Chapter One
1st September, 1814
If she was in a novel written by her friend Melissa, then this post chaise would be rattling across the cobbles on its way to the Borders for a Scottish wedding and the seat next to her would be occupied by a dashing, dark and decidedly dangerous gentleman.
As this was real life, Jane was on the way to Batheaston to spend at least six months in disgrace with Cousin Violet. Beside her was Constance Billing, her mother’s maid. It had become clear ten minutes after their journey had begun that the only thing constant about Constance was her ability to sulk relentlessly and to disapprove of everything.
On the other hand, at least she was not being sent home to Dorset. Cousin Violet was entertainingly eccentric and—so she fervently hoped—Billing would be returning the morning after their arrival.
Jane consulted the road book. ‘We do not change horses at Kensington as it is not even two miles from London. Hounslow is the first halt, I believe.’
‘In that case, Miss Jane, why have we stopped?’
‘Because, as you can observe through the front glass, the traffic has become entangled for some reason.’ Jane half rose from her seat to look over the back of the pair of horses. ‘Ah, I see there has been an accident.’
The church was just ahead of them on the bustling main road through the village of Kensington and two large wagons were in front of it, apparently with their wheels locked. The drivers were both standing up, waving their whips and shouting at each other, which was not helping in the slightest. Fortunately, they were out of earshot. Passers-by and other drivers had stopped to offer advice, gawk or generally get in the way.
Jane dropped the window beside her and leaned out. Distantly behind them there was the sound of a horn. ‘That is either a stagecoach or the Mail is coming through.’
She settled back against the squabs and prepared to be entertained. Travellers complained about post chaises and their swaying motion, but they did have the benefit of a wide front window through which to survey the world. Naturally, Billing did not approve of all that glazing and kept her eyes averted from it. It was neither discreet nor private, in her opinion, and young ladies should not be looking around, risking attracting the roving eye of some rake or sauntering gentleman.
‘Do put up the glass, Miss Jane,’ Billing scolded. ‘There is a common alehouse just the other side of the pavement from us.’
She did have a point, Jane conceded. The Civet Cat opposite looked decidedly seedy and not at all like the well-kept, welcoming inns of the villages around her home.
As she mentally swept the frontage, cleaned the windows and added a pot or two of geraniums, the door of the alehouse burst open and three men rolled out, scattering pedestrians. They were followed by two others carrying clubs.
Billing gave a screech. ‘We’ll be murdered!’
‘No, we will not, but that man will be if someone doesn’t help him.’
The fight had resolved into one against four as the largest of the club-bearers dragged a tall, dark-haired man to his feet and held on to him as the others closed in and began to rain blows against head and body.
‘Why doesn’t somebody stop it? That is not a fight, that is a deliberate assault. They should call a constable.’
The tall man wrenched free, unleashed a punch and knocked down one of his attackers, sending him crashing into two of the others.
‘Oh, well done, sir! Hit him again, the bully!’
Jane ignored Billing tugging at her arm and shushing her. She opened the window in the door of the carriage, gripped the edge and held her breath because, despite that gallant punch, the man was held fast now by the two he had fallen against. He was shaking his head as though to clear it after a vicious blow and was clearly now no match for the fourth assailant who was advancing, grinning in obvious anticipation.
To Jane’s surprise the attacker dug in the pocket of the frieze coat he was wearing, produced a folded paper and stuffed it into the coat front of the man before him. ‘With compliments,’ he said, then took a firm grip on his cudgel again.
The first swing of the club jolted the tall man out of his captors’ grip, across the pavement and into the side of the chaise. Billing gave another shriek as it rocked on its springs.
Jane threw open the door, reached out with both hands, grabbed the man’s arm and the collar of his coat and tugged. ‘Get in!’
Whether he heard her, or the momentum of his fall carried him in, she had no idea and she was far too worried about the gap-toothed snarl on the face of the cudgel-wielder to care. The man collapsed at her feet, the door swung in and then, as the chaise righted itself, came back on its hinges and hit the attacker in the face.
Jane took a grip on her parasol with one hand and dug frantically in her reticule with the other for Mama’s pocket pistol which was hopelessly tangled with her handkerchief. She was braced for the inevitable, when, with a blast on the horn, the Mail was on them. It swept past, forcing its way through the onlookers around the wagons. Their postilion seized his chance, whipped up his horses and the chaise, door still open, lurched into the wake of the stage and followed it through. As they passed the church the chaise tilted, the door slammed closed and they had left the Civet Cat and its ruffians behind.
Jane considered being sick, swallowed hard and let go of her weapons.