Page 1 of Frankly, My Dear Clara (London Dreams #1)

London, 1816

M iss Clara Woodbury was in possession of the customary solitary head which could only reasonably wear one hat at a time. This condition made the procurement of a third walking bonnet an irrational and unnecessary expense. This observation, which Clara had offered up in fifteen various phrasings over breakfast, had been thoroughly dismissed by her aunt. The viscountess insisted that young ladies participating in their one and only chance at a London social Season needed a minimum of three walking bonnets.

So Clara had dutifully joined her mother and aunt at the milliner where they’d ordered a bonnet with a startling resemblance to the one she’d plopped on her head as they’d left the house an hour prior.

Unfortunately, she was now back down to owning only two serviceable walking bonnets, as Clara’s oldest hat was being crushed along with her head, her body, and her dignity. The hundreds of hairs, two ears, and single nose that she also possessed were being equally assaulted.

Clara didn’t know what had caused her current predicament or even what that predicament actually was. All she knew was it had left her pressed tightly between her mother, who was screeching like an out-of-tune violin, and her aunt, who seemed to have forgotten every word in the English language aside from “oh, dear.”

She attempted to turn her head so that at the very least her nose could stop trying to spear its way through the shoulder of her aunt’s fine woolen pelisse but was hindered by the bonnet Clara could only assume was a lost cause. The headwear was caught on something. Every shift caused it to yank painfully at the coiffure beneath it.

And there was a lot of shifting.

The brim of her askew bonnet and its collection of decorative blue feathers filled Clara’s vision. Her best guess, from the brush of fabric along her neck that accompanied every jerk of her hair, was that her mother’s sleeve was somehow to blame for the constant pulling of the hat.

Mother’s lungs were certainly to blame for the screaming that pierced Clara’s ears as sharply as her aunt’s boot heel was pressing into her little toe.

“Oh, my heavens, get it off, get it off, get it off!” Mother squealed.

“Unhand me at once,” Aunt Elizabeth declared in a frantic yet haughty tone. She had not only remembered there were more words than oh, dear in the English language, but her wits had gathered enough to remind her that she had married into the aristocracy and was therefore a lady who could issue imperious orders. The thread of shaky panic running through that order was enough to increase Clara’s concern.

Who was her aunt attempting to order about? They were in the middle of a London square, hardly a location known for mid-afternoon assaults or robberies.

Admittedly, Clara hadn’t been giving her surroundings or her companions a great deal of attention, but surely the approach of an assailant would have been different enough to break through her moroseness over having to spend yet another afternoon shopping.

Then again, this was hardly a normal assailant. The silent figure had thus far managed to do nothing but press the trio together into a sandwich of social opulence that was not likely to endear Clara to any of the potential marriage matches her aunt insisted London would provide.

As much as Clara wanted to return to the country where she belonged, doing so because she’d been laughed out of London as an utter failure wasn’t exactly the way she wanted to do it.

The harsh, strong wind that had plagued them all day grabbed at her skirts and flung her loosened locks of dark hair into whatever small cracks of sight weren’t blocked by woven straw and feathers. Pressed as she was between her aunt and her mother, she at least didn’t have to worry about her fluttering skirts flying about enough to create an indecent show. That would send her home in shame as well as failure.

“I’ve got it. I’ve got it.”

A steady masculine voice cut through the feminine distress just before her mother jerked forward, pressing Clara even tighter between her female relations.

The movement had at least dislodged her mother’s arm from her bonnet, though the freedom was accompanied by a sharp tug of her hair. Her eyes were watering with the stab of pain but at least she could now tilt her head enough to uncover one of them.

Framed between one errant curl and her own blue pelisse was a man. Or at least, part of a man. She could make out the brim of a black hat, a man’s shoulder draped in a black coat, and the edge of a . . . kite?

Clara blinked rapidly and attempted to scrape her curl against her aunt’s shoulder to get it out of the way. This catastrophe had to have been caused by something more nefarious than a child’s toy.

It appeared, though, that their attacker had indeed been made of fabric, twigs, and twine. A long, sturdy string looped around the women at least three times, binding them together in this tableau of hysteria.

