Scandalous Regency Secrets Collection

Darby’s outrage soothed Coop somewhat. “Yes, that was the plan, as a matter of fact. How did you know?”

“I didn’t know, not with you. You’re too damn civilized. You’re not going to tell me the lady’s name, are you? The fair damsel who could or, perhaps, could not have been there the day of your daring rescue.”

“Why, Darby, I do believe I’ve forgotten it. Imagine that.” Then he flinched, knowing his friend had tricked him. How could he have forgotten, even for a moment, that his friend could pry a secret from a clam.

“Aha! Then there was a woman. At least I’ve gotten that out of you. You are a hero, you know, pure of heart and straight as the best-carved arrow. That, and a damn fool, now that I know our own fat Florizel is somehow involved. Baron? Seems to me you could have held out for earl. Shall we get started?”

CHAPTER ONE (#u25973cb7-38b6-5eee-b0b0-28ad01a1b954)

THE WALK FROM the Pulteney to the nearest club was too short for any but an old man or an utter twit with pretensions of grandeur to bother bringing around his curricle from the stables or hailing a hackney, or so Darby protested when Coop suggested they do the latter.

“I could be recognized,” Coop pointed out quietly.

Darby was busy pulling on his gloves. “By whom? Not that I’m lobbing stones at your usual modesty, but that remark could be thought by some to verge on the cocky. I suppose vanity comes along with this heroing business.”

“You’re enjoying yourself again, aren’t you? You know who—whom. By everybody. Sometimes I want to turn myself around to see if there’s some sort of sign pinned to my back.”

“Really? Draw a crowd wherever you go, do you? Well, good on you. And good on me, for I am the favored one, aren’t I, out on the strut on this lovely, sunshiny day with the hero of all these brave, not to mention amorous, exploits. Gabe and Rigby don’t know what they’re missing. Come on, I want to see this. Maybe you’ll find another fair damsel to rescue along the way.”

Barely a block from the hotel, Coop was fighting an impulse to turn to his friend and utter the classic words of any bygone childhood: “I told you so.”

“G’day ta yer, guv’nor,” the first to recognize him had called out, the man bowing and tugging at a nonexistent forelock as Coop and Darby approached the corner.

“Yes, good day,” Coop responded, slightly tipping his head to the hawker balancing a ten-foot pole stacked high with curly brimmed beavers that had seen better days, even better decades.

“It’s the tip I think he’s wanting, not a tip of your head. That is, unless you wish to purchase one, which I wouldn’t recommend. Lice, you understand, nasty things,” Darby informed him, not bothering to lower his voice. “But since you’re a hero, and heroing comes with certain expectations from the hoi polloi—yes, you fine fellow, that indeed was a compliment, and your smile is quite in order—I’ll handle this. Here, my good man,” he said, reaching into his pocket, and flipped a copper into the air for the fellow to snag with the skill of long practice. “Compliments of the baron. On your way now.”

Cooper looked around to see that the two of them were rapidly becoming the cynosure of all eyes. “Now you’ve done it, you fool.”

“Done what? I can’t let our hero’s brass be tarnished because you’re a skinflint. Have a bit of pride, man.”

“Pride, is it? How fast can you run in those shiny new boots?”

After a suspicious bite at the copper, the grinning man raised his hand, showing his prize, and called out, “Make way! Make way! The hero passes! Make way for the brave Baron Townsend!”

“Oh, for the love of... See what you’ve started?”

“I’m beginning to, yes. I thought you might be exaggerating, but I should have known better. I’m the one who does that.” Darby turned in a graceful circle. “Shall we be off? Standing still doesn’t seem a prudent option.”

On all sides, people were beginning to cross the intersection, heading directly for Coop while, in front of them, a pair of eager lads carrying homemade brooms raced to be the first to clear the street so that the hero could cross without, well, stepping in anything. In their zeal, they fell to battling each other with their broomsticks, and the smaller one could have come to grief had not Coop stepped in to separate them.

Holding his handkerchief to his bruised cheek—the one that had been more than delicately kissed by one of the broom handles—he and Darby continued on their way, not quite at a run, but certainly they stepped sharply to avoid the gathering crowd.

Just before they turned the corner into an alley, Darby wisely tossed several coins over his shoulder and the pursuers slid to a collective halt so quickly they tumbled over one another like ninepins as they dived for the coins, fists already flying.

“Ah, a smile, and bloody well time. I’d wondered if you’d completely lost your sense of delight thanks to your biographer. Shall we be off?”

“More at a canter than a trot? Yes, I do believe so.”

At a renewed shout from the mob, they upped their pace to a near-gallop, dodging suspicious puddles, ducking under sagging lengths of gray laundry, tipping their hats to a toothless hag who offered to show her “wares” for a penny.

Twist here, turn there, retreat at the sight of a dead-ended alley. They didn’t stop until they’d lost the last of their pursuers, but by that time Cooper was hard-pressed to do so much as figure out the direction of north, trapped as they were beneath ramshackle structures whose upper stories leaned out of the alley, nearly touching each other, blocking out the sun.

