To Dance until Dawn (Girls Who Dare Book 12) Read online

  Why she could not be content to be a well-behaved young lady and go to balls and parties, and just enjoy the social whirl, she did not know. Perhaps it was the edge of danger that had haunted her younger years, the constant presence of her great-uncle and his determination to steal the title from her father. Though she had always believed her father would keep her safe, she had known there was real danger there. She had revelled in the trust Lucian had placed in her, trust enough to teach her how to shoot and to explain to her the reality of a world that could be treacherous. He had lived with the constant threat of his own murder, and perhaps something of that had rubbed off on her. Perhaps she even missed the camaraderie they’d shared then, when it had been the two of them against the world.

  Whatever it was, it made her an enigma. As much as she was popular and sought out for her company, she was never quite at ease. Always, she was aware of the difference between her and those other young ladies, aware that they did not know what to make of her. She liked and admired many of them, and had nothing against marrying and having a family. She looked forward to it, but… but surely there was more. Could she not have an adventure or two before she did as the world expected of her? No, was the simple answer. Adventures equalled ruination. Or, at least, they did if you were found out.

  “Well, I’m blowed,” Alvanly said, his expression one of delight. “I admit it, I did not believe you daring enough to come. I apologise.”

  Phoebe shrugged. “That’s all right. Why would you? But do hurry, or we’ll be too far back to see anything.”

  She kept close to him, her hand on his arm, for no other reason than that it was safer to do so. Her free hand remained in her pocket, and she had stuffed a small bag of coins under the neck of her dress. Cutpurses in places like these would lift it from anywhere else in a second, without her knowing a thing about it.

  There was quite a crowd gathered now, carriages lining the field with people crammed on the tops of them to get a better view over those that circled the ring. At the very front, the men sat cross-legged on the floor with everyone beyond the first few lines standing. The air of anticipation rose steadily with the noise as the combatants took to the field.

  The fight, between a huge Irish man by the name of O’Sullivan, and a wicked looking devil called Evans, was quite a spectacle. Phoebe was torn between horror and admiration for the two men. Her admiration was all for their physiques, as they were stripped to the waist and the sight not one she’d ever had the chance to enjoy before. It was strangely… energising, the sight of two large, muscular men stripped to do battle. Their courage too was impressive. Good heavens, but she could hear, almost feel the echo of each hit as fists hit flesh with cruel force. As the fight went on, however, she was forced to admit it was not to her taste. The roar of the crowd was deafening, baying for victory, full of bloodlust as O’Sullivan put Evans in the dirt for a third time. Evans’ eye was swelling, blood dripping steadily from a cut on his eyebrow, and both men were filthy and bruised. He’d not last much longer.

  Well, she had come, and she had seen a boxing match, which had been the object of the exercise, alongside proving to Alvanly that he ought not underestimate her. Now, though, excitement turned to distaste for the brutality of it, and it seemed a good moment to make her escape. If she waited until the end, there would be more likelihood of trouble, with those victorious too over-excited and those who’d lost too angry to tolerate it. Alvanly was totally riveted on the fight and not paying her the least attention, and so she slipped away, easing back through the crowd.

  ***

  Max groaned as Evans hit the dirt for a third time. The end was pretty much a foregone conclusion now. He smacked Jasper on the shoulder and shook his head.

  “I’ll see you later and pay up,” he promised as Jasper grinned at him, turning his attention back to the fight and his brother, who was still yelling encouragement to Evans.

  Jerome would not like losing to his older brother.

  Pushing back through the spectators, Max kept a sharp eye out. There were always villains a-plenty, ready to snatch a watch or a purse, or anything else they could get their hands on, and turn a profit. Once at the edge of the crowd he strode out, relieved to be away from the raucous atmosphere.

  What the devil was wrong with him?