The wind that had apparently turned the toy into a weapon of social destruction caught hold of Clara’s loose curl and shifted it until she was once again all but blind.

“You have our thanks, good sir.” Aunt Elizabeth’s breathless voice was shaky, likely due to the trembles working through her body and rubbing against Clara’s. “Your quick thinking saved us.”

“Saved us?” Clara couldn’t keep the flatness from her voice. Since her aunt declared them rescued, the assailant must have been the kite. That was beyond humiliating. Her irritation had her muttering, “How much saving did we actually need? We’ve hardly been attacked by a runaway carriage or an unruly dog.”

“Don’t be ungrateful,” Mother whined.

Clara winced. Where had her hearty, practical mother gone? This was the same woman that had taught her how to cross a stream while carrying a parcel and not get her hems wet. This was the same woman who had fed a screaming toddler with one hand while comforting a grieving widow with the other.

And now, after four days in the company of her older sister, she was simpering helplessly because of a kite.

Clara would rather not spend enough time in London to discover if the condition would eventually affect every woman in her family. Namely, herself.

Aunt Elizabeth sighed and sent her elbow digging into Clara’s ribs. Was she attempting to wriggle out of the cage of kite string or correct her niece’s behavior? Either way, Clara was finished with the entire uncomfortable business. It would be a minor miracle if their spectacle had not attracted a crowd, but whether or not God had blessed them with momentary anonymity, the sooner she was extricated from this predicament, the better.

And it seemed her fastest way out was at the hands of the unknown man.

“Apologies, kind sir.” Clara flailed one hand about, attempting to grab one of the loops of confining string. “I’m certain we would have survived the final impact of such a dastardly foe as a kite, but it is nice not to be required to do so.”

“Of course.” He cleared his throat, but the sound seemed more to cover the beginnings of a chuckle than out of physical need. “If only I’d arrived here sooner and prevented your current entanglement.”

Another wiggle, an accidental stomping of her mother’s toe, and a jerk of her head to further dislodge the bonnet, and Clara could finally see past her aunt’s shoulder.

Their rescuer was no longer wearing a hat and the violent wind danced through the strands of brown hair that were a little too long to be fashionable.

He had one arm secured around a paper and twine wrapped package while the other fought awkwardly with a broken kite still trying to ride the strong gusts of wind.

Clara tried to twist so she could look about the square. “Who does that thing belong to, anyway?” There wasn’t a child about that she could see. Not many Mayfair residents either, which was fortunate.

The man made a show of looking about the green, but if his greater field of vision yielded any clues, he didn’t give it away. “I believe the owners have made themselves scarce, my lady.”

“I am not a lady,” Clara instinctively corrected.

“Honestly, Clara.” Mother sighed.

“Er, my apologies,” the man said with a quick glance at Clara’s aunt, who stood at the front of the unfortunate little trio, looking every inch the lady she was. Of course their would-be rescuer was more than a little confused. “I, er, meant no disrespect.”

Neither had she, but her mother and aunt would consider it impolite, regardless. It wasn’t that Clara had a problem with the peerage individually. She’d grown up happily playing with her cousin and had enjoyed visiting her grandfather’s barony until he died, and the estate passed to some distant relation.

It was being counted among the class as a whole she had a problem with. She wanted to help people. She wanted to make a difference in their lives. That would be harder to do if she was seen as inaccessible or if people assumed she considered herself better than an average person.

What she wanted to do right in that moment was fold her arms across her middle and stomp her foot in frustration, because it wasn’t fair for her family or anyone else to make her feel bad for simply wanting to be normal. Since she could do neither, she stuck her nose in the air and tried not to feel any more ridiculous than she had a few moments earlier. “It is the truth. We should seek truth without hesitation.”

“Refusing it shows we value men’s esteem more,” the man said quietly.

If she wasn’t being held in place by her aunt and her mother, Clara’s knees might have given way in shock. She stared down at the man, her mouth slightly agape.

He lifted his attention from the string and met her gaze, a grin now fully evident on his face. “Not an exact quote, I’m afraid, but the idea is there.”

She blinked at him several times in silence.

“It’s Blaise Pascal.” His tone was less confident as he gave her a small nod before setting the paper-wrapped package carefully on the ground to free up both his hands to work on the kite.

