Autumn Rain (10 page)

CHAPTER 10

Nothing in her sheltered life had prepared her for the dirty hurly-burly of the streets around the St. James Market, and Elinor thought it inconceivable that such a place could be situated so close to the Prince of Wales's home. Market Lane itself was narrow, strewn with filth, and crowded with an assortment of street urchins, pickpockets, beggars, and bargain hunters who elbowed their way from stall to stall to examine all manner of wares. Ahead of her, a fellow haggled over two shillings for a silk waistcoat, calling it robbery.

A dirty hand caught at her skirt, pulling it, and when she looked down, a toothless beggar grinned up at her. With his free hand, he gestured to his ragged, empty pantleg. "A penny fer a soldier—a penny fer a soldier," he chanted, singsong. His eyes were glassy, his grin almost vacant. Mary started to brush him away, but Elinor fumbled in her reticule for some coins.

"Don't—"

But before she could stop her, her mistress was bending to hand him a shiny guinea.

Jeremy looked back uneasily, then bent close to Elinor to whisper, "Don't be a-showing the gold, my lady."

"Thankee. Thankee." The fellow's grin broadened, showing white gums. Holding the guinea up for all to see, he struggled to stand, then leaning on his gnarled staff, he hopped toward an alley.

"Humph! Going to smoke opium, or me name ain't Mary," the maid muttered.

Stung, Elinor snapped, "The man lost his leg for England! Would you let him starve?"

Noting the curious stares of the people around them, the young footman caught Elinor's arm and pulled her past the haggler, who'd got the price of his prize down to one shilling, seventy pence. Suddenly conscious of what he'd done, Jeremy dropped his hand and mumbled, "Your pardon, my lady, but I'd not see you robbed—or worse." He looked down at the bulging reticule. "Best tuck that under your arm," he advised nervously.

"Here"—Mary removed her plain brown shawl and draped it over Elinor's arm to cover it—"too many flash coves as would cut our throats fer that."

"Did you see the price of that waistcoat?" Elinor asked, betraying her awe. "Arthur must pay fifty times that."

"Daresay it could be flashed," the footman said.

"Flashed?"

"Filched," Mary explained. "A flash is a thief."

It was a different world, this enclave of enterprise that thrived within a stone's throw of the fashionable houses in Piccadilly. And for all that it was seedy and seamy, it was nonetheless exciting to explore. Stopping from time to time to feel of silk scarves "from Norwich," cloth openly described as having eluded "Boney's blockade," colored kid slippers of every description, soft gloves, artificial flowers, dyed ostrich plumes, exquisite laces, and purl-edged ribbons at a fraction of the price at Grafton's. It was a veritable paradise to one used to the sedate establishments Elinor patronized.

"Ye paid what he asked!" Mary fairly howled after the purchase of a fine Norwich shawl. "Before we are to the end, they'll all know ye fer the gentry mort ye are! They'll up the price when they see ye."

"A gentry mort?"

"A lady," Mary muttered in explanation. "Leave the ribbons and laces ter me." To demonstrate, she stepped up to a stall displaying what was marked as "Belgian lace." Winking at the proprietor, she gestured to Elinor, "Me n' the duchess'd like some of the wide."

"And me and the Queen'd be pleased to sell," he shot back. "Six shillings to the yard."

Elinor nearly gasped at the cheapness, but Mary retorted, "We ain't here to be robbed. Three."

The fellow lifted the delicate lace, letting them see the pattern. "It's worth six," he insisted.

"Come on, my lady," Mary murmured. "Old man Grosset's got the same thing fer less."

"Five shillings—it's my best," the merchant whined.

"It's lovely," Elinor said, reaching to touch it.

"Wait until ye see Grosset's."

"Five shillings," he repeated.

"Come on," Mary insisted. "We can do better."

"How much better?" he asked, wavering.

"Four."

"You only offered me three!"

"Well, if he was to start at four, I expect he'll come to three, don't ye know?" the maid countered practically.

"Four."

"And thread to match."

"A penny a spool."

"Come on, my lady." Looking across to the nearly apoplectic proprietor, Mary shook her head. "And ye could have said ye had her Grace fer a customer."

He exhaled heavily. "And the thread."

"Done."

It wasn't until Jeremy had the paper-wrapped lace tucked beneath his arm that Elinor dared to speak. "Why did you say I was a duchess?"

