Princess Charming by Beth Pattillo Read Free Book Online

not a disreputable one? It was not as if the scullery maid whose wrist fit so neatly in the circle of his fingers had any high-born sensibilities that might be offended, or a reputation that would be compromised.
    At that moment, the clouds burst, and rain poured forth in a torrent, drenching Nick and his companion in a matter of moments. The soggy turn of events decided the matter, and he headed in the direction of an establishment he knew all too well.
    LUCY WIPED THE rain from her face and, for once in her life, wished for a bonnet. There was only one way to deal with a man determined to rescue, and that was to let him believe himself the hero. He would tire of his antics soon enough, and until he did, she would try to think of a plan, for with two of Sidmouth’s thugs lying unconscious in her stepmother’s kitchen, disaster loomed even larger than before, and her chances of emerging from this bumble-broth unscathed were diminishing rapidly.
    The gardener led her through a jumble of London streets, the fingers encircling her wrist strong but gentle. The very possessiveness of the gesture irked her. He doubled back and then ducked through an alleyway while Wellington grunted with the effort of keeping pace. She lost track of time when she began to tire. The rain drenched her hair and seeped down her spine until she was thoroughly wet.
    Lucy glanced behind them and could see no sign of pursuit. “We can stop now,” she said to the gardener, her voice low so as not to attract attention.
    “We’re not stopping until we’re safe.” He didn’t turn to look at her, just plowed ahead through the downpour and the growing foot traffic as they approached the old part of the city. Lucy fumed and eyed the passing carriages, praying that Wellington would not feel like chasing a barouche.
    “The only thing endangering us now is this forced march through the middle of London,” she muttered. “It’s high-handed tactics like this that make women dream of suffrage.”
    His shoulders tightened for a brief moment, but he didn’t break his stride. “Only a bit further now.”
    “Where?” They were leaving the respectable part of the city, and ahead lay the East End and its squalid uncertainties. She knew the area well enough. The reform meetings were held in its smoky taprooms, and she had ferried messages back and forth between most of them.
    The gardener stopped so suddenly that she collided with his back. Beneath his wet homespun smock, his muscles were like iron, and Lucy felt the shock of the contact all the way to her toes. Their momentum threw him against the waist-high ornamental gate that stood guard in front of a shabby row house, the worn brick facade clinging to its last vestiges of gentility.
    Lucy caught the rain-dampened post and steadied herself. She would not be distracted by the longing that rose within her at the reminder of his strength. Wellington collapsed at her feet, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he wheezed.
    “Here?” she asked. The house was rather unremarkable, with only a few windows lit in the face of the darkening sky.
    “Yes, here.” The gardener swung open the gate and led her up the short walk.
    The polished bronze knocker on the door appeared well worn, as if a great number of guests had made use of it. Lucy shot a glance at her rescuer as he lifted the heavy bronze and gave three quick raps, wondering at the man’s audacity. He was a servant, and so was she, as far as he knew. What were they doing on the front steps?
    They waited several long moments for an answer, and then the door opened to reveal a beautiful young woman in a mobcap and apron.
    “Nicky!” Her eyes lit with pleasure when she saw the tall gardener. She threw back the door. “Oh, Nicky, it’s been ages!” She launched herself across the threshold and into his arms. Wellington barked when the young woman pressed her lips against the gardener’s mouth, and Lucy felt the unwelcome urge to strike someone. Or at