Page 4 of Crimes, Conspiracies, and Courtship (Paddy’s Peelers Mystery #1)

CHAPTER 3

“A re you hurt?” he asked, dark chocolate eyes pinning her with an intense stare.

“Me?” She shook her head. “No, but your hand is bleeding. Come, let’s get your coat and take a look at that bite.”

He ran a large hand through his dripping brown hair. “I’m fine, but I thank you.”

“Nonsense.” Her tone brooked no argument. “You can dry in the sun while I bandage your hand with… something.”

He followed her back to Franny and Mr. Jones, who had come running during the commotion.

“Well done, sir,” said Mr. Jones with a grin. “The lad would have had a battle scar to show for that if you hadn’t intervened.”

“You’re a hero,” said Mattie as they settled on the grass. She dug through her satchel and found the cloth she used to wipe her hands. “I don’t have anything to wet it with.”

“And no one’s going near the water again,” added Franny. “I’ve heard those mute swans can kill a person.”

“An exaggeration, I’m sure.” Mattie shook her head. “But they can definitely do harm. Now, let’s see that hand.”

She kept her gaze down, not trusting herself to look in the man’s eyes again. The fluttering in her stomach had just quieted. But she wasn’t prepared for the touch of his skin against hers. Warm and rough and… tingly.

No, his fingers weren’t tingling, she was. Sucking in a breath, she turned his hand to inspect the bleeding. The bite had torn the piece of skin between the thumb and forefinger. She dabbed at the blood, wondering how long it would take for someone to fetch water.

“I have something to pour over it, Lady Matilda,” said Mr. Jones, handing her a small silver flask.

She looked up at her driver, one brow arched as she took liquor.

“And before you ask, I do not partake while working. It’s for emergency use, such as we have right now.”

Mattie grinned, then turned back to the injured hero. “This will hurt,” she warned, holding the flask over the bite.

“Can’t be any worse than the swan.” The timbre of his voice was deep yet soft, setting the wings to flight in her belly again. “I’ll try not to cry.”

She let out a loud, happy guffaw that silenced the fluttering. “Oh,” she squeaked, embarrassed at the volume of her laughter. But his jest had put her at ease. Pouring some of the alcohol over the wound, she handed Mr. Jones back his flask. She quickly cleaned the small area where the skin had been torn, but with the blood gone, the injury appeared to be minor.

Mattie used one of her handkerchiefs to wrap his hand, then leaned back to inspect her handiwork. “I think you will live,” she declared with a smile. “It looks as if you may have a bruise on your jaw soon. The skin isn’t broken, but it’s beginning to swell. It hit you with its wing when you grabbed the child.” She pointed to the left side of his face above his soggy cravat.

“I hadn’t even noticed.” He rubbed at his jaw, then winced.

“A cool compress will help when you get home.”

“My immense thanks, Lady Matilda…” His voice went up in question.

“Bancroft,” she supplied. “I suppose introducing ourselves is necessary considering the circumstances. We’ve become rather close in the past quarter hour.”

“Aye, my lady,” he murmured, his gaze holding her captive.

Breathe, just breathe. “This is my lady’s maid, Miss Tilbot, and our driver, Mr. Jones.”

“I’m Mr. Harry Walters, at your service,” he said, bowing his head, then nodding to the servants.

“Hello, Mr. Harry Walters. May I shorten it to just Mr. Walters?” she asked with a grin.

“Whatever you prefer. I answer to many names.” He chuckled, then said, “Most women are put off by the sight of blood. I’m impressed by your fortitude.”

“I volunteer in the children’s ward of the hospital. Working with children, one must have a strong stomach.”

And just like that, her shyness went into hiding. They talked for an hour as they lounged on the blanket, asking questions of one another or just making observations. The butterflies went to sleep, and Mattie felt as comfortable in conversation with this man as she did with her brother’s friends. Not that he invited many to the house, but there were a few.

“I’ve always wondered why they call those birds mute swans. They certainly make noise,” Mattie mused after a short silence. “I never realized they could be so intimidating.”

“Coming from the woman who tried to beat them down with her parasol.” He chuckled and winked at her. “You are the true heroine of the day.”

“Pishposh. There isn’t a courageous bone in my body.” Though she blushed, pleased with his compliment. He made her feel a bravado she was sure she didn’t possess.

“There’s mythology relating to the mute swan. Do you know it?” he asked.

“I’m a bluestocking, no mistake, but I’ve read mostly Roman mythology. I assume this is Greek?”

“It is. Would you like to hear it?”

“Oh yes.” Did she gush? Oh my, how proud her mother would be.

“You’ve heard of Zeus, of course, and Apollo, who pulled the sun across the sky every day in his golden chariot?”

She nodded and smiled encouragingly.

