Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

A rkwright had once claimed Lucien's mind was like a steam train, barreling through whatever problem confronted him with no notion of the countryside flashing by. That had never been more true than tonight.

The burst of applause seemed to come out of nowhere, the red velvet curtains and soaring ceiling of the Theater Royal swimming back into focus as actors took their final bows. Lucien looked at Grace, his jaw tightening. Vulnerability still clung to her lovely features after Freyne's jibes earlier. Damned if Lucien would let such a situation stand. He had waged campaigns to change public opinion before and seldom lost, but this battle to douse rumors Freyne and gossips like Giselle might try to ignite could be the most important he'd ever waged.

Anyone who distressed his wife would discover just how ruthless the Viscount Everdene could be. Grace deserved so much more from him than he would ever be able to give her, but this much was true: Lucien had wed Grace by choice. And it was time all of London society knew he held her in the highest esteem.

He usually made haste to exit the theater and avoid mere social prattle. But tonight, he tucked Grace's arm in his with a possessiveness impossible to mistake, determined to seek out the crème of London society and set a few things straight.

The conversations bled together as they made their way down the sweeping stairs to the rotunda, Lucien stopping about every step to show off his wife:

"May I introduce you to Lady Everdene, the woman I am fortunate enough to call my wife…" alternating in one form or another with "…Had I known what pleasure marriage to this lady would bring, I would have reconsidered my position long ago…"

It was obvious Grace knew what he was doing. Her dark-fringed eyes found his time and again, and she smiled up at him with amusement and something a trifle poignant.

Chill night air rippled the blue ribbons of her bonnet as he finally escorted her outside.

Gaslights shone in pools of gold in the haze of coal smoke that perpetually blanketed the city, lanterns hanging from hooks on the endless line of coaches and hackney cabs that waited to carry theatergoers away. Some of the vendors still waited for late-night commerce while opera dancers and courtesans hoped to catch a rich man's eye.

"Oh, Lucien," Grace exclaimed, straining on tiptoe to see over the crowd. "Over there! Sibby Rose is still here selling flowers!"

As he followed her gaze to where the child stood, looking very small amidst the throng, his wife's voice echoed in his memory: There are Little Nells all over London …

He managed a smile. "Consideration for my valet's nerves demands that I ask: Is the little miss accompanied by her brother?"

Grace's laughter drove back some of the anger Freyne had stirred within him. "Scrap is nowhere to be seen," she promised.

"Then I will happily buy every last petal and send the child home."

She squeezed his arm, pressing it into the soft pillow of her breast. A shaft of heat went through him and he was suddenly impatient to get Grace back to Raven's Court and make love to her in a way that would drive Freyne and Giselle's vile insinuations from her mind. But that pleasure would be have to be delayed since Lord and Lady Downe were sweeping toward them with determined smiles, one more social connection that could only help dispel ugly rumors.

Lucien glimpsed the Harcourt coach part way down the road, the coachman on the high seat with the footman watching for them to appear. Perhaps he wouldn't wait for the privacy of the bedchamber after all. He pictured Grace in the dim coach, her skin, creamy, glowing as his hand skimmed up her stockinged leg…

"Everdene! Ho, Everdene!" A shrill voice hailed him from the crowd. Lucien ground his teeth, the enticing image of ravishing his wife fading. Sir Edward Allen barreled toward them, his loose-jointed arms waving like a marionette. "Your pardon, Lady Everdene," the man gasped as he reached them. "I must speak to his lordship alone."

"Then make an appointment to do so." Lucien leveled him a quelling glare. "My wife has a particular errand in mind and surely you cannot think I would leave her unaccompanied in a crowd."

Lady Downe bustled up to them with a bright smile. "Perhaps my husband and I could serve as her escorts. We were hoping to find you in this crush and inquire about Lady Everdene's work with the Sunday Schools."

Lucien had known that Lady Downe had a philanthropical bent. It seemed Grace might draw another patroness to her cause.

Grace smiled at the aristocratic couple, even though Lucien sensed she was worried that Sibby Rose might slip away. "That would be lovely, your ladyship," she said warmly. "I was just going to buy some flowers."

Lucien pressed coins into her hand before the Downes swept her away to make the purchase. "I will join you directly," he told her. He waited until she was some distance away. "What is this important matter?" he demanded of Sir Edward. "I am recently wed and eager to be with my wife." He glanced in Grace's direction, noting that she, too, had been detained some ways from her destination as Lord and Lady Downe paused to introduce her to a dowager in scarlet plumes.

"My friend Carlisle did not arrive here until intermission," Sir Edward said.

"I cannot see why Carlisle's tardiness should concern me."

"He had to take a longer route because some Irish ruffian outside the Crook and Bull was riling up the common herd. You saw what happened on St. James's Street when the gentlemen's clubs were attacked?"

He hadn't been present, but he had seen the aftermath. Learned just how quickly a mob could get out of hand.

