Page 4 of Not Quite a Lady
‘What the hell?’ Adrian pushed himself off her and jerkeddown the window. ‘Granger, what the devil are you about?’
Lily tore at the opposite door handle and half-jumped, half-fell into the roadway. Where was she?
The thoroughfare seemed nightmarish as the fog swirled around the flambeaux and lanterns. The road itself was congested with hackneys and private coaches, men with handcarts and sedan chairs. The pavements were thronged, mostly with men, but amongst them the cream of the demi-monde in paint and feathers.
Lily swung around, still grasping the door handle in an effort to keep her balance. Piccadilly, at least she knew where she was.
‘Get back in here, Lily!’ Adrian was scrambling across the seat and reaching for her.
Lily took to her heels, feeling her cloak tear from her shoulders as she went. She looked back, saw he was jumping down from the carriage. The moment’s inattention was almost fatal, the kerb tripped her and she fell headlong, only to be caught up by a tall buck.
‘Well, damme but here’s a pretty thing to have fall into my arms.’ His long fingers slid under her chin. ‘Let me look at you, sweetheart.’
‘No.’ Lily tore herself free and ran on, looking for a hiding place. The fog swirled as a door swung open and she glimpsed an interior as vivid and unreal as a stage setting.
Hatchett’s Coffee Housethe sign said.Sanctuary.
The man in the corner booth at the back of Hatchett’s leaned forward watching the door for long minutes after it closed, keeping his face as expressionless as when he had shaken hands and said goodnight to his companion.
Then he sat back abruptly and rubbed both hands over his face, as though to scrub away the evening’s effort at diplomacy and persuasion. The wasted effort.
What did that leave now Hotchkinson had proved unwilling? He flicked through the notebook on the table beside him. A few more introductions to take up, one or two ideas still to be tried, before his money ran out and he had to return home.
One hundred pounds he had allowed himself for this London venture, budgeting it as carefully as a prudent young lady making her come-out might. His expenditure was far more prosaic, but his aim was the same as hers: to catch a rich man. Only he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that what he had to offer was much less attractive.
He clicked his fingers at the waiter and ordered the house ordinary. There were cheaper eating houses and his choice of this one had been a futile attempt to impress Hotchkinson, but now he was here he would indulge himself for once.
When the man came with the food and a tankard of porter he asked for paper and ink. This warm, noisy space was a more pleasant place to spend the evening than his room at the Green Dragon off Compton Street.
He forked some braised gammon and greens, then pulled forward his notebook and began to draft.
Persons desirous of investing…No, too wordy.An attractive investment…Only it was apparently unfashionablyunattractive. If he was promoting a canal now, that would be another matter altogether.
He paused to tear off a hunk of bread and glance at the advertisements in that day’sMorning Chroniclefor inspiration.
…will provide the fullest particulars at the sign of the Green Dragon.
And if this did not work? How much longer could he afford to stay in London? He flicked to the back of the book and did some rapid calculations. He would have to budget carefully, unless he was prepared to travel home in the basket of the stage.
The door opened again, slamming back against a settle andsending a swirl of damp air into the warm room. He glanced up, along with most of the men in the room, then slowly lowered his quill.
The person who stumbled in was not, as one might have expected, someone slightly the worse for wear, looking for a strong cup of coffee, or a meal to sober himself up.
The young woman who half-fell into the room, pushing the door shut behind her and leaning back against it, was no street walker. She was not even one of the expensive barques of frailty who flaunted themselves amongst the fashionable crowd like so many moths seeking nectar.
This was a lady, as incongruous and as flustered as if she had been picked up by a whirlwind off the dance floor at Almack’s and dropped into the midst of this coffee house.
She had no cloak over her gown which was, even to his eye, in the extreme height of fashion. Diamonds dripped from her ears and flashed across her bosom with the unmistakeable watery fire of the real thing. Her rich auburn hair was elaborately dressed and pinned with yet more gems.
He corrected his initial fancy – not so much Almack’s, she seemed to have been snatched from the floor of Carlton House itself. He half expected Prinny to stumble in after her.
The other occupants of the coffee house just gawped at the vision, transfixed.
The lady stared around, green eyes wide, looked at him and he found he was on his feet. Her dress was torn, her hair was coming down: she was in trouble.
He took a step forward and she held out a hand. ‘Please, sir, I beg you, hide me.’
Chapter Two
