Regency Rogues: Outrageous Scandal. Annie Burrows

he insisted.

      ‘So, how do you propose to treat with the landlord?’

      ‘Once I’ve pawned my watch—’

      ‘Look,’ she said, in the kind of voice he imagined someone using on a rather dim-witted child. ‘There will be no need for you to pawn that watch. Because I intend to rectify the situation I have caused by being so careless as to lose the purse you entrusted to my keeping without informing me you had done so. If it was actually there when you draped your jacket around my shoulders,’ she said with an acid smile. ‘For all I know you dropped it at The Bull. A lot of things went missing there. Why not your purse?’

      ‘Because I distinctly recall paying my shot there—that’s why.’

      ‘Well, then. It’s clearly up to me to make amends,’ she flung at him, before mounting the steps of the market cross and setting his hat at her feet.

      ‘Not so fast,’ he said, striding after her and mounting the steps himself.

      ‘You cannot stop me,’ she said, raising one hand as though to ward him off. ‘I will scream,’ she added as he reached for the open edges of his jacket.

      But she didn’t. Not even before she realised that all he was doing was buttoning it up.

      ‘There,’ he growled. ‘At least you no longer run the risk of being arrested for indecency.’

      She clapped her hands to her front, glancing down in alarm. While he stalked away to seek a position near enough to keep watch over her, yet far enough away that nobody would immediately suspect him of being her accomplice.

      Once he’d found a suitable vantage point he folded his arms across his chest with a glower. Short of wrestling her down from the steps, there was no way to prevent the stubborn minx from carrying out her ridiculous threat. Let her sing, then! Just for as long as it took her to realise she was wasting her time. They’d never get as much money from what amounted to begging as they would by pawning his watch.

      And then she’d have to fall in with his plans, meek as a lamb. A chastened lamb. Yes, he’d wait until the citizens of Tadburne had brought her down a peg, and then he’d be...magnanimous.

      He permitted himself a smile in anticipation of some of the ways in which he could be magnanimous to Miss High-and-Mighty Prudence Carstairs while she cleared her throat, lifted her chin, shifted from one foot to the other, and generally worked up the nerve to start her performance.

      The first note that came from her throat wavered. He grimaced. If that was the best she could do they weren’t going to be here very long. He’d pull her down off the steps before the locals started pelting her with cabbages, naturally. He didn’t want a travelling companion who smelled of rotting vegetables.

      Prudence cleared her throat and started again. This time running through a set of scales, the way he’d heard professional singers do to warm up.

      By the time she’d finished her scales the notes coming from her throat no longer squeaked and wavered. They flowed like liquid honey.

      Prudence hadn’t exaggerated. She did indeed have a fine singing voice. In keeping with the husky, rather sensuous way she spoke, she sang in a deep, rich, contralto voice that might have earned her a fortune in London.

      Blast her.

      Every time he looked forward to gaining the advantage she somehow managed to wrest it back.

      So why did he still find her so damned attractive?

      * * *

      Oh, Lord, if Aunt Charity could see her now! She’d be shocked. Horrified. That a Biddlestone should resort to singing in a public street... Although, had Aunt Charity not abandoned her in The Bull, there would have been no need to do any such thing. Or if Mr Willingale hadn’t lost his purse and chosen to blame her instead of shouldering it like a gentleman.

      No, she mustn’t get angry. Anger would come out in her voice and ruin her performance. One of the singing teachers she’d had intermittently over the years had told her always to think pleasant thoughts when singing, even if the ballad was a tragic one, or it would make her vocal cords tense and ruin her tone.

      So she lost herself in the words, telling the story of a girl in love with a swain in the greenwood. She pictured the apple blossom, the rippling brook and the moss-covered pebbles about which she was singing.

      She would not look at Mr Willingale, whose expression was enough to turn milk sour. Or at least not very often. Because, although it was extremely satisfying to see the astonishment on his face when she proved that not only could she sing, she could do so to a very high standard, it made her want to giggle. And nobody could sing in tune when they were giggling. It was worse than being angry, because it ruined the breath control.

      Far better to look the other way, to where people were starting to take note of her. To draw near and listen. To pull out their hankies as she reached the tragic climax of the ballad and dab at their eyes.

      And toss coppers into the hat she’d laid at her feet.

      She did permit herself to dart just one triumphant glance in Mr Willingale’s direction before launching into her next song, but only one. There would be time enough to crow when she could tip the shower of pennies she was going to earn into his hands.

      She’d show him—oh, yes, she would. It had been so insulting of him not to trust her to pawn his watch. He’d looked at her the way that landlord had just looked at him. How could he think she’d run off with his watch and leave him there?

      He’d assumed she would steal his gig, too, earlier, and leave him stunned and bleeding in the lane.

      He was the most distrustful, suspicious, insulting man she’d ever met, and why she was still trying to prove she wasn’t any of the things he thought, she couldn’t imagine.

      Why, she had as much cause to distrust him—waking up naked in his bed like that.

      Only honesty compelled her to admit that it hadn’t been his doing. That was entirely down to Aunt Charity and her vile new husband. There really could be no other explanation.

      She came to the end of her second ballad and smiled at the people dropping coins into Mr Willingale’s hat. How she wished she had a glass of water. Singing in the open air made the voice so dry, so quickly. Perhaps she could prevail upon Mr Willingale to fetch her some? She darted a hopeful glance in his direction. But he just grimaced, as though in disgust, then turned and strode off down a side street.

      He had no intention of helping her—not when he was opposed to her plan. The beast was just going to leave her there. Probably hoping she’d become nervous once he was out of sight and run after him, begging him not to leave her alone.

      Well, if he thought she would feel afraid of being alone in the middle of a strange town then he didn’t know her at all. Why, she’d been in far more dangerous places than an English town on market day.

      Though then she’d been a child. With her parents to protect her. Not to mention the might of the English army at her back. Which was why she’d never felt this vulnerable before.

      Not even when she’d realised her aunt had abandoned her at The Bull. Though that had probably been largely due to the fact that she’d been numb with shock and still dazed from the sleeping draught at that point this morning. But now she was starting to think clearly.

      What was to become of her?

      She had no money. Only the few clothes she stood up in. And no real idea where she was or where she was going. In just a few short hours she’d become almost totally reliant on Mr Willingale. Who’d just disappeared down that alley. For a second, panic gripped her by the throat.

      But she was not some spineless milk-and-water miss who would go running after a man and beg him not to abandon her to the mercy of strangers. She was a Carstairs. And no Carstairs ever quailed in the face of adversity.

      Defiantly,