A Dare to Defy Novel Page 2

  “You’d best take off that wet coat, Mr. Carlyle,” Mrs. Gill advised, “lest you catch a chill.”

  He obliged, shrugging out of the sodden garment, which she took and hung over the fire screen. “Now what? Shall I fetch a doctor?”

  “Let’s give her a minute. She’s young and healthy-looking, no doubt she’ll wake up soon enough. A doctor would cost a pretty penny, which you and I can ill-afford.”

  Thomas flinched at this assessment. He had never told Mrs. Gill—nor any of his clients in town, for that matter—who he really was. If anyone knew, he would be treated differently; he certainly wouldn’t be able to stay here any longer, or to continue his work. But what she’d said was true. His finances were in a bad way. Ever since he was a child and aware of such things, he’d had the vague impression that money, for his family, was a problem. Now that he was twenty-eight years old and faced with all the sordid facts, his sense of mortification over the situation was acute.

  A soft moan issued from the direction of the sofa, interrupting his thoughts. Glancing over, he saw that the young woman was moving restlessly beneath the blanket—hopefully, a sign that she would soon wake up.

  Chapter Two

  Alexandra was running down a garden path, tall hedgerows looming on either side. Her head ached, an incessant throb that echoed the hammering of her feet. What was she running from? She couldn’t remember.

  A group of young ladies in evening gowns suddenly glided into her path.

  “What sort of girl marries a man thousands of miles away from home?” intoned the first lady in an upper-crust English accent.

  “An American girl with a heart of ice,” replied the other from behind her fan.

  They both sent withering glances in Alexandra’s direction. Her heart seized with indignation. Before she could formulate a reply, her mother stalked up, eyes glittering with anger and ambition.

  “You will marry him, Alexandra! How else are your father and I to earn a spot in Mrs. Astor’s Four Hundred?”

  Suddenly, her mother vanished, replaced by two well-dressed Englishmen smoking cigars. The first was Viscount Shrewsbury: middle-aged, red-faced, and so obese, the buttons of his waistcoat looked fit to burst.

  “I am looking forward to dipping my wick into that one.” Lord Shrewsbury tapped ash from his cigar as he darted a covert grin at Alexandra.

  “And looking forward to getting your hands on all that money,” declared the second gentleman with a dark laugh.

  Her stomach churning, Alexandra tried to dart around the two men. But as the second man disappeared, Shrewsbury dropped his cigar and blocked her path. “No need to be shy, Miss Atherton.” Before Alexandra could blink, one of his beefy hands pulled her to him, and the other fondled her breast through her low-cut gown. Then his mouth clamped down on hers as his tongue thrust deeply into her throat.

  Alexandra pushed him away with a choking gasp of horror. He tasted like a chimney laced with something stale and foul. “Sir, you forget yourself!”

  “I forget nothing.” Lord Shrewsbury smirked. “We are soon to be wed. I am simply sampling the merchandise.” He grabbed her again. Alexandra tried to scream, but no sound emerged from her throat.

  A woman’s voice now seemed to come out of nowhere: “I think she’s coming round.”

  Alexandra opened her eyes, heart pounding, her mind whirling in a fog of dazed confusion. Her first coherent thought was a jolt of immense relief. She’d just been dreaming. She wasn’t in that garden with Lord Shrewsbury, not anymore.

  But where was she? Why did her head ache? And why did she feel so cold, grimy, and wet?

  Alexandra took in her surroundings. She was lying on a sofa beneath a coarse blanket in a small, unfamiliar parlor. The furnishings were simple and looked as if they’d seen better days. Two windows draped by heavy, faded curtains looked out on a brick wall. It was pouring down rain outside. A kind-faced, middle-aged woman in a white cap loomed nearby, smiling.

  “There! She’s with us.” Her lilting accent was decidedly Irish.

  “Pray, do not be alarmed,” came another voice, a male voice, with an English accent as rich as clotted cream.

  A tall gentleman approached the sofa. He had a long, lean frame. His hair, cropped shorter than the current fashion, was wheat blond shot through with gold, as was his neatly trimmed mustache. As he crouched down beside her, she noticed that the collar of his white shirt was frayed.