  Perhaps Phoebe was right. Even though she’d never actually said as much, it was obvious she thought him old and dull, and certainly he felt bored to death. The only time his blood ever surged in his veins was when she was near, and it usually led to him putting his foot in his mouth. He never meant to, but she was so damn reckless and the idea that she might come to harm made his heart stutter in his chest. He kept an eye on her as discreetly as he could, stepping in when he feared she may come a cropper. That Alvanly might draw her into his debauched set gave Max nightmares. Worse than that, contemplating that the fellow’s handsome face might find favour with Phoebe brought a fierce surge of jealousy that left him feeling shaken and wretchedly unhappy.

  As if the mere thought of her had conjured a vision, his gaze was drawn to a slight figure walking quickly, quite some distance ahead. There was something about the woman, the way she moved, that made his breath catch, but… no. It couldn’t be. Not here. Even Phoebe wouldn’t….

  Good God, what was he saying? Of course she would!

  He quickened his step, but saw to his dismay that he was not the only one to have noticed a lone female as she turned into an alley, heading back to the main road where she might hail a hackney carriage. The man hurried after her, following her into the alley.

  Max ran.

  It was likely no more than seconds, though it felt a lifetime before he raced around the corner at breakneck speed, his hat flying to the ground as he skidded in the filth that carpeted the alley. He ignored it, too intent on getting to Phoebe, until he stopped short, riveted by the sight before him.

  “I di’n’t mean no ’arm, now, miss,” the fellow was pleading, backing away from Phoebe, who had levelled a pistol at the fellow, her hands perfectly steady.

  “Oh, you just meant to lift my purse and help yourself to whatever else took your fancy, no?” she retorted, anger flashing in her blue eyes.

  “I just wanted your purse and those pretty earbobs, nowt else. I’d not have hurt ye. A fellow has to eat, lady,” the devil pleaded, his eyes never leaving the barrel of the gun pointing at his face.

  “A fellow need not accost lone females in the street and try to frighten them to death, though.”

  Max could hear the anger in her words, and a brittle edge that made his heart clench and want to rip the fellow limb from limb. She had been afraid, not that she showed it.

  He approached softly, not wanting to startle her.

  “Miss Barrington, may I be of assistance?” he asked, knowing he was likely to be told that no assistance was necessary, thank you very much.

  Likely it was true. She had the situation well in hand and needed no rescue from him. Any vague notion of being her knight in shining armour withered and died. Phoebe could rescue herself and needed no hero to do it for her. Not him, at any rate.

  “Lord Ellisborough,” she said, her voice steady. “You have an uncanny knack of turning up at such moments.” Her blonde brows drew together with suspicion. “Are you following me?”

  “No!” Max said at once, almost drawn to admit he’d been avoiding her. “No, I was at the match with St Clair. Strangely, I did not think to look for you.”

  “Strange indeed,” she remarked, her lips twitching just a little. “I’m glad you’re here, actually….”

  Well, that was a first.

  She hesitated, looking just a little uncertain. “Er… what do I do with him now?”

  Max bit back a smile. “Are you going to shoot him?”

  The fellow facing the business end of the pistol made a choked sound.

  “I would have, if I’d not seen him ahead of time, but he has all the grace of an elephant. Really, sir, you are ill-suited to a
life of crime. You’ll be dancing with Jack Ketch in no time if you keep up such a line of work.”

  “Ah, miss, just let me go, eh? I ain’t done ye no harm.”

  Phoebe snorted. “You make it sound like you meant none, either, which we both know is a rotten lie.”

  Max moved closer to her and put his hand over hers, both slender and gloved, and holding the pistol firmly.

  “Get,” he said to the man, his voice brooking no argument.

  The villain did not need telling twice. He legged it out of the alley and was gone in seconds. Max gently pushed her hands down.

  “Well done,” he said softly.

  Only then did she look up at him and let out a breath of relief. She returned a smile he suspected was more bravado than pride, but she’d never let him know she’d been rattled, and he’d not press her to admit it.

  Phoebe un-cocked the pistol, her hands trembling, and tucked it into the pocket of her cloak. She looked back at him, putting her chin up.

  “Well, go on then,” she said with a sigh, resigned to her fate.

