Page 1 of Hearts at Home

1

T he monkey did not want to stay in the basket. Chloe had to hold down the lid while pretending nothing untoward was happening. It was a struggle to maintain a half smile of polite interest to convince those around her that she was listening to the speaker.

She didn’t dare look at Doro. Her friend had her gaze focused forward with a determination belied by a certain twinkle in her eye and the occasional tremble of her lips. If they met one another’s eyes, they would collapse into giggles as if they were twelve or thirteen again and sharing a schoolroom.

Chloe needed to not think about Rosario the monkey or Doro’s amusement. Which meant, of course, that was all she could think about. The lecture might have helped, but the man currently droning on about the iniquities of the Habeas Corpus Act was too boring to actually make any sense.

The lid kicked under her hand. She bent over to rap it with her knuckles, just as the audience started clapping. The sudden roar of sound, of course, made Rosario even more desperate to get out of the basket.

Doro leaned closer and hissed out of the side of her mouth, “I did suggest the reform meeting might not be the best place for a monkey.”

“I couldn’t leave her behind,” Chloe protested. “Martin threatened to wring her neck when he caught her.”

Doro’s amusement bubbled out in a gurgle. “Rosario did steal Lord Tavistock’s cravat pin,” she pointed out.

It was true, but not the whole truth. In the two weeks since Chloe rescued Rosario from a mob of villagers, she had stolen several things a day, bringing them all to Chloe with every expectation of approval.

The villagers had told Martin, Chloe’s brother, the Viscount Tavistock, that the original owner was in prison awaiting trial for theft. A cravat pin, two pairs of sleeve links, a cross belonging to cook, a pair of Chloe’s earrings, one jewelled buckle from a shoe, and a handful of other small objects witnessed to the thief’s small hairy accomplice.

“Martin will calm down by the time I am home,” Chloe assured Doro, hoping it was true.

The next speaker had risen, and someone behind demanded the ladies be silent. Chloe looked around and winced an apology at the large man glaring from the next row of seats.

Two rows behind him, a fair-haired gentleman caught her gaze and winked one twinkling hazel eye.

The speaker, a little man with a bristling beard and burning eyes, began his oration. Boredom was not going to be an issue this time. A voice that was surely too large for the man’s body boomed through the room, calling for them to protest the iniquities under which the workers suffered. “I love the King as much as anyone,” he claimed, at full shout, “but his son plays at building pleasure palaces while his government oppresses his people and drives us into the workhouse.”

At the man’s rant, Rosario threw herself against the lid with renewed determination, rocking the basket despite Chloe’s attempt to keep it still.

Behind them, someone booed. The speaker shouted him down, but a jeer came from another corner. Then the first missile flew, straight past Chloe’s head.

Chloe ducked and lost hold of the lid of the basket. Rosario shot out, into the crowd, jabbering her distress. “Rosario!” Chloe shouted.

Doro edged up beside Chloe, avoiding the fight that had broken out in the aisle and threatened to impinge on her seat. “We need to get out of here,” she said.

She was right. All around them was chaos. Some people were still hurling projectiles at the stage, though the speaker had disappeared. The chairman of the meeting had given up calling for calm and was wringing his hands while dodging pieces of rotten fruit and vegetables.

Others were wrangling in couples or groups, a few verbally but most with fists, elbows, and feet. Chloe began edging along the row towards the nearest wall. She would just have to hope Rosario found her. Chloe and Doro had to get out of here.

* * *

When Dom Finchley saw the first turnip sail towards the stage, he had the fleeting thought that the thrower should have used it earlier, to cut short the drone of the previous speaker. And then two more turnips flew, followed by an apple. Several men descended on the perpetrator. Someone threw a punch. In less time than it took to take a deep breath, the room was in chaos.

Dom recognized the thrower. An agitator—one of the army of less-than-honourable spies employed by the government. Dom supposed he was himself working, at one remove, for the government, but to observe, not to interfere, and certainly not to cause a riot where innocent people might be hurt.

His report back to his sponsor would be scathing, and not about the behaviour of the reformists, either.

For the moment though, he was trying to keep out of the way of flying fists while working his way through to where he last saw the two ladies.

He’d noticed them as soon as he took his seat. Their clothes did not look out of place, and their hair—what he could see of it under plain bonnets—was simply dressed. But only those schooled in the art since early girlhood had the carriage of a lady. They sat as if chairs never had backs and their spines consisted of an iron rod each.

At first, he’d thought them a woman and child, and had wondered at the idiocy of bringing a young girl into a potentially dangerous crowd. The girl had something in a basket. A kitten perhaps. Or a puppy.

Then she turned. He saw her chest in profile, and his mouth went dry. No child this. He ripped his gaze from lush curves and upwards to a determined chin, a pert nose, and chocolate brown eyes fringed with dark lashes. The eyes met his with open curiosity. He smiled and winked. Her eyes widened before she turned her back on him. The next speaker began.

A few minutes into the speech, the rumpus started, and Dom started working his way towards the ladies. He had to get them out of here. Both of them. Not just the little elf who so fascinated him.

He stopped in his tracks at the sight of a monkey shooting up out of the crowd, leaping from head to head and clambering up the drapes. Not a kitten or a puppy, then.

