My Runaway Heart (10 page)

"It's all right, Aunt Winnie, truly." Hoping
she sounded convincing, Lindsay took care to avoid Matilda's eyes. "In
fact, I'm so tired. I've been dancing all night."

"So you have, dear girl, as should any belle of
the ball! Such a glorious triumph!"

"Yes, well, I thought perhaps you wouldn't mind if
we could return home. It's been such a long day—a lovely day, a lovely evening,"
she quickly amended, "but bed right now sounds just as lovely to me."

"And so we shall return home," proclaimed
Aunt Winifred, snapping her fan shut. "Although I was most willing to stay
late—anything to see you having such a wonderful time, but a boxing match, of
all things! Dreadful business. Ah, well, shall we see to our good-nights?"

"Oh, Aunt Winnie, could you thank Lady
Sefton
and the other Patronesses for me while I go wait in
the carriage? My heels are so blistered I fear I should sit down at once."

Lindsay didn't wait for an answer but headed for the
stairs; she doubted she had more than a few precious moments before Aunt
Winifred and Matilda would join her. Her heart beating madly, she ignored
curious glances as she dashed down the broad marble steps and out the front
door. King Street was clogged with waiting carriages. Most were private, but a
few coaches for hire were vying for passengers. Lindsay approached the nearest
empty one.

"Need a carriage, miss?" shouted the wiry
coachman, flashing
her a
gap-toothed grin.

She moved close to the driver's box, keeping her voice
low. "Yes, I do, but not right now. Sixteen Piccadilly at quarter past
midnight—I'll pay you well. Can you be there?"

A speculative look lit his narrow face, making Lindsay
feel no small amount of discomfort.

"Yes or no, sir, or I'll find another—"

"I'll be there, right as rain, miss. Sixteen
Piccadilly."

Exhilaration gripping her as he tipped his black hat
and gave another grin, Lindsay turned without another word and looked for the
Penney coach, reaching the vehicle parked on the opposite side of the street
just as Aunt Winifred and Matilda stepped from the brick building. In another
moment she was settled against the plush seat, smiling so broadly to herself
that her face hurt.

Everyone would be there. Yes, that was exactly what
Lord
Bridley
had said, and to Lindsay, such news
could mean only one thing.

Jared might be there, too.

***

Lindsay knew she was at the right location the moment
she disembarked from the hired coach, the hearty roar of men's voices spilling
from the hotel into the street.

"I
ain't
one to open me
mouth when it's not welcome, miss, but are you sure that you wouldn't rather
return '
ome
? A
boxin
' match
is no fit place for a lady—"

"I'll be fine, sir, but thank you for your
concern," she assured the coachman, adjusting her hood around her face
just as she had done last night before she'd entered Tom's Cellar. "And
don't forget. I paid you extra—you won't say a word to anyone about bringing me
here."

"No, no, not a word. And you've me word on that,
Ned King's pledge as good as gold. Shall I wait right 'ere for you, miss, just
in case y' change your mind once you're inside?"

"No, that won't be necessary."

But Lindsay wasn't so sure when a trio of drunkards
stumbled down the hotel steps as she ascended, one of the men making a bleary
comment about her that made her cheeks flame. Something about taking a peek
under her cloak . . . ?

The coach clattering noisily down the
gaslit
street drew her attention from the door, Ned King,
if that indeed had been the man's name, obviously having taken her at her word.
Lindsay took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, but still kept her head
bowed as she entered the hotel.

And once more she allowed the unholy din to lead her,
that and the motley swirl of humanity moving in and out of a pair of double
doors to her right. Dapper aristocrats and prosperous-looking merchants elbowed
aside plainly dressed working men even as shabby young boys, probably pickpockets
much as those last night, darted and wove past legs and feet.

Lindsay was relieved to see a few women, their
high-pitched, sometimes shrill laughter sounding almost out of place in the
predominantly masculine throng. She guessed at once their sort from their
garish clothing and easy manner, one woman—more a girl, really—even going so
far as to give her male companion a good-natured squeeze between the legs,
which made Lindsay blush and look away.

