feminine body pressed against his. Until he extricated them from the crush at Hyde Park Corner, he needed to concentrate on driving. Only louts dashed headlong through the obstacle course of the London streets, whether or not the lady’s father watched, hoping for an excuse to murder the driver.
The stallion, Nestor, was generally well behaved, though he had his quirks, as did any other creature. Managing him didn’t require great effort. The truly interesting work was making one’s way through a chaos of carriages, coaches, omnibuses, carts, wagons, riders, pedestrians, stray dogs and children, and, depending on the area and time of day, livestock of all kinds. All of these might, at any moment, do something unexpected.
Ashmont was well aware of Miss Pomfret seeing what he saw, and anticipating what he’d do and sometimes bracing herself in case he did the wrong thing. But he didn’t. He’d learnt riding and driving from strict teachers, and he’d been taught to care for dumb creatures, if not for his own safety. Furthermore, he had five thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine points to accumulate, and causing another accident wasn’t the way to do it.
Soon enough, however, they passed Hyde Park Corner and into Grosvenor Place. When they turned into the King’s Road, Lady Charles gave a little wave, then rode past them and on a short distance ahead. He, too, picked up the pace, aware of Miss Pomfret tensing beside him.
“I’ll do my best not to overturn the carriage,” he said.
“That’s the least of my concerns,” she said. “You drive well enough.”
“Tolerably well?”
“My aunt wouldn’t have agreed to this, let alone ridden ahead, had she fears for my safety.”
“She wanted to give us time to talk, I suppose,” he said. “For instance, I’m wild with curiosity about your club, and what I’m to do. Perhaps I should have asked whether to bring a mask.”
“You are not playing a highwayman, but a ruffian. It’s very important, else I shouldn’t have resorted to seeking your help.”
She went on to explain about the club’s work. They assisted families in debtors’ prisons. They taught reading, writing, and sums; sewing, knitting, and other needle skills; basics of hygiene and nursing. Essentially, they did what they could to keep women out of workhouses and off the streets.
“What we do doesn’t attract attention,” she said. “No fancy fairs. No hiring grand concert rooms. Royals do not put in appearances. Nothing elegant about it. We go to lowly, often insalubrious, and sometimes dangerous places.”
“Not the rookeries.” Even he avoided certain parts of London. Taking risks was one thing. Begging to have your throat cut was another matter entirely.
“Not usually, but sometimes. Keeffe makes it possible for me. That’s the world he grew up in. He knows how to talk to people, and he’s skilled at dealing with troublesome persons.”
Ashmont must have looked skeptical because she said, “He’s crippled, not incapable.”
“I assumed he must be made of strong material, to survive that accident.”
“He’s found ways to compensate for what he’s lost, and he’s never forgotten the survival skills he learnt growing up. He’s taught me so much. And we’re teaching the ladies—and they will teach others. That’s what this is about. This is why I sent for you.”
“To be a ruffian, you said.”
“We’d promised a demonstration for this meeting. The ladies were looking forward to it. Mrs. Roake, who started the club with my grandmother, visited Saturday last and asked about Keeffe and what we might do instead of the demonstration. But I couldn’t bear to disappoint them. These ladies have done so much for me. They’ve helped me find a way to do something worthwhile and satisfying with my intelligence and skills.”
She makes men cry, Morris had said, and Ashmont had assumed this referred to her plainspokenness, which might hurt a sensitive fellow’s feelings. His hide being more of the alligator variety, he liked the way she put all her cards on the table. A fellow knew where he stood.
What he felt was altogether different—not hurt feelings but something else, the oddest sensation, a tightening in his throat as though somebody were strangling him.
They’ve helped me find a way to do something worthwhile and satisfying with my intelligence and skills.
He remembered what she’d written. He remembered easily. He’d read it enough times to have memorized every word.
. . . curtailing the activities in which I take pleasure . . .
He’d broken her tiger and her carriage, frightened away her maid, and spoiled everything important to her—the girl who’d whirled like some