Page 84 of The Heiress's Daughter
“You think?” Zoë said, and without warning she opened her mouth and let out a shrill, ululating sound. It sent a shiver down Clarissa’s back. Before the uncanny sound had even died away, urchins appeared from everywhere. They pelted rotten vegetables and fruit at the men, who swore and ducked and made horrible threats.
“Are these fellows bothering you, Miss Studley?” Lord Randall appeared from behind them. He twisted the handle of his cane and pulled out a sword. His smile was cold as he said, “Now, gentlemen, who wants the first taste of my steel?” He lunged forward, swishing the sword.
The men edged back. “Come on, he’s only one man,” the leader snarled, wiping a splat of rotten fruit off his face.
“You go first then, Jake,” another one said. A chunk of something yellow dribbled down his front.
Seconds later the burly guard appeared, panting, from behind the thugs. He grabbed one of the brutes by the collar, flung him backward hard against a wall and shoved through the gap he’d made in the ring of ruffians to stand with Lord Randall in front of the girls, brandishing a short wooden cudgel. Over his shoulder he said to Clarissa, “Sorry, miss, lost you for a moment there.”
“Two of them now,” one of the thugs said, brushing rotten fruit off his face. “And I don’t like the look of that big bruiser.”
“Yeah, s’not worth it,” said another.
In seconds the men melted away. The gang of urchins loitered. Lord Randall sheathed his sword-stick, put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “Thanks for your help.” He tossed the coins to the children, who scrambled to collect them.
He turned to Clarissa and snapped, “Into the hackney cab—now!”
“I found Zoë,” Clarissa said unnecessarily. She was still holding on to Zoë’s hand, worried she might run off again.
“So. I. See.” He seemed furious.
They returned to where the cab was standing. “Couldn’t leave it untended, milor’. Not in a place like this,” the driver began apologetically. Lord Randall impatiently waved his excuses away. He opened the door. “Get in,” he told them curtly.
“Just a minute,” Zoë said, and ran down to where the old woman with the pipe was sitting.
Clarissa went to follow but Lord Randall caught her arm and stopped her. “If she doesn’t want to come, she’s not going to stay,” he told her. “She’ll only run away again, and this time we might not be so lucky.”
He was right. She couldn’t force Zoë to stay. Clarissa bit her lip as Zoë bent over the old woman. To her amazement, after a brief word, Zoë hugged her. Then she returned to where they were standing beside the carriage.
Zoë stared defiantly up at Lord Randall, who was scowling. “I’ve known Old Moll all my life. She didn’t know who you were and didn’t trust you. So she warned me to hide.”
Without a word, Lord Randall strode down the alley toward the old woman. Zoë tensed, but Clarissa put a hand on her arm, saying, “It’s all right. He won’t hurt her.”
“How do you know? Din’t you see his face? He’s bloody furious.”
“I know, but he won’t hurt her, I’m sure of it.” Clarissa didn’t know how she knew that Lord Randall would never harm a woman, but she had no doubt of it.
Whatever he said to the old lady was brief, but he flipped something to her that she caught, something that glinted in the light, and then he marched back to the carriage. “Bellaire Gardens,” he snapped to the driver. He flung himself inside and the cab moved off.
Chapter Thirteen
Race sat slouched in the corner of the cab, staring unseeing out of the window as they rattled over the cobblestones. His mind kept bringing up the sight of Clarissa, desperately clutching her sister’s hand as those filthy jackals closed in on them.
Why the devil had she left the carriage? He’d ordered her to stay—and she’d promised she would!
If he hadn’t found them…
He’d almost been too late. Anything could have happened to her. The possibilities ate at him.
“What was that sound you made?” Clarissa asked Zoë. “It was quite uncanny.”
Zoë laughed. “It worked, din’t it? An Arab family used to live above Maman and me, and the girls taught me to make that sound. It’s tricky to do—took me ages to get it right, but once I did, we used it to call for help, or warn each other.” She darted a glance at Race. “Whistling, too, a sorta code. Which is what Old Moll did to send that warning to me.”
Race didn’t respond: he didn’t trust himself to speak. He was still too angry, and their blithe discussion—as if they hadn’t been inches from death or worse, as if it had all been a delightful adventure—infuriated him.
“I wasn’t sure anyone would be around who remembered it—I was just a nipper when Maman died and I was taken away—but seems some people remember. I reckon Old Moll heard it and sent the street rats after Jake and his boys.” She laughed. “A right mess they made of them.”
Clarissa and Betty laughed, too.
