Wedding Night Revenge (2 page)

Lucinda heard the whimper and darted an anxious look her way. 'It's probably not him. I'm sorry. 'Twas a stupid thing to say. That gentleman looks to be too young. The Major must now be in his thirties... He's probably paunchy and greying...and in Ireland...'

'It's him,' Rachel rebutted remotely. Oh, it was him.

She'd known him instantly, yet believed she had forgotten his face. Though he was some distance away, she was sure she could see his gentian eyes; detect a soft Irish brogue on the warm air.

She blinked, took in more of the situation. He was driving a precarious-looking high-flyer and by his side, barely reaching his shoulder, was a dainty female companion looking cool and elegant in sherbet-lemon muslin. The woman's face was hidden from view by a parasol twirling sideways, protecting her face from the afternoon sun low in the western sky.

Just a wisp of hair as black as his own could be seen straying beneath her pansy-trimmed straw bonnet.

'I believe that's Signora Laviola with him,' Lucinda said. 'Yes, it is,' she confirmed excitedly as the woman swung her head playfully to one side, as though hiding her coy expression from her laughing companion.

'Don't stare so, Lucinda,' Rachel begged. 'He might turn arid see us.'

'He looks to be too engrossed with the sultry songbird,' Lucinda noted. 'So does Lord Harley. See, over there in that curricle with those other goggling fools. The latest gossip is that the lovely Laviola was about to agree to Harley's protection when she dropped him like a stone in favour of a wealthier lover...' Her confidence trailed into belated, tactful silence.

Abruptly, Rachel sat back in the landau's comfy squabs, pulled her own bonnet and parasol askew so it allowed the sun at her complexion but shielded her face from idle glances from the left. 'What
is
blocking the road?'

she muttered impatiently, bobbing about to see up ahead. Although some distance apart, the landau and the high-flyer were practically neck and neck and at a standstill, for every conceivable type of conveyance seemed to be, of a sudden, jamming the narrow street.

Lucinda began darting about, too, desperate to get a better look at the Italian soprano who had been in London but a few months, yet had set tongues wagging the moment she arrived. The
signora
was the toast of the
ton:
she had the voice of an angel and a heavenly body every devil wanted in his bed...so Dorothy Draper had told her. Lucinda wondered if her husband, Paul, figured amongst the knaves. She resolved to ask him...perhaps tomorrow, when she felt less fat and homely. She craned her neck more determinedly, but was thwarted in seeing much at all by a hackney cab on the left-hand side that had locked wheels with a brewer's dray. The jarvey had attempted to insinuate an uneasy path between the dray and a coal cart and was now well and truly wedged. No doubt he had been keen to deliver his fare to his destination on time and get a nice tip. Had he managed the manoeuvre it would have been a miracle and money well earned; the narrow street was now choking with carriages and the babble of frustrated people keen to get about their business.

Agitated by the increasing likelihood of a glossy ebony head turning her way to investigate the jarvey's raucous complaints—which seemed to drown out everyone else's—Rachel jumped up to discover what was causing the bottleneck. Her straining senses just caught a few guttural expletives and a wafting aroma of pulped apples. Their cloying aroma hung heavy on the hot air as she watched a costermonger airing his grievances to a listless beagle with much pointing and gesticulating at his upset barrow and spoiled fruit.

The altercation to one side of her, between the jarvey and the young brewer, redrew her attention as they began swapping increasingly inventive insults.

The passenger in the hackney then poked his powdered periwig through the window of the cab and made an extremely common gesture at the coalman, who had felt entitled to add his two penn'orth to the raging debate on road manners on account of his bent spokes.

Rachel gave her driver's sleeve a tug. 'Can you not turn this thing about, Ralph?' she begged vainly, for she knew already such a manoeuvre was nigh on impossible in such a crush.

'T'ain't as simple as that, Miss Rachel, or I'd a bin gorn long since. Ladies shouldn't hafta listen ta such tawk.' This observation was accompanied by a baleful glare at the lad on the dray and a censorial shake of the head at the judicial-looking crimped head.

'What is it to you? Eh?' demanded the perspiring face beneath the wig on noting Ralph's disgusted demeanour.