“This tale is about Apollo’s son, Phaeton. They were both chariot drivers, and Phaeton had just won a race. The prize, given by his father, was a gift of the winner’s choosing. Before Phaeton decides on what to ask for, he gets into an argument with his friends on whether he was skilled enough to drive his father’s golden chariot.

“So, Phaeton decides that is what he wants as his prize, knowing his father is a man of his word.”

“Why are young men so often vain?” Mattie asked, trying not to sound smug, then laughing at herself. “I’m sorry, please go on.”

“Phaeton manages the first half of the ride brilliantly. When he lets go of the reins to wave to his friends, proving how capable he is, the horses, with no guidance, head straight for the earth. Fortunately, Phaeton pulls them up before they crash, but the earth below them is scorched.”

“I remember something about this… He created the Sahara Desert.”

“Very good, Lady Matilda. The destruction continued. When the seas began to boil, Poseidon demanded Zeus stop the chaos. So, the god struck Phaeton from the chariot, sending him to his death but ending the devastation.”

“Why do gods always kill first and think later?” she mused out loud.

Mr. Walters laughed. “Do you ask questions throughout the performance when you go to the theater?”

“Constantly. My mother hates attending with me. But what does this have to do with the mute swan?”

“Phaeton’s best friend, young Cycgus, wailed over Phaeton’s dead body. It tortured Apollo, and when he couldn’t make the young man stop, he changed Cycgus into a mute swan. According to the myth, the swans will live their entire lives in silence until death. Then they wail one last time as they leave this earth.”

“That’s why they call the babies cygnets.” Mattie thought about this. “Could you imagine being silent your entire life? How dreadful.”

“I know several people I wish I could silence.” He chuckled, and she noticed how the tiny bit of silver at his temples blended into those soft, thick waves of brown.

What would it feel like if she reached up and touched his hair? Too many novels and adventurous heroines, young lady, she scolded herself.

Mr. Walters stood, held out his hand, and helped her up. “I must be on my way,” he said, bowing over her hand. He searched the ground, found his coat, and shook it out before placing it over his arm.

* * *

Walters was at sixes and sevens. Lady Matilda Bancroft was lovely and guileless. And his employer’s sister. After seeing Colvin’s coach drive by one night in early August, Darby had asked him to keep an eye on the townhouse whenever he was away on business. Usually he sent Elijah, the youngest member of the family. Eli was also working on Bow Street now as a Runner, a requirement mandated by O’Brien to learn the basics of an investigation.

Twice, Walters had taken a watch to ensure all was well. He would never assume to speak with Darby’s sister or mother. Yet, here he was, completely by accident, enjoying the afternoon being doctored by the lovely Lady Matilda. Mattie, Darby called her. She looked more like a Mattie than a Matilda. Mattie was warmer, friendlier.

He noted the disappointment in her clear blue eyes. She had her brother’s looks, but her eyes were a hazier, lighter blue. Like a summer’s day through a piece of muslin. The kind of eyes that made a heart beat faster and a mouth go dry. The kind of eyes he could look at all day.

Steady, Harry. She’s out of your reach.

“Will I see you again?” Her gaze left his face now, as if she already knew his reply.

“I doubt it, my lady. I rarely chase children or get pummeled by fowl.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m sure we move in much different circles.”

“She doesn’t move in any circles,” mumbled the older maid, then looked in the direction of the mall lane, finding the passersby immensely interesting.

Darby had spoken of his sister and her lack of enthusiasm for London society, though he’d said it with something akin to pride in his voice rather than disappointment or irritation.

“Again, my gratitude for your assistance?—”

“You’ll have to return my handkerchief,” she blurted out, immediately turning an adorable pink.

Harry began to unwrap the handkerchief but her hand on his stopped him. He stared at her hand, felt the warmth of her skin rush through his own body.

“A gentleman would wash it before he returns it.” She peeked up at him through her long pale lashes.

He blinked. “I-I… of course. Shall I return it?—”

“Here, next week. Same time and place.” Now her gaze met his, a pleading look.

He tried to say no. Opened his mouth, waited for the word to escape. It was a simple two-letter response. His tongue would not cooperate. His brain commanded, and his heart refused. I’d rather face the fires of hell.

“Well then, I’ll see you next week.” With that, she gave him a brilliant smile, which set him on fire, picked up her satchel, and walked away, leaving her maid and driver to gather the blanket and scurry to catch up.

He watched her petite figure sashay toward Spring Garden, that deuced parasol spinning circles above her head.

He knew instinctively she had no idea how seductive her walk was. No idea how beautiful she was. No idea the effect she had on a man. Well, this man, anyway.

He would return the handkerchief next week and not see her again. Harry Walters was an orphan from the rookery. He was not a magical creature from mythology who could bend the world—or the London ton —to change his humble beginnings. Even as he firmly told himself it didn’t matter, his head turned against his will to get one last glimpse of Lady Matilda Bancroft.