“Yes,” she blurted out. Could she get away with blaming the slight breathlessness in her voice on her attempts to get free? “ Pensées . Have you read it?”

“Of course he’s read it.” Aunt Elizabeth shook her head, sending the feathers of her uncrushed bonnet brushing against Clara’s nose. “It’s hardly a popular enough book to be quoted as dinner conversation.”

Clara twisted to free her face from the feathers and her leg brushed the man’s arm. She looked down. He looked up. Then he gave her a quick wink before turning his attention back to his efforts to lower the loops of string to the ground.

“I’ll have you free in a moment.” He grunted as the wind tried to throw the kite back into the air. After tucking the object securely beneath his knee, he cast a look around the square. “No one else seems inclined to lend anything aside from eyes and ears to the situation.”

He tugged on the string and Mother knocked into Clara’s back once more, making her head smack against Aunt Elizabeth’s shoulder. This time the bonnet feather went into Clara’s mouth.

She sputtered inelegantly, trying to force the downy bits from her tongue.

Aunt Elizabeth sighed. Again.

Mother shrieked. Again.

Clara wished she could close her eyes and wake up snug in her little room at the rectory in Eldham. Again.

The quick, sure steps of a running man approached from Clara’s other side and before she could lift her chin and turn her head in the direction, the person had joined in the rescue efforts, bringing more tugging and jostling to the string.

“Ah, finally.” Aunt Elizabeth’s tone was everything gracious as the loops of string were worked to the ground. She stepped forward, her movement as graceful as it would be in a ballroom.

Clara pushed her ruined bonnet back into place atop her head and shoved her errant curls behind her ears. Her cleared field of vision now included her grinning older brother, Marmaduke.

His grin widened as he extended his hand. As much as she would like to glide forward as her aunt had done, she didn’t trust herself not to trip over the lowered string or even her own hemline. She slid her hand into her brother’s and prepared to step free of her prison.

“Thank you for your assistance, Duke.”

Aunt Elizabeth’s words had the man who’d snagged the kite jumping to his feet. Unfortunately, the string was still in his hand and Clara’s foot was in the air outside the circle while the rest of her remained within it. The loop caught around her knee, finally completing the kite’s mission to knock her off her feet and ruin her London Season before it had even begun.

Except she didn’t get a humiliating face full of grass and dirt.

Instead, the stranger’s arm wrapped around her waist. For a moment, the situation was awkward, filled with a tension she couldn’t identify.

Then the abandoned kite caught a gust of wind and flew up to knock solidly against the man’s back.

He winced as giggles threatened to spill from Clara’s mouth. She gritted her teeth. Lady or not, she could not be so rude as to repay the man’s chivalry by laughing at him.

With Marmaduke’s assistance, it took only a moment to free all entrapped feet and skirts and wrap the string securely around the remains of the broken kite.

Clara’s mother took a deep breath and straightened her bonnet, pretending for all the world that she hadn’t been near hysterics mere moments earlier. “You can’t say such things, Elizabeth.”

Aunt Elizabeth was far more concerned with straightening her skirts and pelisse than her sister’s views of propriety. “It was merely a jest, Miriam. We’ve done it for years.”

It took Clara a moment to realize the sisters were referring to the family’s habit of ironically shortening Marmaduke’s name to that of a high personage. The unknown man’s startled reaction to thinking he was among a top-ranking peer only supported Clara’s desire to not be counted among their ranks.

The man slowly retrieved his parcel, his bright golden gaze bouncing from one person in their little group to another. Was he trying to decide who among them was actually a person of consequence? Was he hoping for some kind of reward?

Clara’s relief turned bitter at the edges. Why wasn’t it enough for people to simply accomplish a good deed?

Well, she could disavow him of any anticipatory notions he was holding. Aunt Elizabeth might be a viscountess, but there was no one so illustrious as a duke in their little circle. “I believe, Aunt, that it is a jest more suited to private excursions in the country than a populated square in the middle of the city.”

Aunt Elizabeth pouted. “No one is close enough to hear, Clara. You’re being far too serious.”

“She has but one Season in London,” Mother said as she moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with Clara. “We can’t afford to be anything but serious.”

