? He couldn’t tell in this light—flashed up at him for a moment. A somewhat pointed chin lent a piquancy to what he could see of her face beneath the elongated brim of her fashionable bonnet. “I am not helpless .”
“I daresay that you are not. But those were rough men. You ought not to be alone in such an area at night.”
“And have you asked yourself why that is?” The eyes flashed again. “If it were not for men such as those... those brutes, a lady would not require a man to protect her! She would be perfectly safe walking on any street in England at any hour of the day or night. Indeed, it is rather a nice little racket that you men have going for yourselves—is it not?”
Keynsham stared at her in confused amusement. Apparently, he’d rescued some sort of bluestocking. “There can be no doubt that you are correct, madam. But until you are able to reform all of society, might I suggest that you allow me to accompany you back to your friends?”
She scowled up at him. “I require no help. And I have no friends.”