'Ladies present,' Ralph intoned with a nod at his passengers.

'Magistrate present,' the man countered with a grim smirk. 'And I've a good nose for a no-good knave...'

'I'm persuaded...' Ralph muttered beneath his breath.

The magistrate continued tapping his sizeable, greasy proboscis. His mean little eyes swivelled about then he stabbed a finger at the brewer. 'I scent a fiddler. I don't recall that name on your cart, or you, from the Brewster Sessions. I've a mind to see your liquor licence.' It was a wild aim that hit a bull's-eye.

The young man glared at Ralph. 'Now see wot yer done. Couldn't keep yer beak out an' now yer've set the beak on me!'

'Don't dare tawk to me in that there tone o' voice,'

Ralph bellowed, and within a moment was off his perch and on to the dusty cobbles. His temper rendered him deaf to Rachel's hissed orders for him to immediately remount and get them home. Whipping off his smart driver's coat and hat, he shoved starched cotton sleeves towards his elbows.

With an agile spring, the young brewer was soon off his dray and confronting him. Having prepared their palms with spittle, there ensued a pugilistic ritual where they bobbed and swayed whilst circling a circumspect yard apart. Just as Ralph took a stance on his bowed legs and dared to draw off a proper punch, his fist was stopped mid-flight by a large, powerful hand.

'Is there a problem?'

Rachel had not seen anyone approach: she had been preoccupied with priming her weapon; if necessary, she was prepared to prevent Ralph being laid low by braining his youthful opponent with her rolled umbrella.

Lucinda's swift intake of breath had Rachel instinctively forcing open the parasol with jittery fingers and tilting it over her face. The soft Irish drawl had already given her a fair warning of who the newcomer might be and as a result her heart was hammering at an alarming rate.

Ralph made a show of belligerently flexing his recently released fingers.

'Lucky you 'appened by, sir. I'd 'ave decked 'im toot sweet an' no mistake.'

The coalman, atop his cart, had been leaning forward in rapt anticipation.

Now he flopped back, folded his arms, and expressed his disappointment at the aborted bout with some weird facial contortions. He denied Ralph his optimism regarding the outcome by sucking his teeth and shaking his head.

The magistrate welcomed the arbitrator by waving an indolent hand through the cab window. He knew an affluent, influential gentleman when he spotted one and liked to foster any such acquaintance. These two ruffians...' a finger indicated the coalman and the brewer '...are aggressive fellows taking fun from impeding me in my lawful business. I'm due in sessions...' he extricated his pocket watch '...damme...some ten minutes since.' And this fellow—' he nodded so sharply at Ralph his wig slid over his eyes '—is determined to be as insolent and offensive as may be. I'll see the lot of 'em flogged and fined for disorderly conduct and obstructing a Justice of the Peace.' The periwig was straightened with a satisfied flourish.

'That's not fair! And not true, either!' Unable to listen to the wild exaggerations, Rachel emerged from behind her parasol, which she shut with a snap. With a deep breath she raised her golden head.

The distinguished gentleman with jet-black hair and a devastating likeness to her erstwhile fiance was so close to the side of the landau she could have reached out and touched him. Bravely she skimmed nonchalant sky-blue eyes over his strong familiar features. It's not him: I don't recall him being quite so tall or so dark, was one welcome and coherent thought which emerged from the jumble in her mind. Her eyes sped on to glare at his worship.

The magistrate was gawping in disbelief that this pretty little madam had made such bold accusations, or that they could possibly be directed at himself.

'If you had waited your turn in the queue instead of attempting to barge ahead, the carriage wheels would not have tangled. We would now all be going peaceably about our business,' Rachel reasoned hotly, leaving his worship in no doubt he was the target of her denunciation.

The magistrate's jowls sunk to his chest before he recovered composure and set them wobbling with a determined twitch of his head. 'My dear young woman.' His tone dripped condescension. 'Have you any idea just
who
you are talking to?
Who
you are accusing of that grave sin: bearing false witness?' His smooth tone conveyed he knew exactly who
he
was talking to and he was not impressed: she was one of those blue-stockings with milky liberal views and no proper respect for the authority of a superior male.