Where had this strong woman been ten minutes ago? Clara’s ears were still ringing.

Marmaduke clapped his hands together. “While you three debate the correct time for a joke we’ve all been bandying about since I was in the nursery, I shall introduce myself to No One.”

“No one?” Aunt Elizabeth frowned. “What on earth are you speaking of?”

Marmaduke pointed to their rescuer. “You said no one is close enough to hear and unless this man is incapable of it, he most definitely heard.”

A tinge of red worked up the man’s neck, reinforcing Clara’s idea that he’d been of a mind to gain something tangible after his good deed.

Aunt Elizabeth had not an ounce of shame, though, as she merely frowned at her nephew.

Marmaduke gave the other man a bow. “Mr. Woodbury, at your service.”

“I am Mr. Lockhart. How do you do, Mr. Woodbury?” Despite the common pleasantries, Mr. Lockhart didn’t look at all satisfied with the exchange. If anything, he looked more confused.

Mother sighed, but Clara couldn’t find it in her to feel sorry for the woman. She’d given her son the ridiculous name in the first place.

Marmaduke grinned, seemingly unconcerned and clearly happy to dwell in the middle of confusion. “Oh, I’m well. It’s a lovely day, a catastrophe has been humorously averted, and I am presently annoying the women in my family by holding strictly to the letter of the good manners I have been taught.”

It was Mother’s turn to frown at the exchange. “What good manners are you exhibiting?”

He puffed out his chest and placed a hand over the middle. “You were the one who told me it simply wasn’t done to introduce a woman to a man she’d given no indication of wanting to meet.”

Marmaduke grinned at Mr. Lockhart. “You should know though, in case you happen to hear this lovely woman referred to as Mrs. Woodbury, that she is my mother, not my wife.” He waved a hand about. “Wouldn’t want anyone confused about anyone else’s identity here.”

The man dipped his head to examine the package he’d been carrying, but it wasn’t enough to disguise the wide, laughing grin that split his face. Apparently, he wasn’t so put out by the lack of monetary gratitude that he couldn’t appreciate the ridiculous.

Clara just wished she wasn’t the ridiculous in question. Even if she could feel her hair sticking out in four different directions while the brim of her bonnet dipped low over her ear, she did not take kindly to being laughed at. She gave the bonnet a jerk, attempting to center it back on her head, and ending up entirely dislodging the bow beneath her chin.

The man coughed in a failed attempt to disguise his brief chuckle.

And that was enough embarrassment for one day.

Clara knew what sort of behavior was expected of her as a member of London society. Any moment since her arrival in London that hadn’t been taken up with shopping had been filled with her aunt’s lectures on society’s rules. Prime amongst those rules had been to never walk anywhere on her own.

Every rule had extenuating circumstances, however, and Clara was of the mind that being viciously attacked by a kite counted as such. Despite wanting to stomp away from the encounter, taking out her frustrations for the entire day—no, the entire past week—on the grass beneath her boots, she walked gracefully and sedately away from the group.

Clara made her way across the square, past a scruffy dog with judgy, beady eyes, two openly curious women—three if she counted their maid—and a delivery boy who turned away so briskly when she frowned at him that he nearly toppled the stack of boxes in his arms.

Indignation robbed her of the last of her decorum, and she stomped up the stairs to her cousin’s front door. Clara went to shove the door open only to have it whisked inward by the very attentive butler.

Only her years of walking rough trails in the countryside kept her from falling on her face as she stumbled through the opening, arm outstretched like she was chasing an errant child. The indignation was truly the final straw.

“I beg your pardon, milady,” the butler, Hodges, said stoically, “but I’ve taken the liberty of sending word downstairs that Sally should meet you in your rooms to, er, see to your hair.”

Clara glanced in the mirror beside the door. It was even worse than she’d feared. The bonnet was half crushed, curls draped lopsidedly over one shoulder, a feather from her mother’s hat was sticking upright out of the neckline of Clara’s bodice, and a bruise was already forming on the cheekbone that had connected far too rapidly with her aunt’s shoulder.

With nothing more than a groan to acknowledge the butler, Clara abandoned any remaining good form and slumped up the stairs. London was turning out to be a bad egg indeed.