A Tryst With Danger

Intrigued, Lady Lucie Bedford followed the coach for some distance as it rolled boldly down the road. Sleek and black, it exuded an air that could only mean wealth or privilege. To her surprise, it turned into the gates of Bedford Manor. It clattered down the crushed stone driveway and pulled up in front of the waxed oaken double doors in a spray of rocks. She slowed her mare, Foxglove, to a walk to watch. Visitors, although not unknown, were rare to the manor. Particularly now with her parents in London.

A portly man exited the carriage and climbed the stairs. Raising one pudgy fist, he grabbed the doorknocker and slammed it with an authority that rattled the doors in their hinges. After a moment, the doors swung open to reveal Hawthorne, the butler, arms held stiff at his side, mouth set in a permanent moue of disapproval.

At first, Hawthorne wouldn’t let the man in but when shown the thick velum envelope emblazoned in the top left corner with the Bedford coat of arms, he grudgingly stepped back.
Lucie pulled Foxglove to a halt and dismounted in the front drive with the aid of a footman. She nodded her thanks to the man then patted the neck of the horse, fishing about in her pocket for a lump of sugar which she held out. Velvet lips rippled her palm and the lump disappeared in a twinkling. She dropped a kiss on the white blaze where it ended between the mare’s nostrils before the stable boy led the animal away.

Uncertain, she hung back for a moment before curiosity nudged her to follow the two men into the house.

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Crusade d’Amour

Prologue - France 1251

Thwip! 

A cold drop of water fell off the brim of Alyna Caperun’s cap, pulled low over her forehead to protect her as much as possible from the drenching that Mother Nature had mustered.  It landed on her neck and snaked its way down her back to join the pool of others that had gathered between her shoulder blades where the coarse woolen tunic touched her skin.

It was unseasonably cold, gray, a gray that hugged the earth and almost obscured the tiny group of mourners that were gathered together as the shrouded body of her twin brother, David, was lowered into the shallow grave by the side of the road. A bleak, joyless scene, it matched Alyna’s mood perfectly.

Stoic, she watched as the first shovels of dirt were thrown in.  Panic battled with hunger within her. And overall, anger. Anger at David for dying, anger at her foolishness that had brought her here, even anger at the incessant rain that chilled her and turned the road into a quagmire.

A rough cross fashioned from two branches lashed together was pounded into the loose dirt at the head of the grave.  The priest waved his hand over in one last benediction and the group dispersed.

Only Alyna remained to stand vigil, head bowed, over her brother. Tears streamed down her cheeks but by now it was raining so hard that it was difficult to tell where the rain stopped and the tears began.

She stood there for some time, lost in sorrow and introspection, lost in dejection, but more than that, just lost.

And alone.

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The Countess’ Lucky Charm

London - 1795

The teeming streets of the east side did not deter the shabby form of Gentry Ted in the slightest. He skirted the boisterous crowd watching the fisticuffs between two dirt-smeared boys then briefly followed a trio of gossiping young women, scullery maids by the looks of their chapped hands and grease spattered aprons.

At the next corner, he winked at the comely matron with come-hither eyes who was selling cut flowers from the basket tilted against the wall beside her. “Ha’pence,” she crooned, leaning forward to display her ample cleavage.

Ted dragged away his gaze to return to the matter at hand. “Not today, luv, can’t ye see I’ve business to attend to?”

He pointed down towards the “business”, a grubby little girl of perhaps three years. He winked again and, adjusting his grimy silk cravat, strode away purposefully, toddler in tow.

“Hell’s bells”, he thought, thinking longingly of the woman selling flowers. “There were an opportunity missed.” And he scowled down at the matted blonde curls of the girl, squeezing tighter the little hand clasped in his fist before forging on.

His pace was much too brisk for the little one. Sometimes her feet touched the ground and sometimes she dangled from his hand as her feet wind milled through the air. Finally, he just picked her up in one arm and held her against him as he continued towards his destination. She weighed nothing at all, perhaps two stone if that; his gait didn’t slow.

A tipped potato cart blocked the road and he turned onto Newgate Street to avoid the confusion. The aroma of oranges drifted through the air and his stomach rumbled. Without skipping a beat, his hand snaked out to grab one. He rammed it into his pocket before the cart’s proprietor turned his head, then ducked behind a passing coal wagon, keeping pace for several minutes until the orange cart was well behind him.

“The tib won’t do.” He mimicked his ringleader as he walked. “She’s much too small to pick pockets. Get rid of ‘er.”

His protestations to the contrary had fallen on deaf ears, which is why he was now making his way to dispose of her. The easiest solution would be to toss her into the Thames with the rest of the city’s refuse but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He may earn his living as a thief but he wasn’t a killer.

Instead, he deposited the girl on the front steps of the workhouse on Bishopsgate Street and on a whim, gave her the orange. Before he could change his mind about his uncharacteristic show of generosity, he knocked on the door then hurried down the steps to disappear into the crowds.

“Ohhhh.” Mrs. Dougherty sighed as she opened the door to find a little girl on her step holding an orange in both hands. “They all think they can bring me the foundlings.”

She grasped the little chin in callused fingers and lifted it to take a closer look. The girl had blue eyes. Piercing blue, as blue as the sunny September days of her own country childhood. She noticed a chain around the small neck. Carefully she lifted it off and slipped it into her pocket. She would look at it later.

“Quiet one, ain’t ye?”

The girl said nothing. She stared at Mrs. Dougherty, eyes wide with fear, bottom lip wobbling with unshed tears, both hands grasping the fruit so tightly the little knuckles were white.

“Ye got nothing to fear.” She pulled the girl inside. The door slammed shut and the latch dropped with a rattle and a clank. “Mrs. Dougherty will look after ye if ye do as yer told.”

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