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“Oh, now!” cried one of the gentlemen, emerging from The Shrew and hearing the young lady’s voice. “What have we here?” Staggering awkwardly, he made his way towards where Charles was standing with his companion following after.
“A wench!” cried the second, sounding utterly delighted. “Bring her out, man! Let us see her!”
Charles shook his head grimly, hearing the young lady gasp with fright. Releasing her arm, he whispered for her to remain where she was and then took a few steps forward.
“Alas, she is gone from me, friends!” he exclaimed, coming towards the first man with a sadness in his voice that he prayed would be believed. “Gone back to whence she came. I had not enough coin for her.”
The man laughed and wobbled unsteadily. “She was too much for you then?”
“It seems so,” Charles replied, putting his arm around the man’s shoulders and attempting to turn him back around again. “Come now, you can find plenty of others like her, should you wish it.”
The second gentleman, who appeared less inebriated than the first, did not seem to accept Charles’s explanation. His eyes narrowed, and he looked behind Charles into the darkness as though he might see someone there.
“Are you quite certain she is gone?” he asked, shoving past Charles’s restraining hand. “Or are you just keeping her for yourself?”
Seeing that the second gentleman was about to reach the place where the young lady was hidden, Charles did not hesitate but shoved the first man hard, who fell easily enough, given just how much liquor was sloshing about inside him. Then he grasped the second man by the shoulder, who spun about in fury and attempted to plant Charles a facer.
The young lady screamed in horror as something connected painfully with Charles’s eye, making him stagger back.
“Leave me alone!” she shouted, her voice high pitched and filled with fright. “I am here to find my father, Lord Leighton, that is all!”
Charles could barely hear her, his ears ringing loudly as he fell back, his head aching furiously.
“Keeping you all for himself, is he?” the second man snarled, reaching for the young lady who had now come out of the corner in which she had stood in an apparent attempt to defend Charles. “Well, we’ll see about that!” He grabbed at her, and the lady shrieked again, attempting to fight him off. Charles, his head spinning and his vision blurred, forced himself to his feet and lunged at the second man, managing to punch him down until he let the young lady go. The man let out a howl of agony and bent low, his head in his hands, giving Charles enough time to grasp the young lady’s hand and tug her towards him.
“Your hackney, I think,” he gasped, grateful that she did not make any sort of complaint. Instead, she practically ran towards the waiting hackney, the driver sitting patiently and merely watching all that was going on with an unconcerned eye. Hurrying up into the hackney after her, he shouted at the driver to depart, giving him no specific direction, and then sat back in his seat, gasping for air.
“I am terribly sorry,” the young lady whispered, her face covered in shadow as she sat next to him, pressed up as far against the other side of the hackney as she could, as though she feared he might attack her next. “I did not imagine that–”
“Who are you?” Charles interrupted brusquely, the pain in his head beginning to subside. “And what were you doing here?”
The young lady let out a long, slow breath, clearly attempting to calm herself down. “After what you have done for me, I do not think that I have any right to remain silent,” she said quietly. “I came in search of my father, as I said before.”
“And your father is…?”
“The Earl of Leighton,” came the quiet reply. “I did shout it during the attack, but perhaps you did not hear me.”
Charles blinked in surprise, shock rippling over him. If her father was the Earl of Leighton, then she was a rather important young lady within society.
And then, something else came to mind. Something so startling that he had to suck in his breath, a coldness gripping him as he realized why the name of Lord Leighton had hit him right between the eyes.
“Wait a moment,” he said hurriedly, as another shock washed over him. “We met only last evening, did we not? You are Lady Esther.”
There came a moment of silence, and Charles could almost feel her hesitation.
“Yes,” she said slowly, her words cautious. “That is correct.”
“I stood on your dress last evening,” he explained, his heart quickening suddenly. “I am Lord Westbrook.” He heard her swift intake of breath and knew that she recognized his name. “Why would your father be here, Lady Esther? And how could you be so foolish as to risk coming here alone?”
“I-I came in search of my father, for he has gone missing,” she said, making his heart quicken with a sudden anxiety. “My aunt states that he has merely left London and gone back to our estate on a matter of busi
ness, but I know full well that he would never depart without speaking to me first. Besides which, when he last spoke to me, there was a great sadness about him that I could not help but worry over. And then there was the gentleman who…” She came to a sudden stop, just when Charles was desperate to hear more. Leaning forward, he turned his head in an attempt to look at her face, even though the lantern light from the streets did very little to light the hackney.
“You can trust me, Lady Esther,” he said softly. “I must know the truth about what you have discovered if I am to help you.”
“But why should you be willing to help me?” she asked carefully, her voice edged with fear. “I do not know you, Lord Westbrook.”
He hesitated, knowing that he could not tell her of The King’s League nor why he recognized the name of her father. “I-I can be trusted, can I not?” he asked softly, trying to reassure her. “I attempted to keep you from entering the gambling hell and saved you from the two gentlemen who wanted your attentions. Surely now you cannot think me willing to injure you in any way?”