Sir Edward mopped his brow with a handkerchief. "Carlisle said they were shouting something about Drury Lane."

The back of Lucien's neck prickled and he glanced beyond the line of grand coaches and footman to see the shadowy streets beyond. Was there some threat simmering beneath the usual hubbub of the theater crowd?

He searched for Grace in the sea of bonnets, top hats, and plumed turbans. He spotted her just as the first warning split the night.

"'Ware! A mob's coming…"

Shouts penetrated the cacophony of sound, like thunder building before a storm. How the devil had he not noticed?

Ragged men suddenly took shape in the shadows, pushing into the street flanking the theater, their faces distorted as growing numbers loomed in the gas light. Crude weapons were clasped in their hands.

"Death to blood-sucking 'ristocrats!" a guttural voice called. "Gi' us bread!"

Cries of alarm rippled through the crowd, people shoving and jostling, trying to get to their coaches or flee down Catherine Street. Lucien's gut clenched as he pushed his way through the mass of panicked theatergoers and tried to reach the place where he'd last seen Grace moments before. But all he saw was Lord Downe hastening his wife away, Grace nowhere to be found. A moment of panic swept through Lucien as he looked around, then saw her making her way toward the child as the mob boiled toward them like an angry sea.

Objects pelted through the air, a rotting vegetable splatting against a nearby woman's velvet cloak. Stones and bottles and God knew what followed.

He heard names being called, people crying out in pain and panic, desperate to escape the hail of objects. He needed to get Grace.

"There 'e is!" someone shouted, "Lord—" A crack of gunfire split the air. Lucien heard a scream from where Grace had been a moment ago, but she had vanished in the panicked crowd.

Something glanced off his back as he shouldered his way to where he had last seen her. He trod on what looked to be her bonnet, crushed on the ground, then saw the bright splash of blue ribbons before the crowd converged in once again.

"Grace!" he shouted.

"Here! Lucien!"

Relief shot through him at the sound of her voice. She was curled above what looked to be a small bundle of rags, protecting it from the panicked throng. Sibby Rose Nolan lay on the ground like a broken doll, blood streaming from a cut on her brow. The box with the last of her flowers had splintered, and the strap that had held it around her shoulders twisted.

"Something struck her!" Grace cried. "She can't…can't…"

He reached them at last. With an oath, Lucien disentangled the broken box from the girl, then scooped her up. She weighed little more than a kitten. "I'll get us out of here," he told Grace. "Hold tight to my arm." He had marked the place where his coachman sat on his perch, searching for him in the churning crowd. He pushed his way toward the coach, Grace stumbling beside him as the coachman gestured to a footman who came wading toward the embattled group. With the servants' help, Lucien managed to get his wife into the coach, then handed Sibby Rose to her.

Grace cradled the child against her, heedless of her gown as Lucien pulled a box from beneath the coach seat and withdrew a gleaming pistol.

The coach rocked dangerously as it lurched into motion. Bottles smashed against the vehicle's walls. The crack of the whip and whinnies of distressed horses seemed to go on forever as Lucien guarded the window, pistol poised.

Bit by bit, the roar of the crowd faded into the distance, the bone-jarring jolts lessened, the blows to the coach stopped. Only the jingle of harness, the clop of the horses hooves and the thundering of his heart continued to strain Lucien's nerves.

He knocked on the roof of the coach, and the equipage shuddered to a halt.

"I think we've lost them, my lord," the coachman called. "Where are we to go?"

The girl roused in Grace's arms, her tears streaming down her dirty cheeks. "I want me mammy."

"Of course you do, sweeting," Grace soothed. "We will take you to her as soon as may be." Lucien glanced down at the child. Grace had wrapped her shawl around the girl's trembling body. One stick-thin leg stuck out, the cotton stocking carefully darned. It was a miracle she wasn't hurt worse.

"Child, where do you live?" Lucien asked.

She looked at him in the light of the coach lantern, her eyes too large in her pinched face. "L—Little White Lion Street."

One of seven streets that made up a hell of crime and poverty and vice.

He turned to Grace. "I'd not send the devil himself into the Seven Dials tonight. We'll take her to Raven's Court, and then, once the streets are quiet, we'll return her home."

"Did you hear that, Sibby Rose?" Grace said, stroking the little girl's hair. "You'll sleep tonight in a princess bed with velvet curtains and eat all the cake you want. Then, as soon as the angry people are gone, Lord Everdene and I will take you to your mama ourselves."

Not quite what Lucien had envisioned, and yet, he suddenly thought of the daughter he and Grace might have one day. How vulnerable any child would be.

Grace peered up at him, her face so drawn it made his chest ache. "Her mother will be frantic," she whispered.

Would she be? Lucien wondered. Or would the child's mother be one of those gin-soaked, hate-filled women Pinchbeck so often spoke of? The type of woman urging the mob on?