A Proper Scandal (4 page)

He held out a hand to calm her. “Be assured, miss, the sooner I can discover a route to the street, the sooner I will be out of your way.” He peered out the window and swore. They were at least three stories up.

“But you don't mean to . . . ” Her question trailed off.

“I don't mean to stay the night,” he assured her, feeling around the window facing and clattering the lock. “I don't mean to stay five minutes, if I can help it.”

She thought about this and then asked, “Can you take me with you?”

His hands stilled. “With me? Take you with me . . . to Cambridge?”

She shook her head. “Take me with you out of this room. Take me out of this building. Out of Southwark. To London?” She raised up a little, having said this. She watched him.

Her eyes, he thought, were a curious color. Aquamarine. So unexpected. He'd prepared himself to be matched with the fattest, most tired, most garish woman in the history of the occupation. Instead, he found himself staring into the aquamarine eyes of a girl who wanted exactly the same thing that he did.

“We'll go together, then.” The words left his mouth before he'd realized he'd said them. “Why not? Since we're a team now, could I trouble you for the loan of your poker?” He smiled.

She looked at the iron rod in her hands.

“Window's painted shut,” he explained. “Many times over. We'll be here all night if we bother with the lock. If no one came when I raged against the door, I'm doubtful they'll come at the sound of breaking glass. Especially if you scream.”

“Scream?” she repeated.

“To cover the racket. If you stand by the door and affect something shrill and perhaps a bit desperate, that should do it. You'll, er, know what's a common enough sound for a . . . er . . . ” He turned back to the window. “For this time of night.”

He saw her think about this. He thought of her shoulder, the fear in her eyes, the torn shift. Likely she'd done enough screaming for a lifetime.

“Or we can give it a go without the scream.” He stretched out his hand and nodded toward the poker. “I'll let you decide.”

“I can scream,” she said. She knelt and placed the iron poker on the floor and slid it in his direction.

“Right,” he said, scooping it up. “Wait—let's block the door with this wardrobe, shall we? When they do come, it will slow them down.”

She stood back as he muscled the heavy, uneven piece of furniture in front of the door.

When the wardrobe had been safely lodged against the door, he tapped the sharp end of the pointer three times against the glass, testing it. It would shatter easily with one thrust.

He nodded to her. “Go on, then,” he said.

The girl stood stock-still for three or four beats, and then she took a deep breath, braced herself on the wardrobe, and screamed.

F
ive minutes later, they hit the wet ground of the alley outside the window with a one, two,
smack.

“Bloody hell,” Bryson grumbled, launching from the ground and swatting at his knees. “Not only are my boots scuffed but my trousers torn as well.”

The girl bounced up and scrambled against the wall.

“You all right?” He glanced at the tear in his trousers. “These breeches were new, and I needed them to last for at least a bloody year. Typical. My father does these things intentionally.”

He straightened and looked up and down the alley. “And now where are we? With torn breeches and only two days to get halfway across the country?” He looked at her. “Which way to the river? Do you know?”

She reached for the wall beside her and said nothing.

“The river?” he prompted. “The River Thames? Wide? Dirty? Lots of boats?”

She considered this.

“Separates this sodden slum from the outskirts of London?” he added. “Look, I know you can speak, so please. If you can impart anything about where we are, now is the time to share it. Surely it's clear that I'm not going to harm you. I only landed on your, er, head when the drainpipe snapped. I lost my hold those last three yards. Sorry.” He grimaced. “You broke my fall. For which I'm grateful.” He flashed her a smile.

She looked away.

“Right.” He sighed. “Let's try a new tack. What's happened to your shoulder?”

She shuffled down the wall two more steps. “Stay back,” she whispered.

He nodded. “Right. Very well. I'm back. What's happened? A cut? Oh, God is it a . . . ” He forgot his promise to stay back and closed in on her. She cowered, flattening against the wall.

“Easy,” he said. “I only want a look.”

“Please,” she whispered brokenly, “do not touch . . . ”

“Bloody hell, it
is,”
he said, marveling. “You've been
branded.
Is that it? A cattle brand burned into your shoulder?”

She turned her face away and leaned her forehead against the wall.

He peered over her, fighting the urge to pull away the blood-soaked shoulder of her shift. The wound was festering, angry, red and black.

“How far down your back does it stretch?” he whispered. He moved to take better advantage of the moonlight.

Her face crumpled against the wall. She let out a broken sob.

Bryson swore. “Look, we've got to get out of here.”

He left her to cross the alley and look around a corner. They would have miles to walk in the cloud-filled darkness before they reached reliable civilization.

“You mentioned London. Is this where you would you like to go? I've a schoolmate there who might be persuaded to give me a ride back to Cambridgeshire.”

Her head popped up from the wall. “London—yes, please. I'll need only the direction to Mayfair. To Grosvenor Square.”

He craned around. “Mayfair? What business do you have in Mayfair?”

She shook her head.

“Right,” he said. He wouldn't pry. “Mayfair. That is as good a place as any for me to start. We can hardly stay here.” He looked left and right. “The last thing I remember was my father's carriage rolling over Blackfriars Bridge. If we are near Blackfriars, we can walk to Mayfair by morning. Assuming we can find the direction of the bloody Thames.”

“The river is to the left,” she said. She took a step from the wall.

“Ah, that was going to be my guess. Great minds think alike.”

“It was the smell.”

“Great noses, then.”

“If you please,” she said, louder now, “I cannot be found out. I cannot be taken back. I'll die before I go back.”

“Then we really do think alike. Can you manage if we begin at a run?”

“Yes.”

“I meant with your wounded shoulder.”

“My legs are well.”