"Because he knows it'll look good on his sign," Mary answered blithely.

"But it's a lie!"

The maid shrugged. "It's the way it's done."

"Does Mr. Grosset have it cheaper?"

A slow smile spread over the maid's face, then she giggled. "Mr. Grosset is the barber in my village, but he don't know that."

"That's dishonest."

"No, it ain't—he expects it." Unchastened, Mary winked at her. "No telling what duchess he'll claim fer patroness, ye know."

A painted woman gestured invitingly to the young footman, and he reddened. Another one, bolder than the first, stepped into his path. Pouting prettily, she leaned into him, but the effect was spoiled by the smell of sweat. Mary pushed the woman aside, chiding her, "Here now, ye hussy—keep yer hands off me husband!"

The footman's flush deepened, and he choked as though he were strangling, but Mary grasped his arm firmly, propelling him past. "Ye don't want one of 'em," she advised him low, "fer they are like ter give ye the clap."

"What's the clap?" Elinor wanted to know.

Jeremy indulged in a full fit of coughing, but the maid merely shook her head. "Ye ain't got ter worry about it, 'cause the master don't consort with any of them."

About that time, the footman happened to notice that two men seemed to be following them. Marking them for cutpurses, he grasped his mistress's arm, urging her, "Run!"

"What?" She started to pull away, then realized he was indeed serious.

Mary looked back over her shoulder. "Oh—Lor!"

"I don't see—"

But Jeremy thrust Elinor ahead of him, muttering a curse she could not understand. When she looked up, she could see that the street ended in an alley.

"There's no way to go!"

But he pulled her into the alley, then paused to look for the way out. Even in daylight, it was a dark, dingy place, littered with beggars and men hunched over, their faces blank from rum or opium. Now there was no mistaking that they were being followed, for as they ran, so did those behind him. Panicked, the young footman yelled at Elinor, "Try to reach Jermyn Street beyond, and I will attempt to delay them!"

"Where?" Frightened, Elinor half-turned back, but the young man was determinedly blocking the narrow alley, his fists raised.

"Come on," Mary muttered, catching her mistress's arm. "Ye got ter turn at th' end."

The two women half-walked, half-ran deeper into the filth-filled footway. A sot grabbed for Elinor's slim skirt, streaking it with dirt, and she stumbled, tumbling into a drug-befuddled fellow. Scarce losing a stride, Mary pulled her up and continued dragging her along.

"This way," she panted, indicating a blind corner. "It's Jermyn Street—it's the way out!" For the briefest instant, Elinor looked back, but there was no sign of Jeremy or of the men who'd followed them. "Ain't no time ter waste!" Mary gasped. "We're marked!"

At the corner, a milling group of ruffians waited, their ragged clothes betraying a different desperation. Some still wore dirty, tattered bandages. For a moment, Elinor hung back, but Mary yanked the reticule from her wrist, then pushed her straightway at them.

"Ye got ter run inter the street!" Opening the fringed silk bag, the maid flashed the gold coins, tossing one out into the lane. It rolled into a garbage-filled puddle, where a dozen hands groped and clawed for it. "Go on!" Mary shouted. "I'll see ye out there!"

The mob surged forward, their interest in Elinor gone as her maid turned the purse inside out, scattering the money. Reaching the open street, Elinor looked back, seeing nothing but the crush of bodies scrambling like pigs for the slop. And she knew she could not leave Mary in that.

"Well, now—" A hand gripped her shoulder, spinning her around, and the smell of cheap rum nearly overwhelmed her as a man leered into her face. "Fancy—a gentry mort! Tad, we's got us a gentry mort!"

She jabbed him with her elbow, catching him in the stomach, then broke and ran directly into the street. Behind her, another fellow grabbed for her, only to roll away as a smart equippage careened around the corner. The driver and tiger shouted and cursed as the horses reared, and she fell, scrambling frantically on her hands and knees in the muddy street to escape the flailing hooves. The wheels rolled over her newly purchased shawl, grinding it into the mire, and the ironclad wheel spokes rattled past her head, catching one of the ribbons of her hat. It jerked free, tumbling her hair into dirty water.

Almost as quickly as she realized she lived, she knew she had to flee. She stumbled blindly for the opposite side, tearing her narrow skirt. Grasping it, she pulled it up, and gulped for enough air to sustain another run.

