As soon as Lydia paid the shopkeeper, Sophie strode toward the doorway and sunlight outside. The minute her boots touched the pavement, she was lifted from her feet. For a moment, it seemed as if the world had inexplicably shifted on its axis.
Time slowed, and she viewed what was happening as if through a fog. A strange man grasped her arm in a grip so tight, she could almost feel the fatal squeeze of the coil of one of the jungle snakes in her grandmother's novels. The smudged slip of paper and pencil slipped from her hands to the pavement.
Abruptly, Sophie remembered the parasol Lydia's grandmother had insisted she carry to shield her from the sun. She’d looped the handle’s ribbon onto her wrist while reworking her lines. She grabbed the parasol with her free arm and swung hard. A satisfying thump and scream sounded as the weapon connected with her attacker's lower limbs.
As quick as he loosened his grip, she pulled a hatpin from her bonnet and jabbed in the vicinity of his eyes. Another scream, but this time her aim landed far off the mark and only slashed his chin.
With a bellow of pain, he pulled back a fist, rage darkening his face. In spite of the threat, Sophie refused to back down. Lydia’s screams echoed down the quiet street. Just as the stranger’s knuckles neared her face, he and his accomplice dropped from her line of view.
For one addled moment, she wondered if the ghost of her dead grandmother had risen to her defense. She thrust again hard with her hatpin toward where the attack had begun.
Sophie lost her balance and sat down with a thump at the edge of the street. Shaking, she sank her elbows to her knees and rested her head in her hands. Her parasol had rolled to the edge of the walkway. At a sharp cramp in her hand, she realized she still clutched her trusty hatpin. After a restorative breath, she looked up into the deeply tanned face of a Royal Navy officer in full uniform.
He knelt in front of her, asking question after question. “Are you hurt? Who did this to you? Are you with a chaperone?”
Blood dribbled from his wrist, staining his white glove. Zeus! The hatpin. She knew she should provide him with some answers, but couldn't. She could barely breathe properly, so shaken was she by the encounter with the unknown men who’d tried to drag her toward a waiting hack carriage.
He grasped her by the shoulders. The warmth of his touch seeped through the thin muslin of her dress, and his solid competence fortified her courage. The runaway terrors slowed, allowing her to breathe normally again.
The first thought to pop into her head once she’d settled a bit was: Respectable women of the ton did not find themselves in situations like this. This was the sort of turmoil that might befall the actresses who had kept company with her late father.
"Are you hurt?" The naval officer shed his gloves and ran his hands down her arms as if seeking injuries. “Holy St. George! Is this your weapon?” The hatpin rolled into his hand from her slackened grasp, and he tucked it safely within a pocket. His frown softened a bit, he shook his head, and gave a low chuckle.
He clasped her hands as if he feared she might break and smoothed his thumbs over the soft pads beneath her thumbs. If the stranger continued his exploration for injuries, Sophie feared she might expire from pleasure. If only he knew the ink-stained fingers her white gloves hid.
Lydia for once had nothing to say, but watched over them, her eyes wide. Sophie thanked the gods Lydia’s lady’s maid had not been able to accompany them on the latest ribbon expedition. She would have been horrified and sent the gentleman packing. The thought of the uncompromising older woman spurred her to action. Damn the pleasure.
"No." Sophie snatched back her hands. Only then did she notice his eyes. They were an extraordinary shade of blue, the sort of blue that didn’t belong in such a stern, dark face.
That pleasant discovery, however, did not stop her shout of frustration. "Why did you help me? I was getting the better of those scoundrels when you showed up, and, and now—" She refused to cry, but moisture leaked from the corners of her eyes which she imagined were a reddened fright by now. "Not only is my sleeve torn, but my reputation is probably ruined as well, and I've lost the final lines of my—"
She stopped short of finishing her wailed lament. Her predicament was none of this young officer’s fault. He could not help she had been born a bastard, and he had nothing to do with the ton’s attitude toward a young woman who’d spent time in a gypsy-like home with her profligate poet father.
Bereft of its handy hatpin, Sophie's tippy, over-embellished bonnet leaned precariously to the side before toppling to the pavement. Her long, dark curls tumbled free.
"What have you lost?" the stranger asked and pulled her to her feet, guiding her toward a nearby tea room. Lydia scooped up Sophie’s lost bonnet and followed.
"My last two lines," Sophie said, and batted at his hands. “Please, leave us.”
“You’ve no reason to fear me,” he insisted. “I’m Captain Arnaud Bellingham. My mother lives near here, on Hanover Square. Now please tell me where your carriage waits.”
Lydia moved closer. "Thomas said they would keep rounding the park until we were finished. The carriage is all black, with a team of grays.” She leaned even closer. “I fear this is not completely proper, but under the circumstances you should at least know our names. I’m Lady Lydia Howick, and this is my friend, Miss Sophia Brancelli."
Captain Bellingham made a small nod of acknowledgement. “I regret the circumstances, but I am pleased to