“Right.” At the mention of her legs, his eyes roamed, unbidden, down her body and up again. He cleared his throat and looked away. “Let's put a little distance behind us, several blocks or so. Then it should be safe to stay parallel to the water but not in the full view of the bank.”

He shoved off in that direction at a trot, and she darted behind him. He'd planned to lope for a quarter hour and then allow her walk, but she kept an enviable pace, and he felt safe enough to slow down to a walk after just two blocks. They breathed in unison, deep, hard breaths. Bryson stole a look. He wondered again about her age.

Her face, furrowed now with fear and fatigue, was quite pretty—beautiful even. It was not often he saw a female with unbound hair. Not even a braid or a pin to keep it back from her face. Red-gold waves fell down her back like a cape. He fought the irrational urge to reach out and tuck it behind her ear.

He cleared his throat. “Do you have a name?” he asked.

She shook her head, a barely perceptible shake. She returned her focus to the road.

“Not the talkative sort, are you?” He nodded. “I understand. What a devil of a night this has been. Unfortunately, I am accustomed to these sorts of misadventures. I can frequently be found crawling out of windows or leaping from speeding carriages. It becomes old hat, I'm afraid.”

She looked at him, and he gestured toward a street to their left.

“My father,” he provided.

When she said nothing, he felt compelled to explain. “He has a bad habit of subjecting me to his diversions by force, which, unfortunately, seem to become more unpleasant, not to mention more illegal, by the year. The truth is, it amuses him to humiliate me.”

They turned down a long, curved thoroughfare with no torchlight, and he glanced at her again. One thing was certain, she'd never jeopardize their escape by making any sort of fuss. Even her footfalls were quiet on the gravel street. The hem of her shift barely rustled as she took two steps to his one.

“I'm called Bryson,” he said after a moment. “Bryson Courtland. One day, God willing, I shall be Viscount Rainsleigh. My father is the viscount now, unfortunately.”

Bloody hell but that was chatty. He told himself that he'd heard this about prostitutes. That you could say things to them that you wouldn't ordinarily risk with someone you would see again.

“Likely you've never heard of him,” he continued darkly. “This is because my father makes no effort toward the title. Nor does he mind the property. His reputation precedes him, but only with enraged creditors, gamblers, addicts.” He looked at her and then asked, inspired, “Or perhaps you do know him?”

“I am not in acquaintance of your father, sir.”

Sir.

No one called him that, although, rightfully, they should. But there were very few servants left at Rossmore Court—servants had to be paid—and he kept to himself at school.

They heard a carriage in the distance, thank God. He needed a reason to stop talking. It was probably nothing, but he held up a hand to stay her. They ducked around a corner and collapsed against the side of a building. Making no sound, he spidered his fingers across the brick until he found her hand, and he covered it with his own. The conveyance rolled past without incident, and he said, “Harmless,” and waved her back to the walk.

“Will your father be cross that you left him behind?” she whispered.

“I don't really care,” he said with a sigh. “My main concern is getting back to school. My holiday, such that it was, is over, and I must be to Cambridge by Monday. After tonight, I'd say that going home would be imprudent. But I will need my belongings. If I don't send for them, my father will sell them. Eventually I will go back, because I look after my brother, God save him.”

A cat skittered in front of them and disappeared under a rise of steps. He watched her follow it with her eyes. “And what will you do? What business do you have in Mayfair?”

“I have an aunt there—in Grosvenor Square,” she said.

“I wish I had an aunt in Grosvenor Square.” He looked right and left and crossed the street, motioning for her to follow. “Will there be a doctor for your shoulder? In the care of your aunt?”

“Yes.”

“And, perhaps . . . Honest employ?”

They rounded a corner before she could reply, and there it was. Blackfriars Bridge. It lay across the inky water of the Thames like an outstretched arm.

“Is this it?” she asked.

“It is.” He squinted through the mist rising from the river at the bridge. “Hmmm. More traffic than I had hoped this time of night, but we needn't worry. My father would never find it worth his trouble to come after me now.” He scanned the bridge. “These are farmers mostly, headed to market . . . setting up stalls for the morning crush. We'll keep our heads down. Make quick work of it. We can easily be on the other side in a quarter hour.”

She nodded but held back, waiting for him to lead.

“Right,” he said, and he shoved off the ledge toward the bridge. She hurried after him and then surprised him by grabbing his hand. Her grip was warm and firm and . . . familiar, as if he'd been holding her hand all of his life. He was unaccustomed to being touched by anyone and certainly not by a girl, but it was surprisingly easy to clasp back, to gently lead her. He grew surer of their safety and direction with every step.

She let out a shaky sigh when they descended the steps on the opposite bank, and he said, “It won't be far now,” but he didn't let go of her hand. The sun was beginning to warm the horizon, and birds called from deep inside the leafy canopy of the street. They walked toward Westminster. He held her hand.

When they neared Green Park, he said, “It will be daylight soon. People will see us . . . servants making preparations for the day. Grosvenor Square is just a handful of blocks away. I wouldn't want you to appear suspicious to the other staff who work with your aunt.” He cleared his throat. “That is, the focus should be on your wound and reunion and not who the devil I may be.”

She dropped his hand, just like that. He looked down at it his empty palm, fighting the urge to take a step closer.

“I should like to walk alone from here,” she said, staring across the park.

“I didn't mean to dismiss you,” he said. Now he took the closer step. “I have every intention of seeing you the rest of the way. I'm simply trying to . . . ” he trailed off, frustrated. He had no idea what he was trying to do.

“I know the way,” she said. “You have been more than kind. You needn't trouble yourself. As you said, you must find your way back to school.”