A bit of ducking and weaving, a judicious punch when necessary. At times like this, he was grateful that he was slighter in stature than any of his brothers, the other two official sons of the marquess who was married to his mother and the two legitimate sons of his actual progenitor. He could wriggle through gaps in the brawling crowd that would compel a burlier man to stop and fight.

Six years at a public school had taught him how to give a good account of himself if forced to violence. Nearly a decade at war had cemented the lesson. But the priority was to reach the ladies. Ah. There was the elf, on her own, backed into a corner, clinging to her basket.

Ten feet further down the wall was a door. Dom had no idea where it went, but out of the fight, he hoped. He shouldered past the men who were blocking her in, and stopped in front of her. “There’s a door this way, Miss.”

The elf’s curves were even more mouth-watering close up, but Dom couldn’t afford to think about them. Someone thumped into his body, and someone else tried to barge past his arm. He made himself a wall to protect the elf, who was standing on the tips of her toes and peering around at the crowd. “I have lost my monkey,” she explained. Then, as an afterthought, her brow creased, “and my friend.”

“Let me get you out to safety,” Dom begged, “And I’ll come back and look for your friends. Both of them.”

He was moving towards the door as he spoke, herding her along without touching her. She came willingly enough, though she continued to throw those anxious glances.

Then came a shout from the main door to the hall. “Troops!”

The call was taken up by a score of voices, and a hundred people stampeded at once. Someone caromed into Dom’s back, pushing him against the elf. He slid his arms around her to shelter her. The blows and pokes from behind would leave bruises, but not on the lady if he could prevent it.

Even in the stress of holding back the crowd, a small and primitive part of his mind was assessing the lush softness against which he pressed, and enthusiastically suggesting that love was more fun than war.

It was only for a moment, and then he was able to step back, take a breath for control, and reassess their escape path. The door he was aiming for was blocked with men struggling to get through. At that moment, a few feet away, a fabric hanging on the wall shifted, and the monkey’s face poked out, followed by the monkey, who launched itself into the elf’s arms.

“Quick,” Dom said, looking back over his shoulder to the main door, where those who had been trying to get out that way had reversed and were scattering across the floor to other exits. Two steps brought him to the hanging. He twitched it aside and disclosed an open doorway with stairs leading upwards. “Go up. I’ll try to find your friend. If the troops catch up with you, tell them you’re with Captain Finchley.”

She nodded her agreement.

He caught her arm as she passed. “May I know the name of the lady I am honoured to be assisting?”

Her smile transmuted the strong planes of her face into beauty. “Chloe Tavistock, Captain Finchley. And my friend is Dorothea Bigglesworth. A straw bonnet and dark blue pelisse. Guinea-gold hair and blue eyes.” Dom nodded his thanks, impressed. She’d maintained her calm and thought clearly enough to describe Miss Bigglesworth, while he was still assuming that any other lady he found must be the missing friend.

He closed the door behind her and dropped the fabric hanging back into place. Now where…? Ah! The brim of a bonnet poked up just beyond the short flight of steps that led to the stage. The hall was emptying, and Dom found it easy to dart across the room, avoiding those who were, by now, more interested in escaping the oncoming troops than in continuing the fracas.

He reached the woman by the stage just as she turned, and knew straight away that it was not Miss Tavistock’s friend. This lady had a blue pelisse, but the hair under the straw bonnet was decidedly auburn. She eyed him warily.

“May I see you to safety, Miss?” Dom asked, offering an arm. She looked beyond him, her eyes widening in alarm. Dom turned to see a militia sergeant and two troopers approaching, the sergeant with a pistol and the troopers swords drawn. Idiots. Did he and the lady look dangerous? If nobody was killed today, it would be a miracle.

“Stand down, sergeant,” he ordered, his voice crisp. “I am reaching for my identification papers,” he added, and suited action to word.

The sergeant approached cautiously, his gun steady, and took the papers with his other hand. His eyes widened as he read the letter that introduced Dom. It was signed by the Duke of Haverford and bore that noble gentleman’s seal.

The sergeant nodded and passed the letter back. “I beg your pardon, my lord. Can’t be too careful.”

Being careful , Dom thought, but didn’t say, would preclude carrying loaded guns and naked swords into a volatile crowd of unarmed civilians.

“Can you make sure that this lady is escorted safely to wherever she wishes to go?” he said instead.

The sergeant narrowed his eyes. “She’s not a revolutionary, sir, is she?”

“She is an English gentlewoman, Sergeant, and innocent of any involvement in today’s events.” Or not. But Dom really didn’t care. “As is Miss Tavistock, who came here with me to observe, and her friend Miss Bigglesworth. I need to look for Miss Bigglesworth. Miss Tavistock is worried about her. The lady is wearing a straw bonnet and dark blue pelisse. She has fair hair and blue eyes.”

The lady with the auburn hair was regarding him as if he was some sort of alien. He winked at her and she turned away.

The sergeant lifted his eyebrows in a pleased widening of the eyes and smiled. “Yellow hair? I saw a lady who meets that description, Captain, my lord, sir. A clerical gentleman was escorting her away from here.”

Dom nodded. “I will inform Miss Tavistock.”