Page 52 of Love Wasn’t Built in a Day

“You bloody liar!”

“I’m not lying, but you’re a thieving arsehole!”

Hetty looked around as angry voices filled the air, coming closer by the second.

“Take that back, I never took nothing from you. You’re the bleeding thief, light fingered bastard—”

“My lady!” Jenkins squeaked, making a grab for Hetty too late, as she opened the gate and hurried through.

“What on earth is all the shouting about?” she demanded, using her grandmother’s most imperious voice to cut through the throng. For she saw, too late and rather to her dismay, that there were a considerable number of men gathered, every one of them red faced with fury. The two in the centre of the group were pushing and shoving each other, but they paused upon hearing Hetty’s strident tone.

“This ain’t none of your affair, Miss, if you’ll beg my pardon for saying so,” one man said. His voice was respectful but firm and he took off his hat as he spoke. He forgot her a moment later, however, as he turned his back on her and his attention to the fellow he’d been haranguing. “But it’s yours, Billy Preston, and if you don’t give me back what’s mine, I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll not forget in a hurry.”

“You tell ‘im, Larry!” called another harsh voice.

“You keep out of this, Mark. It’s nowt to do with you!” the fellow called Billy said angrily.

Mark—a young, handsome fellow with curly brown hair — held up his hands in a peaceable gesture and shook his head.

“I’d get out of here if I were you, Miss,” he told them, sidling up to Hetty and looking her up and down with interest. “It’ll get ugly soon.”

“That’s Lady Henrietta to you,” Hetty said, trying to make herself heard over the increasing noise, hating herself for sounding so snooty but praying she could distract the men before a riot broke out. She raised her voice. “I am a guest of the Dowager Duchess of Hawkney, who I believe has an interest in this site. I would hate to have to tell her that the men were ill-behaved louts.”

“My lady, forgive my disrespect, but some folk only understand one kind of language,” the fellow who had removed his hat so politely said with a grim smile, before drawing back his fist.

His intention was obvious, and Hetty did not know why on earth she did such a foolish thing, but she instinctively reached out and grabbed his arm, holding him back. “Don’t do that! You’ll end up losing your job and then—”

But whoever the fellow was, his blood was up. He jerked his elbow back harder to free himself, jabbing Hetty in the face. The shock of it was worse than the impact: the realisation that he had struck her, and that perhaps she had underestimated the danger she was in. Stunned, she gave a little cry of pain and let go of his arm, stumbling back to fall on her backside in the dust. She sprawled in an ungainly heap, her skirts billowing out, showing her ankles to the men who turned to gape at her.

“My lady!” Jenkins cried, rushing through the gate and elbowing men right and left to get to her. “Get out of my way, you great brutes!”

“Oh, Barlow! Now you’ve done it,” chortled Mark, who leered down at Hetty, ogling her exposed legs.

Jenkins tugged at Hetty’s skirts, restoring her modesty before gazing in worry at her face. “Oh, my dear. What have you done this time?”

“What the bloody hell is going on here!”

If the crowd of workmen had sounded angry, the newcomer to the scene was incandescent with rage. The men swiped off their hats, standing back and looking guilty as Mr Bramwell shoved his way through, his grey eyes glittering with such menace that everyone stepped away from him.

“Oh, Lady Hetty, now you’ve done it,” Jenkins muttered under her breath as she crouched down to inspect the damage.

The man, Larry, who had hit her in the face—albeit accidentally—hurried towards her, suddenly eager to help as he became aware he might be in a spot of trouble.

“Lay a finger on her and I’ll break it,” Mr Bramwell growled, pushing the fellow aside.

He knelt beside her, heedless of his immaculate boots and clean trousers on the mucky ground. “Are you hurt?”

Hetty glanced at him warily, aware he was just as angry with her, but noting the worry in his eyes with some reassurance. She touched delicate fingers to her cheek, which was throbbing unpleasantly. “I’ll live,” she said ruefully. “Please help me up.”

He gave a curt nod and slid his arm around her shoulders. Despite his obvious fury, his touch was gentle, careful, and Hetty felt nothing but relief and gratitude as he helped her to her feet. “What happened?” he asked, his voice low and concerned now.

“It was an accident, nothing more,” she said, hoping to avoid a worse scene, but the fellow responsible for her throbbing cheek had a sudden attack of conscience.

“It were my fault, Mr Bramwell,” he said, turning his hat around and around in his hands. “Leastways, I never meant to hurt her, it was Billy I was aiming to thump, her ladyship only intervened to stop me.”

“I never did nowt!” Billy Preston replied doggedly. “He reckons I swiped his tools, but I never did. Why would I? I’ve me own tools, a present from me Da, they were and fine too. Finer than his rubbishy old—”

“You take that back—”