This time, when she was caught from behind, she turned to flail at her attacker, hitting and clawing blindly at him. "You little fool!" he shouted furiously, shaking her. "You could have been killed! Egad—Lady Kingsley!"

Despite the mud, despite her tangled, dirty hair, despite her ruined gown, she was still a beauty. Just staring into those amber eyes, he felt as though he could drown in them. Telling himself she was but a spoiled, pampered female like any other, he managed to sustain his anger. "What the devil are you doing here?" he demanded harshly.

She looked up into the Earl of Longford's face, then caught both his arms, choking, "We were robbed! My maid—I've got to go back for my maid!"

"The hell you do." For a moment, he steadied her, then looked to his tiger. "We've got to get her out of here," he muttered. When he perceived that she was still shaking uncontrollably, his fury faded. "You are all right—I'll see you home." Before she knew what he meant to do, he swung her up and dumped her into his open carriage. "Get down," he ordered curtly. "You can't be discovered, or there'll be the devil to pay."

"No!" She pushed open the door on the other side, and darted back toward the alley. "I've got to find Mary!"

"What the deuce—?" He had half a mind to leave her then, but as one of her earlier attackers ran after her, he knew he could not. "Hold the horses!" he shouted at his tiger, then he took off in pursuit.

As the fellow caught her, he was yanked back rudely from behind and sent sprawling against a wall. He started to rise, his hands balled into fists. "Try it," Lucien growled, "and I'll draw your cork." This time, when his hand grasped Elinor's, he held on. "There's naught you can do—come on."

"No! You don't understand—it was my folly—and they've got Mary—and Jeremy!" Tears streamed down her dirty face, streaking it, as she struggled to free her hand. "If anything's happened to them, I shall never forgive myself!"

He looked into the alley, seeing the melee as ruffians fought with beggars over a few gold coins. "You can't go back, you little goose," he muttered, pulling her back toward his open carriage. "You've got to get out of here."

"I cannot leave without them!" she cried, her voice rising hysterically. He slapped her then, and she stared in shock. "You hit me!"

"Get in."

"No!"

He uttered a long, unsatisfactory oath, then pushed her toward his bemused tiger. "Hold her—if you have to sit on her, hold her," he ordered tersely. His black eyes met Elinor's momentarily. "And if you run back in there, I'll leave you to that mob—do you understand me?"

She nodded mutely as the boy held both her arms from behind.

"What does this Mary look like?"

"She—she's got on a brown dress—and a cap—and a bonnet—brown-checked, I think," she mumbled. "Oh— please—"

Her concern moved him far more than her tears, for it reminded him of the battlefield, where men risked their lives to retrieve the wounded. He grasped his driving whip. "All right."

"And Jeremy—" But he'd already started back across the street. "Blue livery—he's got blue livery!" she called after him.

He strode into the alley, shouting for the mob to make way, and for a moment, it looked as though they meant to turn on him. But as he raised the coach whip, one of the ragged men yelled, "It's Longford! It's the major! He was at Talavera!"

"He's a swell!" someone countered, crouching as though he meant to jump.

But several of the others restrained him, then looked down, their eyes on the garbage and refuse in the alley. "Got no pension," a man muttered. "Got to eat."

It was the same everywhere, and Lucien knew it. He hesitated, uncomfortable with this reminder of how England rewarded those no longer able to fight. "Come round to my house in Berkeley Square—and I will see you are fed," he offered, ashamed. "But for now, I'd take the woman."

"What woman?"

"Brown dress and bonnet—she was with the lady."

"He means the one with the money," someone decided. "She ain't here—tossed the purse and ran."

"Where?"

"Back."

"No," someone else contradicted. "Into the den—over there."

The man who'd recognized him first held out a bright guinea in his dirty hand, but Lucien shook his head. "Keep it—she can afford it."

A crone lurked in the doorway, her face seemingly frozen in a vacant grin. Behind her, a small, wizened man, his face cracked and seamed, spoke up. "A tuppence fer a pipe—make a man fergit 'is troubles."

He pushed past both of them into the narrow room. It was dark and reeked of the smell of human refuse, vomit, and sweat. In the shadowy hell, men hunched against the wall or bent over the opium pipes, and as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, there was no mistaking the dreamy escape in their faces.

"Mary?" he asked, scanning the room.