  “Welcome back, miss.” His eyes, behind wire-rimmed spectacles, were the warmest, most captivating shade of chocolate brown she’d ever seen. “You fell in the street. I brought you to the lodging house where I am staying. This is my landlady, Mrs. Gill. How do you feel?”

  Alexandra wanted to say that her head hurt and she ached in several other places as well, but her lips wouldn’t formulate a reply.

  “Can you tell me your name?” he persisted.

  Her name? A memory presented itself: she was a young girl, playing in a garden with two other girls. “Lexie,” she murmured softly.

  “My name is Carlyle. Do you remember what happened to you?”

  Alexandra tried to think, despite the dull pounding inside her temple. The man—what was his name, Carlyle?—said she’d fallen in the street. She vaguely remembered that now. It had been raining. A carriage was bearing down on her. She’d stumbled, must have hit her head and passed out. Another memory surfaced: she’d collided with a man on the sidewalk—this man.

  Before that, she’d been running down an alley, like the one in her dream, trying to escape.

  Escape. With a sudden flash of clarity, the realization of who she was and everything that had happened to her came back in a rush: the events in the garden last night, the escape from the hotel that morning, the children who’d robbed her, her exhausting trek across London, the villain in the alley.

  “Yes, I remember,” she replied slowly. “I was accosted by a drunk in an alley. Then I was almost run over by a horse and carriage.”

  Mr. Carlyle abruptly stood, the warmth he’d formerly displayed disappearing. “You’re American.” He frowned down at her in surprise, pronouncing the last word with undisguised disdain.

  Her nationality didn’t seem to bother Mrs. Gill, who gave a short, delighted laugh. “American! Well now, who would have guessed?”

  “I am American,” Alexandra remarked, adding with an attempt at humor, “but don’t worry, it’s not contagious.”

  Mr. Carlyle didn’t even crack a smile, just took a step back and lapsed into silence. Alexandra had the sense that he was done with her. Why? She wondered if he was one of those people who thought all Americans were vulgar and obnoxious. Well, it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t stick around where she wasn’t wanted. “How long have I been out?”

  “About ten minutes or so is all,” Mrs. Gill answered. “Does your head hurt, dearie?”

  “Yes. But I guess that’s to be expected. Thank you both so much for your help. Now I ought to be on my way.” Alexandra flung back the blanket and tried to stand, but her head began to pound so violently, she had to grab the back of the sofa to keep from falling.

  “You’re not ready to go anywhere just yet,” Mrs. Gill insisted. “You just sit back down, Lexie, there’s a good girl.”

  Alexandra did as she was bidden. “Thank you.” It was strange to hear this woman call her Lexie—no one ever used that nickname except her sisters.

  “Is there a friend or family member whom we might contact, to let them know you are here?” Mr. Carlyle seemed anxious to get rid of her.

  The mention of family caused a brief flash of guilt to warm Alexandra’s cheeks. Hours ago, she would have been discovered missing from her hotel room. Her mother would be livid. But if Fiona had played her part and delivered Alexandra’s note, her mother would presume Alexandra to be in Liverpool by now, boarding the steamship Maritime.

  It suddenly occurred to Alexandra that the accident might have proved to be a good thing. Mrs. Gill seemed like a sympathetic woman. If
Alexandra could just stay here for the night, it would buy her time to think, to figure out where to go next and what to do.

  “What’s your surname?” Mr. Carlyle asked impatiently.

  Alexandra hesitated. If she told these people who she was, they’d surely contact her mother, who would storm down here like the seven Furies and drag Alexandra back to the hotel, force her to marry that horrid man. If, on the other hand, Alexandra kept her identity a secret . . .

  Honesty, Benjamin Franklin had once written, was the best policy. It was a point of honor for Alexandra that she’d never lied to anyone. People didn’t always want to hear the truth; she’d lost friends because of it. Still, she’d clung to the principle, believing that life was simpler if you stuck to the facts. It pained her to even think of deceiving this kind woman who’d taken her in, and this man who’d most likely saved her life.

  But she couldn’t go back to her mother. She just couldn’t.