“Where are we?” he asked, not quite liking the look of a rather burly man who was watching them from his seat on the threshold of a building lacking a door.

“Sorry,” Darby whispered, stopping to put his hands on his knees and catch his breath. “But were you asking me, or that faintly terrifying creature over there currently eyeing us as if we’d look good circling on a spit for dinner?”

“You, of course, and don’t stop. I thought you knew where we’re headed?”

“I did,” Darby said, “about three turns ago. But I was much younger last time I pulled a stunt like this, and considerably less sober. Ah, damn, Coop. I think you might owe me a new pair of boots.”

Coop didn’t bother inspecting his friend’s new boots—friendship had its limits—but did give Darby a mighty shove to safety as he heard a female voice from above warning that she was about to empty a slop bucket. Which she did a half second later, cackling merrily as her targets barely escaped her fine joke.

“You can’t say everyone in London has read about your exploits, unless that was the woman’s way of expressing her joy at seeing you,” Darby said as they finally halted once more just before somehow reaching Bond Street, both of them brushing at their sleeves, checking for dirt that may have been left behind by grubby hands, for everyone had wanted to touch the great hero. “You know, all in all—my poor boots to one side—that was fairly exhilarating. Pity Rigby wasn’t with us. Our plump friend could do with a bit of exercise.”

Coop was still trying to catch his breath. “That’s it? That’s all you can say? You didn’t hear the demands to know the name of the latest fair beauty I’ve supposedly saved? You didn’t hear the suggestions called out as to what I should do with her? A few were quite specific.”

“Yes, I heard, but chose to pretend I didn’t. Your blushes were more than enough. At least one of them should probably be chained up in Bedlam, or else gelded. Why didn’t I notice this when you were in town last week?”

“The second volume of my supposed exploits only surfaced once I was gone back to the country. When Prinny first honored me I was treated rather well, pointed to, yes, spoken to—more than a few wishing to shake my hand, clap me on the back, introduce their daughters to me. The added attention brought to me by the appearance of Volume One came as a jolt, especially when it somehow fostered a nearly unnatural interest from the ladies. It’s Volume Two, though—all this business about my supposed heroics since returning to England—which has seemed to raise quite another emotion besides simple gratitude. It was bad enough when I first returned. Crowds did tend to gather. But this is the first time I’ve actually had to run from them. Things can’t continue this way, Darby, they just can’t.”

“True. Only imagine what it would be like if your blackmailer makes good on his threat—the one I don’t quite understand and apparently am not allowed to know, even as I am applied to for assistance. You’d have to emigrate. The admiration of the mob has always been known to turn into hatred at the drop of a pin.”

“The thought has crossed my mind, yes. But in the meantime, let’s go find us both a bootblack.”

“And after that, a bird and a bottle,” Darby agreed. “But I’m not a demanding sort. I’m willing to make do without the bird.”

CHAPTER TWO (#u25973cb7-38b6-5eee-b0b0-28ad01a1b954)

DANIELLA FOSTER, VARIOUSLY known to her family as Dany, the Baby or, not all that infrequently, the Bane of Mama’s Existence, eyed the purple silk turban perched on a wooden stand in the corner of the fitting room. It felt as if she’d been there for a small eternity, and she’d already inspected most every inch of the crowded room at the back of the dress shop.

She wasn’t bored, because Dany was never bored. She was interested in everything around her, curious about the world in general, which had led her, in her youth, to getting down on the muddy ground to be nose to nose with an earthworm, all the way up to the present, which just happened to include wondering how it would feel to wear a turban. Would it itch? Probably, but how could she know for certain if she didn’t try?

“I still say it’s pretty,” she announced, “and would fit me perfectly.”

Her sister, Marietta, Countess of Cockermouth, just now being pinned into the last new gown she’d commissioned, did not agree. “I’ve told you, Dany, purple is reserved for dowagers, as are turbans. No, don’t touch it.”

“Why not?” Dany plucked the turban from its stand. “That doesn’t seem fair, you know,” she said, demonstrating her version of fairness as she lowered the thing onto her newly cropped tumble of red-gold hair. “Do you see that? The color very nearly matches my eyes.”

“Your eyes are blue.”

“Not in this turban, they’re not. Look.”

Dany stepped directly in front of her sister, who was a good eight inches taller than her at the moment, as she was standing on a round platform for the fittings.

Marietta frowned. “Some would say you’re a witch, you know. That thing should clash with your hair, what you left of it when you had that mad fit and took a scissors to it. Your skin is too pale, your eyes are ridiculously large and your hair is... I’m surprised Mama didn’t have an apoplexy. Yet you...yes, Dany, you look wonderful. Petite, and fragile, and innocent as any cherub. You always look wonderful. You don’t know how to appear as anything less than winsome and adorable. It’s one of the things I like least about you.”

Dany went up on tiptoe and kissed her sister’s cheek. “Thank you, Mari. But you know I don’t hold a candle to your serene beauty. Why, it took only a single look at you across the floor at Almacks for Oliver to fall madly and hopelessly and eternally in love with— Oh, Mari, don’t cry.”