Serafina and the Black Cloak - Robert Beatty Page 0,25

Man in the Black Cloak, but this is what she’d imagined he’d look like.

“What you lookin’ at?” he demanded. “Who is you, anyway?”

“I ain’t nobody!” she spat defiantly, trying desperately to tear herself free and run, but the man’s hands clamped her so tight that she couldn’t escape. Now it was her turn to be the biting rat with its neck squeezed between finger and thumb. She noticed that he was standing in front of the open door of an awaiting carriage.

“You the new pig girl?” the man demanded. “What you doin’ up ’ere?” He tightened his grip so viciously on her arms that she let out a squeal of pain. “I said, what’s your name, ya little scamp?”

“None of your business!” she said as she kicked and fought any way she could.

The man had a terrible smell, like he needed a bath really, really bad, and his breath stank with the huge wad of putrefied chewing tobacco that bulged in his cheek.

“Tell me your name, or I’m gonna shake ya,” the man said even as he shook her. He shook her so violently that she couldn’t catch her breath or get her feet on the ground. He just kept shaking her.

“Mr. Crankshod,” a firm, authoritative voice said from behind her. It wasn’t just a name. It was a command.

Startled, the ugly man stopped shaking her. He set her on her feet and began to smooth her hair, pretending that he had actually been taking care of her all along.

Gasping for breath, she turned to look at who had spoken.

There stood Braeden Vanderbilt at the top of the steps.

Serafina’s heart sprang. Despite the terrible situation he’d caught her in and the angry expression on his face, she was glad to see Braeden.

The crab-crankedy Mr. Crankshod, however, was far less pleased. “Young Master Vanderbilt,” he grumbled in surprise as he bowed, wiped the tobacco spittle from his lip, and stood at attention. “I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t see you there. Your coach is ready, sir.”

Braeden looked at them both without speaking. Clearly, he wasn’t pleased by what he’d just seen. The boy’s Doberman appeared ready to attack whichever of them his master told him to, and Serafina hoped that it was going to be the sputum-faced Mr. Crankshod rather than her.

Braeden stared at Mr. Crankshod, then slowly moved his eyes to her. Her mind whirled with potential cover stories. He had stopped the mountainous brute from shaking the living daylights out of her, but what could she say to explain her presence here?

“I’m the new shoeshine girl,” she said, stepping forward. “Your aunt asked me to make sure your boots were well shined for your trip, sir, spit and polished good, sir. That’s what she said, all right, spit and polished good.”

“No, no, no!” Mr. Crankshod shouted, knowing it was a ruse. “What’s this, now, ya little beggar? You ain’t no shoeshine girl! Who is ya? Where’d ya come from?”

But a smile of delicious conspiracy formed at the corner of Braeden’s mouth. “Ah, yes, Aunt Edith did mention something about getting my boots shined. I had quite forgotten,” he said, exaggerating the aristocratic air in his voice. Then he looked at her sharply and his eyebrows furrowed into a frown. “I’m on my way to the Vances’, and I’m running late. I don’t have time to wait on you, so you’ll just have to come with me and do it in the carriage on the way.”

Serafina felt the blood rush to her face. Was he serious? She couldn’t go in a carriage with him! Her pa would kill her. And what was she gonna do all cooped up in there anyway, getting dragged around in a box by a bunch of four-legged black hoof-stompers?

“Well, come along, let’s be quick about it,” Braeden said, his voice filled with the impatience of a lordly gentleman as he gestured toward the carriage door.

She had never been in a carriage in her life. She didn’t even know how to get in one or what to do once she did.

The ill-tempered, rat-faced Mr. Crankshod had no choice but to obey the young master’s commands. He shoved Serafina toward the door, and she suddenly found herself in the dimly lit interior of the Vanderbilt carriage. As she crouched uncertainly on the floor, she could not help but marvel at the carriage’s luxuriously appointed finery with its hand-carved woodwork, brass fixtures, beveled-glass windows, and plush, paisley, tufted seats.

Braeden followed her in with the grace of familiarity