It seemed she had no sooner joined those milling nearest
the doors when she was swept inside what appeared to be a huge dining room,
darkened but for a well-lit square at its center, yet that wasn't the first
thing she noticed. She gasped, her eyes suddenly burning as a smell so intense
assailed her that she almost turned around and fled.

Sweat.

Male sweat, pungent and nearly overpowering. And no
wonder, with so many men packed into one room, no matter how cavernous.

Keeping close to the wall, she inched her way toward
the lighted arena, past onlookers shouting so fiercely that she feared she
might become deaf. Belligerent pairs here and there were cursing at one another
and even trading punches, and she would have received a vicious blow to her jaw
if she hadn't seen one burly fellow's swing go wide and ducked.

"Watch yourself, you bloody fool. Didn't you see
the little lady passing by?"

Lindsay sucked in her breath in surprise as she felt
two big hands suddenly at her waist, someone lifting her bodily and setting her
feet on a table where a few other women had already sought refuge.

"There you
go,
sweet'eart
. That'll keep you out of trouble and give you a
fine view, too!"

Lindsay couldn't find her voice to thank the
man,
she was so stunned to be virtually on display, the
other women making much of lifting their skirts and showing white flashes of
thigh. She merely clutched her cloak tighter, her arms hugging her breasts; she
felt tempted to close her eyes and pretend she was anywhere but standing on
that table. Yet she was thankful the hoards of men seemed more interested in
the proceedings in the arena, a roar of approval going up when one of the two
men hammering away at each other slumped to his knees.

"Aye, fists like legs of mutton, that's our Tom
Cribb
!" cried an onlooker, fresh wagers filling the
air that the famed pugilist's opponent wouldn't dare to rise and fight on.

And if
Cribb
was the fighter
left standing, as broad as a barn and towering as an oak, Lindsay began to pray
that his leaner, smaller opponent remained on his knees. She felt like closing
her eyes again when the man—Lord
Bridley
had said the
young upstart was from Wales—swayed to his feet, only to be pummeled so
mercilessly that he soon crashed face-first to the floor.

She could only imagine how long the fight had lasted
before she arrived, and now it became clear to her that it was over, as a roar
of such triumph went up from every throat that she clapped her hands over her
ears. And then it happened, so abrupt a shift of attention that her gaze grew
wide and fearful.

Suddenly it seemed that all eyes had focused upon the
three other women displaying themselves atop the table, the boldest of the trio
baring her generous breasts for everyone to see. Grateful that the room was so
dim for whatever
cover
it offered, Lindsay at once
tried to climb down from the table, but a host of hands reached out to push her
back up.

"Oh, no, you don't, wench. Take off
yer
cloak and give us a look!"

"I say we auction them off, each chit to the
highest bidder!"

Lindsay tried desperately to jump again, this time as
many hands if not more forcing her back. As tears sprang to her eyes, she felt
someone tug roughly at her cloak while bids began to ring out all around.

"Five guineas for the wench with the cloak!"

"No, ten—"

"And I say twenty!"

"One hundred pounds!"

Chapter 9

Lindsay stared incredulously into the astonished crowd,
daring not to hope as she saw a tall gentleman stride toward the table. The
room was so dark she couldn't see his face, but when he drew closer, such
relief filled her that she thought her knees might buckle.

"Are you daft, man? One hundred pounds and you don't
even know what the wench looks like?" a portly fellow shouted nearby, his
cry taken up by other raucous voices as hands reached out once more to wrench
at her cloak.

Desperately Lindsay staggered to the center of the
table, kicking and striking with balled fists in a futile attempt to fend off
her attackers, but she jumped when a deafening blast rocked the room, the smell
of gunpowder filling the air. Other onlookers jumped, too, some men diving to
the floor to seek cover, the three women shrieking and scrambling in terror
from the table while Lindsay gaped at fared as he slipped a pistol into his
coat. Then he held out his hand to her, a wry smile on his lips, although it
didn't reach his eyes.

