The lady pushed back mud-streaked strands of her hair, which was a glorious mane, the red of a sailor’s favorite sunset. Michael watched it flow down her back to her ample waist, as she pushed up one more time.
“Our savior is obviously here—”
He should not have, but he did anyway. Michael reached out and grasped her bicep. The strength he felt beneath the sleeve of her gown surprised him. This was no delicate debutante maneuvering for attention. “Just wait,” he said softly.
She hesitated, glancing at his grip on her arm, then peered up at him with eyes the color of emeralds. “Whoareyou?”
The stable boy pressed a blanket at him. Michael took it and spread it on the mud in front of the woman. “I’m Michael. Grab my arm and pull yourself onto the blanket. I’ll be able to help you up from there without your slipping.”
She did, pulling herself and her soaked gown forward with the same strength he had felt in her arm. He looked around at the maid. “Help with her skirts.”
The younger woman leaped into action, and together they lifted the lady back to her feet. Michael took the second blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. She paused to wipe some of the mud from her face, then took a long, deep breath and seemed to gather her dignity. “Thank you, sir, for your aid.”
“Lady Clara!”
They all turned to see Rose standing at the corner of the stable. The alarm in her eyes counterweighed a stern set to her mouth as she looked from one person to another.
The lady muttered a low curse, then made a quick curtsy. “Lady Newbury.” Behind her, the maid did the same—a curtsy, but without the curse.
Rose stepped closer. “What the devil is going on?”
“I tripped.”
Rose put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, Clara. Not again.”
Clara straightened her shoulders, and Michael watched as a bit of pride came back into her face. “It seems to be a rather unfortunate habit of mine, my lady.”
“But what are you doing in our alley? Your house is on the other side of the square.”
Twin spots of red appeared on Clara’s cheeks, and Michael realized it was the first sign that Clara—whoever she was—felt the least bit of embarrassment about all of this. Most of the ladies he had met would have been mortified into silence by now.
“I was looking for something, my lady.”
“Looking for—”
“Her cat!” The two words seemed to burst from the young maid, and they all looked at her.
“A cat?” Michael asked, an uncomfortable suspicion growing in his gut. “What kind of cat?”
“A kitten, to be precise.” Clara tugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Pockets. That’s her name. Because she rides in my pocket all the time.” She patted the side of her muslin skirt. “I always ask my modiste to put pockets in my skirts because a reticule is nice but often never enough.” Her eyes brightened, and her gaze grew distant. “You never know what you will find when you are riding or walking across the fields.” She bounced up on her toes, excitement lighting her face. “I find some of the most amazing things. That’s how I found Pockets. I mean, Maid Marian almost found her, which would have been most unfortunate—”
“Maid Marian.” Michael had thought he was following her words until that moment.
Clara seemed to return to earth then, her eyes dulling a bit as she glanced at him, then back to Rose. “My peregrine. But Moses—he’s a dog, a setter we hunt with—got to her—Pockets, that is—first. Wee thing. Must have gotten lost from her mother. But so adorable. I had to keep her. I probably should have left her in the country, but she sleeps on my pillow, and I really wanted to—we were out for a walk around the square and she just jumped out of my pocket and ran. We tried to follow her, but she ran too fast. I thought I saw her come down this alley—and that’s when I tripped, and this gentleman came—”
Her words cut off and her eyes shot wide as she looked from Rose to Michael. “Oh. Michael.” Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh! You areLordMichael Ashton!”
The maid let out a tiny squeak, and she curtsied again.
Clara looked at Rose again. “What have I done?”
Rose shook her head and shot a warning glance at Michael. She held out her hand and gestured for Clara and the maid to follow her. “Nothing yet. Come, let us get you cleaned up before you venture back out into the square.” Rose glared at Michael and the two stable boys. “And no one here willevermention this to anyone. Understood?”
“Yes, milady!” The two stable boys nodded at her, then fled.
Michael watched the three women head around the stable, following them from a distance as they entered through the servant’s door, chatting as if they were old friends. Rose kept murmuring quiet reassurances to Clara, who seemed to volley between irritation about what had happened and embarrassment that she was imposing on Rose’s good nature.
As the door closed behind them, Michael leaned against the wall of the stable, mentally cataloging the details of the past fifteen minutes. He had learned to do such intellectual organizing over the past three months. It had helped direct him as he tried to keep the goal his father had laid before all three of his sons: return to Society and find wives. It had helped him make sense of his world.
