Alcock sneered. “Men are all the same, milady. Smile in the wrong way, and they think they’ve the right to take liberties.”
Having witnessed the ugly marks on Scarlett’s body, she doubted Mr Wycliff would want to gaze upon them again. Still, she couldn’t help but get a thrill from goading the man, and Alcock was particularly candid when dealing with scoundrels.
“Very well,” Scarlett conceded. “You may accompany me inside and deposit me safely into Mr Wycliff’s care.” She raised her hand to silence the woman should she have a mind to make further demands.
Alcock nodded. She barked instructions to Kemp and told him to blow the horn should he encounter any trouble.
With Alcock pressed to her side, Scarlett pushed past the bustle of people crowding the narrow street, skirted around unruly dogs and vendors desperate to sell the apples they’d polished to perfection. The stench of manure and rotten vegetables permeated the air. It was a smell she welcomed for it spoke of hard work, of a time when only the simple things like food and shelter mattered.
Despite a severe lack of funds, she had not been unhappy.
Not until the first threatening letter arrived.
Not until a dark stranger followed her home one foggy night.
Not until circumstances forced her to make other choices—to become the Scarlet Widow.
Oh, how she longed for anonymity. How she wished she was just another nameless face going about another mundane day. No one in this part of town cared that she wore a scandalous red pelisse over her widow’s weeds. No one cared that she wore a bright red bonnet with a large black bow as a mark of disdain.
Alcock cursed at a drunkard slumped against the doorjamb and pushed the fellow aside so that they might enter the premises. A lady did not visit a tavern without a male escort. But with her cropped brown hair and square jaw, most people mistook Alcock for a man.
The coachwoman barged through the crowd. Some patrons stood around crude wooden tables in a room where the beamed ceiling was so low they had to stoop. Some occupied chairs near the open fire, their half-closed eyes suggesting they swilled liquor from dawn till dusk. The oak-panelled walls cast the room in an orange glow that made the inn feel welcoming, but Scarlett knew better than to judge anything on first impressions.
Damian Wycliff sat on a long oak settle, his muscular legs stretched out to the side and crossed at the ankles. A thick lock of ebony hair hung rakishly over his brow. The two men from the billiard room sat on the bench opposite, gripping their tankards while deep in conversation.
All boisterous chatter ceased as fifty male heads shot in Scarlett’s direction. If only they could see her Viking army, then they might lack the courage to gape and stare. Still, Scarlett drew on the imagined warriors’ strength, raised her chin and feigned an air of hauteur.
It was unnecessary, of course, because Alcock insisted on making a spectacle. The woman braced her hands on her hips and said with some frustration, “Ain’t no one seen a lady before?”
With the comment spoken in such a high-pitched tone, it caused some confusion amongst the patrons. They spent as much time perusing Alcock’s person as they did the newcomer in the vibrant hat. No doubt their minds were engaged in determining whether Alcock was a man with an unusually high voice or something far more threatening.
“Get back to your drinks, gentlemen.” The deep, masculine voice powered through the room. “Else I might feel inclined to defend the lady’s honour.”
To further make his point, Mr Wycliff stood, his dark eyes sending a threatening message. He had teamed his midnight blue coat with a crimson cravat. On some, the combination might look foppish. On Mr Wycliff, it conveyed an air of illicit danger.
All the men in the room quickly averted their gazes, keen to resume their previous conversations before the handsome rogue stripped off his coat and flexed his fists.
Alcock took umbrage at Mr Wycliff’s intervention. On a muttered breath she cursed all
men to the devil. In her experience, the helpful ones proved just as wicked.
“That is Mr Wycliff,” Scarlett said once the noise in the room returned to its previous pitch. “Be polite, as I am in dire need of his help.”
Alcock snorted as the gentleman in question sauntered towards them. “Men like him make promises they can’t keep. Men like him serve no one but themselves.”
“And you can tell that from the way he walks?”
“I know his kind. Wronged men who want to make the world pay.”
Alcock did not have the chance to comment further.
Mr Wycliff inclined his head. “It seems you create a stir wherever you go, Widow.”
Scarlett winced at his derogatory use of the name. The tension in the air grew palpable. Her coachwoman was like a loyal dog who thought nothing of sinking her teeth into the flesh of the disrespectful.
Alcock snarled. “Speak to milady like that again, and I’ll be the one defending her honour.”
“I am capable of dealing with Mr Wycliff,” Scarlett said to defuse the situation. “He might fool the world with his arrogance, but he does not fool me.”