'But I know who you are,' a congenial mellow voice interjected. 'Arthur Goodwin, Esquire, isn't it now? I believe I recognise you from Mrs Crawford's little soiree last week...or is it that I'm about to bear false witness...?'

Arthur Goodwin, Esquire, suddenly lost the puffed- up demeanour he had adopted when this fine-looking gentleman claimed his acquaintance and instead looked exceedingly wary. 'Indeed,' he croaked. 'I...er...I... might have been there...I don't seem to recall you.'

'I'm not offended...'

Arthur's eyes swivelled at the irony in the accented remark. That particular evening, at that particular lady's bacchanalian extravaganza, he couldn't have recalled his own name, he'd been so foxed. He'd barely remembered to retrieve his breeches from the mattress of the adolescent minx who'd serviced him before wending his way home. 'Pray remind me who you are, sir?' he burbled in a jolly tone.

'Devane...Lord Devane. Strange that we meet again so soon. How is Mrs Goodwin? You mentioned she was suffering, as I recall.'

'Indeed...I might have said so...' Arthur squeaked, already fearful of the peal he'd be rung by his good lady should she get wind of his regular visits to Mrs Crawford's to discover if new young girls were taken on. Should the virtuous lady come to hear that he'd been known to curse her as a frigid, scab-faced slut when in his cups... Like a timid snail, his head retracted into the safety of the cab.

Samuel Smith, the young man who had been driving the dray, was ready with a covert wink of sheer admiration as his saviour looked his way. It was followed by a nod of gratitude.

'Care to help with this wheel of yours?' Connor responded drily, a tip of his dark head indicating the buckled rim.

Sam immediately set to.

'Have
you
a spare minute to lend a hand?' Connor enquired with a look at the coalman.

The slump-shouldered merchant jerked out of the trance brought on by the fascinating proceedings, realising he'd forgotten about his final delivery, lumped on the back of his cart.

The jarvey gamely pitched in too and, like the other men, speculatively eyed this handsome gentry cove with such a quiet, commanding way about him.

Sam Smith found himself pondering his lordship's motives for getting involved at all; which brought him to sliding glances at the beautiful blonde woman in the top-notch landau. His Nibs seemed particularly interested in her; although she seemed determined to look every place possible but at him. Which was odd, considering her friend couldn't take her curious eyes off him.

But it had been the fair lady who'd championed them. Usually the Quality didn't know the trades existed... until they needed a hasty ride or a fire in the grate, or their cellar stocked on the cheap. But she'd spoken up for three menials for no more reason than that the pompous toad of a beak hadn't been right nor fair... But then he'd heard tell of his worship Arthur Goodwin and already knew he never was...

Ralph bent knowledgeably over the warped axle, testing its weight, ready to assist the men with the repairs. Rachel discreetly beckoned him, with frantic fingers, desperate to be heading home. There were many dark, heart-rending memories being stirred by the sudden appearance of this man who resembled Connor Flinte so exactly, and she wanted to be alone to decide if she were brave enough today to pick them over.

The traffic was again moving freely. In the distance the costermonger could just be glimpsed towing his cart and at intervals gesturing obscenities at those vehicles whose passengers were still irritated enough at the delay to chivvy him as they passed. The only other stationary vehicles left in the street were Lord Devane's phaeton and Lord Harley's curricle, which had now managed to manoeuvre a path to the phaeton and its pretty passenger.

Surreptitiously, Rachel observed the Italian woman who was acting the coquette with three raucous dandies. However diligently she flirted, she was managing to keep a vigilant dark eye on her absent companion. Rachel hadn't noticed Lord Devane look back at
her
once.

Lord Devane?
Rachel rolled the name around in her •

mind. From what she recalled, he sounded like Major Flinte when he spoke, he looked like him when she allowed her eyes to flit to his rugged visage...but the name was new to her. Was the man too...?

'Let us be heading home, Ralph,' tumbled from her lips whilst her mind investigated the absurd possibility that there might be two such striking-looking Irish gentlemen, and a case of mistaken identity. She knew he had a stepbrother of about the same age, but remembered that Jason Davenport had fair hair and, being of different parentage, naturally looked quite different.