  Oh, no. Not this time.

  “Go on what?”

  “Aren’t you going to scold me? Tell me what a dreadful girl I am and demand what I was doing?”

  The desire to do all those things, plus giving her a good hard shake for terrifying him so, was a living thing beneath his skin. He ignored it.

  “I assumed you were watching the match,” he said lightly, taking his time going to retrieve his hat.

  He took a deal longer inspecting it for dirt, relieved it had not fared too badly, and giving himself time for his heart to slow to something less likely to kill him.

  “That’s it?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes at him.

  God, she was lovely. Now he knew she was safe, he could recollect the sight of her, pistol in hand, sure and determined, and felt a swell of pride. An equally fierce protective instinct rose too, the kind that wanted to take her home and keep her safe, to shelter her from the world, then search out that villain again and break his bloody neck. He ought to have beaten the bastard bloody before he let him go. The desire to seek retribution for her had been tangible, but he’d not wanted her to see that. He looked back at her, knowing he could tell her none of this.

  “What else do you want? You made your feelings perfectly clear, Miss Barrington. You do not need or want my opinions nor my protection.”

  She looked a little uncertain now, big blue eyes regarding him doubtfully.

  “Yet you came running anyway.”

  “As I would to any woman I thought might be in danger,” he said tersely.

  “Of course,” she said at once, an apology in her eyes. “I know that. I know you would. Thank you.”

  He nodded, not trusting himself to say any more. Now he was wondering who she’d been at the bloody match with, for surely she’d not have been so reckless as to go entirely alone. And if she had met someone, where was the bastard now? What manner of man would not have seen her safely home again? What kind of fool had taken his eyes off her for a moment among such a crowd?

  “Do you have a carriage waiting?”

  Phoebe shook her head. “No. I… I was going to hire a hackney.”

  Max once again restrained the urge to demand what the devil she’d been playing at, wandering about this part of London alone—hiring carriages alone. His heart seemed to perform a strange acrobatic flip as he considered everything that might have happened to her. He clenched his jaw against the rebuke building in his chest. If he scolded her, she would only grow angry and run away again, and she was right, he had no say in her life.

  “My carriage is a short walk from here. Would you allow me to see you home?”

  He prayed she would agree, for he could not allow her to continue alone, and yet he desperately did not want to fight with her again.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Thank God.

  As she laid her gloved hand upon his arm, a little of the violent anxiety, the desperate need to protect her that had been singing through his muscles, seemed to ease away, and was replaced by an altogether different kind of tension. He tried his best to look at ease, to keep his voice placid, and attempted a conversation with her.

  “What did you think of the fight, then?”

  Max looked down, wondering at what he saw. Her features were extraordinarily fine, her skin almost translucent, her eyes the colour of cornflowers in some lights, and in others that of a sky before a storm broke. How could something so fragile and lovely encase such a formidable will? The combination of delicacy and determination, beauty and recklessness, drew him in as if he’d been caught like a fish, the hook dug in deep and sure.

  “I don’t exactly know,” she said, glancing up at him.

  Max looked away, afraid of what she might see in his eyes. She didn’t want him, he knew that, and he’d not make things worse by allowing her to see how much he wanted her. It would make things uncomfortable for them both.

  “At first it was rather thrilling,” she admitted. “They looked quite heroic and brave, and the excitement of the crowd was intoxicating, but as it went on, as Evans was hurt and yet still kept getting up….”

  She shivered, and his body was so acutely aware of hers that the slight tremor seemed to vibrate through him too.

  “Then it seemed ugly, barbaric, and I wanted to stop it.”

  “Why did you come?”

  To his relief, she did not take the question as a criticism.

  He felt her gaze on him though and could not help but meet it, discovering a wary quality to her expression, wondering whether to give him the truth.

  “Because I’ve never been, because I’m not supposed to, because… I wanted to do it anyway, for the thrill of it.”