  Alexandra swallowed hard. Maybe she could just bend the truth a little.

  “My name is Lexie Watson,” she said, blurting out the first surname that popped into her head, inspired by a story by Arthur Conan Doyle, published the previous December. “I’m afraid I have no friends in England, nor any family to turn to.”

  “None?” Mrs. Gill was aghast.

  Alexandra shook her head.

  “An employer, then?” Mr. Carlyle prodded. “What brought you to London? Who do you work for?”

  So, he presumed her to be a member of the working class. She had no wish to dissuade him of the notion; it seemed like an excellent cover. “I’m not employed at present.” Entirely true.

  “What did you do before?” Mrs. Gill asked.

  Now that she’d started down this road, there was no turning back. Willing the pain in her head to go away, Alexandra thought fast. She needed a story that would fit with the clothes she was wearing. She considered saying that she was a lady’s maid like Fiona, but doubted she could portray someone of that profession or social standing with conviction.

  And the less lying, the better.

  In the Poughkeepsie neighborhood where she grew up, Alexandra used to read to children who were sick, and at the library. She’d also helped to organize summertime fetes for young people. “I worked with children.”

  “Oh, you’re a governess, then?” Mrs. Gill nodded. “I suppose you came overseas on holiday with one of those wealthy American couples? I hear they bring their entire staff with them to watch over their children, while they traipse all over Europe and God knows where looking at monuments and such.”

  Alexandra cast her eyes downward, hoping her silence evoked affirmation.

  “Well, what happened?” Mrs. Gill went on. “After bringing you all this way, why on earth did they let you go?”

  Here, Alexandra could also stick to the truth. “Last night, at a party, a gentleman of high rank tried to force himself on me.”

  “Dear me!” cried Mrs. Gill.

  “Tried to force himself . . . ?” Mr. Carlyle’s brow furrowed with reprehension.

  Alexandra blushed fiercely at the memory of Lord Shrewsbury’s assault. “When I reported what happened, the gentleman’s side was taken. Circumstances deteriorated, and I had to leave.”

  The reserve Mr. Carlyle had exhibited earlier began to fade, replaced by a hint of empathy. “I see.”

  “So they didn’t believe you.” Mrs. Gill sniffed with disgust. “It doesn’t surprise me; highborn folk like that always take the man’s side in such things.”

  “I wandered the streets for hours.” So far, except for her last name, Alexandra hadn’t uttered a single lie—and she was determined to keep it that way. “A band of urchins stole my few belongings. Then I was attacked by a drunk in an alley. I was trying to escape from him when I ran into you, Mr. Carlyle.” It was strange to think that for twenty-four years, she’d led such a sheltered, pampered existence . . . and now, in the space of less than twenty-four hours, she’d been robbed, physically assaulted by two different men, and nearly trampled to death by a horse and carriage.

  “Good heavens! What an awful time you’ve had, Miss Watson.”

  Mr. Carlyle frowned. “Do you truly have no one in London whom we might call?”

  “No. If you hadn’t helped me, I don’t know what would have happened. I’m in your debt, sir. Once again: I thank you.” Alexandra attempted to stand, but her head began to spin again and she had to plunk back down. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “No need to be sorry.” Mrs. Gill patted Alexandra’s shoulder. “You hit your head and were senseless, and that’s nothing to make light of. Why, I had an uncle who bumped his noggin and went right back to work the same day, then dropped dead the next morning! No! I won’t hear of you going anywhere—and where would you go in any case, not knowing a soul in London, and without a penny to your name? You’re just going to have to stay the night.”

  Success! Alexandra thought.

  Mr. Carlyle’s expression, however, implied that he wasn’t thrilled by this idea. He excused himself to go change out of his wet clothes, and Alexandra heard his footsteps as he hurried up the stairs.

  An hour or so later, when she felt strong enough to stand and walk, Mrs. Gill invited Alexandra to accompany her to the kitchen.

  “Mr. Carlyle seems to be annoyed with me,” Alexandra commented as she followed Mrs. Gill down a narrow hall to the back of the house, presuming that she was to be offered an early dinner. “Have I offended him somehow?”