"I prefer surprises. Come."

She did, holding gratefully onto his broad shoulders as
he lifted her from the table, the stunned silence shattered by uproarious
laughter and shouts of approval as Jared's words were echoed from man to man.

But sheer bedlam was created when he suddenly drew a
thick handful of bank notes from a coat pocket and threw them high into the
air. The place went mad. As grown men jumped up and down like frantic children
to snatch at the fluttering money, Lindsay was swept off her feet, Jared
carrying her from the room.

He didn't speak or scarcely look at her until they had
passed through the hotel, and then it was only to set her down almost rudely on
the front steps, his face as grim as his gaze as he grabbed her by the hand and
yanked her along with him. With a brusque wave he flagged down a passing coach,
Lindsay suddenly wondering from his tense silence as he lifted her none too
gently inside if he intended not to accompany her but simply to tell the driver
where to take her home.

He seemed to hesitate, too, standing there on the
street as he glanced over his shoulder at
Offley's
and then looked back to the coachman, a low curse escaping him when he made his
decision and joined her.

"Just drive, man!" he shouted, clearly
irritated. He took the opposite seat and shoved his fingers through his hair.
Then he leaned back, bracing one lean leg against her seat and staring out the
window as if he didn't trust himself further to speak.

The rhythmic clopping of the horses' hooves on the
cobbled street and the creaking of the carriage reigned as the only sounds for
long moments. Lindsay decided it was best for once that she simply hold her
tongue.

She imagined Jared must be angry with her. She had
almost found herself overcome by an impossible fix. Certainly her identity
would have become known if she had been rudely divested of her cloak, for Lord
Ambrose Lamb and Lord
Bridley
would have recognized
her, if not other gentlemen of the ton with whom she was acquainted. It had not
occurred to her that things might go so terribly wrong, but she hadn't been to
a boxing match before. How could she have known?

"Are you hungry?"

Lindsay met Jared's eyes, startled more that there
seemed little anger in his voice than about the unexpectedness of his query. "A
bit. Actually, I haven't eaten since dinner at two o'clock, and not much even
then. My stomach hasn't felt quite right since . . . well, the ale."

"Ah, yes, the ale."

That bloody useless ale, Jared echoed to himself with
frustration, although he did his best to keep his expression calm. The ale he
had foisted upon her in the hope that she would drink enough to make her good
and sick and reluctant to venture out late again or have anything more to do
with him.

But obviously his lesson had failed utterly, for here
she was, sitting across from him, as damned lovely as a sinner's dream and
looking no worse for whatever ill effects had plagued her, and probably with no
idea how close she had come to being devoured by that crowd—blast it all to hell!

"Driver, stop at that tavern ahead." Jared
turned back to Lindsay, tempted to grab and shake her hard, which was exactly
what he had wanted to do outside
Offley's
hotel, if
he hadn't been so intent upon seeing her safely away from the place.

Even better would be to pull her over his knee and give
that pert rump a sound whack or two, yet what good would that do? He wasn't
dealing with a child but with a woman, an incredibly foolhardy young woman at
that—by God, and what of Matilda? If that feisty old Scotswoman, who'd made him
feel more a boy in short pants than a grown man, knew Lindsay had sneaked out
again . . .

As the carriage rumbled to a halt, Jared had to tell
himself resolutely to stick to his new plan, although his first impulse was to
command the driver to set out at once for Piccadilly. But his gut instincts
were also telling him that if he didn't follow an admittedly ruthless course of
action, Miss Lindsay Somerset might well find herself in another dire situation
in which she would have no hope of a rescuer.

And no matter he had thought his hands washed of her
last night, Jared considered grimly; given this latest antic, the last thing he
wanted on his conscience was her downfall. Elise's already weighed heavily
enough upon him.

"The Boar's Head, milord."

As the coachman swept open the carriage door, Jared
stepped out and beckoned to Lindsay, her brilliant smile making him think how
easily such a look might forgive the chit anything. But
dammit
,
not tonight.