  Max nodded, having known as much. She was like some wild thing behind a fence: she might have the entire world at her back, but the notion that there was a fence at all made her wilder still, and determined to escape. Whoever married her would not have a comfortable life, and that was what he wanted, was it not? He’d wanted a friend and companion, comfort and security, and some measure of happiness. Phoebe would bring chaos and adventure, and no little trouble to whatever man dared to take her on.

  “I suppose I disgust you.”

  He looked around in alarm, aware of the defiance of the words, and aware of something else too, something a touch vulnerable, which he could not put a name to, but would have given anything to have identified.

  “Why would you suppose that?”

  They had reached his carriage and he handed her up into it, waiting until she sat down. He watched as she shrugged, her eyes downcast.

  “You’re always disgusted by me,” she said softly.

  Max laughed then, incredulous that she could so misconstrue his feelings for her. He stared at her for a long moment before he replied. He reached out a hand and took hers, giving her fingers a brief squeeze.

  “Disgust is the very last thing I feel for you, Miss Barrington.”

  Before she could reply, he closed the carriage door and barked instructions to the driver to return her to St James’s. He did not trust himself to be alone in a carriage with her, and it would do her reputation no good if anyone discovered he had been. Retracing his steps, he returned to Moulsey Hurst and hoped he could track down St Clair. With luck, his brother Jerome would be in the mood to drown his sorrows.

  ***

  Phoebe stared as Max slammed the carriage door closed. Well. She did not know what to make of him. He’d seemed… different today. And whatever had he meant by that?

  Disgust is the very last thing I feel for you, Miss Barrington.

  She pondered this, frowning, and uncertain of the strange fluttering sensation in her chest. The events of the day had been unnerving, though, and Phoebe found herself too overwhelmed with exhaustion to think clearly. The fear and excitement of what had happened seemed to drain from her, taking all her energy with them. All she wanted to do was have a lie down in a qu
iet room and try to regain her composure. If she were perfectly honest, she’d never been happier to see Max in her life. She knew she could handle the situation, and had handled it, but nonetheless it had been frightening. To see him striding down the alley towards her had been such a relief, she’d not even cared that he would scold her soundly for being such a little fool. It had been foolish to go alone, she’d known that, but… but oh, she’d done it. She had done it, and she had managed, and she was still alive, and….

  And why hadn’t he scolded her?

  She felt almost disgruntled, which was ridiculous. Except that Max always scolded her when he discovered her up to no good, and that was normal. She’d come to expect it of him. That was who he was and how he acted and today… today he hadn’t seemed like he usually did, and that was… disturbing.

  Odd.

  What was he playing at?

  Perhaps he’d given up on her and couldn’t be bothered with scolding her any more. That thought rankled and made her stomach feel odd and squirmy. Perhaps he’d just decided not to, as it always ended in a row, and instead he’d go straight to her father and….

  Oh!

  Phoebe quailed at the idea. Papa was the dearest, most indulgent father a girl could possibly have, and she adored him, but… but if he thought she’d put herself in danger….

  Oh dear.

  Sinking back into the squabs, Phoebe felt each mile that passed in the same manner as a villain approaching Tyburn. Well, she had to face her fate. There was no avoiding it. She drew in a shaky breath. Avoiding it might not be possible, but that did not mean she had to look forward to it.

  Lud. Now she was in the basket.

  Chapter 4

  Dearest Matilda,

  I was so glad to hear of all the dreadful things your boys have been up to this past week. Frogs in boots seem to be a favourite here too. I wonder if they are born with such thoughts in mind, the diabolical creatures. Honestly, Lyall and Muir are set on giving me a nervous collapse. I wouldn’t mind but Gordy is worse than the two of them put together. I daren’t let the three of them out of my sight for a moment. They’re both going to be as big as their father, which naturally brings every lad from miles around in to scrap with them. I seem to spend my days tending bruises from fights, scrapes from climbing trees, and wringing them out after they’ve fallen in the loch… again! Not that they complain, they’re always laughing and seem utterly bewildered by my fretting over them.