  “Don’t worry yourself about him, dearie. He’s a strange one, for all that he’s so handsome, and the best tenant I’ve ever had.”

  “Strange in what way?”

  “Well, for one thing, he’s so quiet. Normally, I’d be grateful for that in a tenant. But just now, when he brought you home, that’s the most I’ve heard him say in one sitting since the day we met. All right then, here we are.”

  The kitchen was old and cluttered but clean, with a fire blazing in a large grate. Several pots were boiling on the stove, and the aromas of cooked beef and hot broth filled the room. A girl in a stained apron sat at a table, peeling potatoes.

  “Here’s some soap and towels,” Mrs. Gill announced, handing said items to Alexandra, “and a clean nightdress. It belongs to Mary, but should fit you all right.”

  Soap and towels? Nightdress? That’s when Alexandra spotted a sizeable tin tub by the fire, half filled with water. She froze in dismay. Alexandra was dying to wash the street grime from her hair and body, but did Mrs. Gill truly expect her to bathe here, in the kitchen, in front of the scullery maid?

  Her thoughts darted to the extravagant bathroom at her family’s new mansion on Fifth Avenue—the polished marble floor and walls, the luxurious claw-foot tub, the gleaming porcelain sink, the gold-plated fixtures. Every hotel she’d ever stayed in on the continent and in London had been first class. Even the modest bathroom she’d grown up with in their house in Poughkeepsie, with its tile floor and exposed pipes, had been palatial in comparison to this.

  “My lodgers are obliged to use the public baths,” Mrs. Gill explained, as if noticing Alexandra’s hesitation, “but they’re closed now. After falling in the road, I thought you’d be glad of a wash on the premises, as I do.”

  “I am,” Alexandra said slowly, glancing at the maid.

  “Mary!” Mrs. Gill cried sharply, pulling the curtains shut on the windows. “Leave the potatoes and be gone with you. Let’s give this young lady some privacy, shall we?”

  “Yes ma’am.” The maid wiped her hands on her apron and scooted out the door.

  “If you give me your dress, I’ll brush it clean as best I can,” Mrs. Gill offered.

  “That’s very kind of you.” Alexandra removed her dress and handed it over.

  “I put a pitcher by the tub for rinsing. You enjoy a good soak now. I’ll be in the front parlor when you’ve finished.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Gill left the room and shut the door.

  A
lexandra set her shoes on the hearth, then slipped out of her undergarments, unsure what to do with them. She’d always had a maid to take care of such things. Noticing her gloves hanging over the fire screen, she followed suit, hanging her wet petticoat, drawers, stockings, chemise, and corset in a similar fashion.

  What have I gotten myself into? she wondered as, naked and shivering, she stepped into the tub and sat down. She had now descended to the lowest of the low: bathing in the kitchen of a London boardinghouse.

  It’s only a temporary inconvenience, she reminded herself against the dull pain that still throbbed inside her head. She’d find a way out of this mess, and soon. As she lathered up her hair and body with the bar of hard castile soap, and dipped the pitcher into the bathwater to rinse herself, she was just grateful to be warm again, and to feel clean.

  Thomas cursed inwardly as he bounded down the stairs. His landlady was a kind woman. Far too kind. It was bad enough that Miss Watson would be staying the night—most likely in the room directly down the hall from his. But knowing Mrs. Gill, it was entirely possible that she’d let this penniless vagabond stay for weeks on end, until she figured out what to do with herself.

  He couldn’t let that happen. Being around this Miss Watson for even a single day would be a constant reminder of all that he had suffered and lost.

  He’d thought that was behind him, that he’d gotten over it, had moved on.

  Clearly not.

  The two women looked nothing alike, although both were admittedly beautiful. But their American accents were the same, their voices eerily similar: a husky, melodious contralto he had once thought endearing. The moment Miss Watson had opened her mouth, all the bad memories had come crashing back, a stab to the gut.

  Somehow, he told himself as he marched down the hall to the rear of the house, he had to make it clear to Mrs. Gill that the young woman must leave in the morning, even if it meant he had to pay for her to lodge elsewhere.

  Turning the handle on the kitchen door, he pushed it open, expecting to find Mrs. Gill.