A Scandalous Mistress. Juliet Landon

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      Last night, she had promised a distraught and heavily pregnant young woman, via the woman’s equally distressed companion, that she would help to release her from the workhouse where she was about to be taken. Amelie fully intended to go there that very night, and the last thing she needed was an extra guard on the gate put there by the interfering Lord Elyot. What on earth could have possessed her to agree to an introduction?

      She heard the aristocratic drawl again, smoother than northern tones, more languid, deep and perfectly enunciated. His teeth were good too, and she recalled how something inside her had lurched a little at the way his eyes had held hers, gently but with devastating assurance. They had not raked over her as so many other men’s did, trespassing and too familiar. No, they had almost smiled, telling her that there were things to be shared, given the opportunity.

      Well, my fine lord, she thought, grinding her teeth, there will be no opportunity. I shall know how to steer well clear of you and any family who believe charity to be a waste of time. Hateful, arrogant people.

      What colour were his eyes?

      Pulling herself up sharply, she redirected her thoughts to the three over-endowed sphinxes and their hideous cobra companion, drawing the Kashmir shawl closer about her at the sudden chill.

      After a later-than-usual dinner, after the unwrapping of every single purchase and an examination of each item, after umpteen reviews on the perfection of Lord Rayne’s neckcloth, his hair, his noble features, Caterina was at last persuaded to retire to bed with The Mysteries of Udolpho, which she had longed to read but had not been allowed to, for fear her younger sister Sara should want to do the same. Such were the joys of leaving one’s siblings behind.

      Immediately, Amelie began a transformation from lady of fashion to dowdy old woman who might, in the dark, pass for a servant or an itinerant fruitpicker looking for work. She had seen the plight of the one to be rescued the day before, waiting, weeping outside the impressive Vestry Hall on Paradise Road, a grandiose Roman-style building that would have intimidated anyone by its sheer size alone. Amelie’s house was only a few doors away, and she and Caterina, passing on their way home from the apothecary’s shop, had been arrested by the pitying group of women who stood to sympathise and scold that the woman in question was being expected to walk all the way up to the workhouse on Hill Common. The woman’s companion, probably an aunt or her mother, had been shouldered aside by the beadle, but Amelie had managed to find out from her what was happening and to assure her, in a moment of extreme compassion, that she could rely on her help the very next night, one way or another.

      Previous rescues had been undertaken by those of Amelie’s devoted servants who were themselves of a similar background to the women and, so far, she’d had no need to risk her own discovery, nor would they have allowed her to if she had proposed it. This time, she had kept her plans to herself, knowing that the woman’s companion would need to recognise her.

      It was a fair hike up to Hill Common and a carriage would easily be identified so, instead of walking, she rode her donkey Isabelle. It was appropriate, she thought, confidently rejoicing that she was well ahead of that obnoxious man and his abortive schemes. What a pity it was that she would not see his reaction to the latest ‘springing of a young nobthatcher’. What disgusting jargon men used.

      The road was uphill, rough, and well beyond the street lights, and the rain that had threatened all afternoon had begun to fall heavily, turning the stony way into a river and soaking the thick shawl over Amelie’s head. At last she came to the great iron gates and the gatekeeper’s box from which the dim glow of a candle could be seen wavering in the draught. Sliding thankfully off Isabelle’s back, she saw the dark figure of a woman approach and could hardly contain her relief that she would not have to wait long on such a night. Soon, they would all three be safe and comfortable, and the new life would be welcomed instead of being someone’s burden.

      ‘Well met,’ she said, peering hard into the blackness and easing her reticule off her wrist. ‘Have you heard how your…sister…is? Or is she your daughter? Do forgive me, I didn’t see you too well.’

      ‘Aye, she’s well,’ the woman croaked. ‘No babe yet, though.’

      ‘And have you spoken to the gateman? He’ll cooperate, will he? Do we have to bribe the doorman, too?’

      ‘Oh, aye, each one as we pass through. How much did you bring, m’lady? If you’ll pardon me asking.’

      ‘Let’s get out of this downpour…over here under the tree.’

      The steady roar took on a different note as Amelie pulled the donkey behind her, then took the reticule out from beneath the folds of dripping wetness, turning her back on the woman to rest its weight on the saddle. It was in that brief moment of heed-lessness when Amelie should have been holding all her wits on a knife-edge that the woman’s hand darted like a weasel towards the bag of money, pulling it off the saddle and out of Amelie’s hands, swinging it away into an indistinct flurry of blackness.

      Bumping into Isabelle’s large head, Amelie threw herself after the woman and made a wild grab at her clothes, feeling the resistance and the ensuing twist as her fingers closed over the rough wet fabric. Unable to see, the two of them grappled and pulled, suffering the frantic grasp of fingers on head, hair, shoulders and throat, their feet slithering and tripping over tree roots. But the woman was stronger and older than her opponent and trained to every trick of the seasoned thief, and Amelie was taken by the hair, spun round and pushed so hard that she fell sprawling upon her front in one great lung-crushing thud that pressed her face into the wet ground with a squeak of expelled breath.

      The fight was over; the sound of fumbling, then of running feet on the track becoming fainter, and the unrelenting rain pattering noisily on the leaves above, throbbing like a pain, humiliating and raw. She had promised to help a woman in need and been robbed of the chance. Failure.

      ‘Isabelle…Isabelle?’ she called.

      She heard the jingle of the harness and a man’s voice urging the creature to come on and be quick about it, then a soft thwack on the animal’s wet rump.

      ‘Who…where are you?’ Amelie called. ‘Who is it?’ She struggled to gain a footing, but her boots were tangled in folds of wet skirts and she was unable to rise before a dark shape bent down to help her.

      ‘Forgive me, ma’am,’ he said, politely. ‘Allow me to help you up. Hold your hands out…no…this way.’

      ‘Where? How do I know you’re a friend?’

      ‘Well, you don’t, ma’am. But you can’t stay down there all night, can you? See, here’s your donkey. Come, let me help you. Are you hurt?’

      ‘Not much. I don’t know. That woman’s nowhere to be seen, I suppose?’

      ‘Gone, I’m afraid. Has she robbed you, ma’am? Did she take…?’

      ‘My reticule. Yes, it’s gone. Tch! Serves me right.’

      The stranger eased her up, releasing her arm immediately to look, as well as he was able, at the patch of ground round about. ‘No reticule, ma’am. It looks as if she must have taken it. I’d never have thought there’d be game-pullets like her out on a night like this, I must say. Shall I get hold of the gatekeeper for you?’

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