That alone made it seem odd. Odder still was that she was invited at all. She had no doubt Cecilia was behind this in some way, although she wasn’t sure what inviting her proved. If she hadn’t been so certain Cecilia had spilled the champagne on purpose, she’d think it was an effort at apology. But Claire knew better.
She put the invitation down and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She wasn’t egotistical enough to believe this overture signalled she’d arrived, that she’d made such an impression this Season that she was now welcome in these lofty echelons, that Cecilia wanted to recruit her friendship. If that was what the invitation was supposed to lead her to believe, then it failed miserably. But something was afoot.
She’d never know if she didn’t go. There was no other option but to go. On the surface, there was no reason to refuse. This was a coveted event. Only the crème of the ton went. To refuse would be insulting. To refuse would afford her no answers and to refuse would make her appear cowardly. All she could do was show up, hold her head high and hope for the best. The event was a week away and it seemed a long way off compared to meeting Jonathon in two hours. She had just enough time to change, call for the carriage and get to May’s.
For the evening, Claire chose a dress of powder-blue muslin trimmed in tiny cream lace. Evie had added a matching cream fichu to tuck into the lowered neckline. The gown was plain, but one of Claire’s favourites for its touch of femininity and it was perfect for this dinner out. An eating house wasn’t a silk-and-satin venue. Any evening gown she owned would look out of place. An eating house was attended by merchants, craftsmen, and clerks, not by a viscount’s heir. She chose a matching shawl of soft pastel colours and walking boots and was off, excitement streaking through her at the prospect of another adventure.
She’d never been anywhere by herself before, if one didn’t count walking to Evie’s and even then her maid was usually with her. She took the carriage as far as Evie’s, then sent it back for her parents’ use that night. She took a hired hack from there and then got out to walk the remaining streets to the eating house, the address safely tucked into her reticule if she needed it.
The first few streets were thrilling. She was surrounded by the sights and smells of the working class high and low mingling with the diverse population of emigrants in this part of London as the day ended, everyone getting off their shifts. The streets were full of people hurrying home to their dinners, people finishing their daily errands and all around her, there was the sound of different languages. Soho was known for its international flavour and it was evident here. She could pick out the French, the Italian, and a little German. How vibrant this was from the staid paces of Mayfair with its mansions and stolid English.
But as she neared the eating house, it became apparent she was being followed. A group of lads—young men really, they were all at least twenty—had picked up behind her and now they were whistling and calling out lewd invitations. She ignored them, keeping her eyes forward, her step quick but not too quick. She was conscious of not showing any fear, nothing that would inspire them to escalate their efforts.
Her strategy worked well until one of them grabbed her arm and yanked her to a halt in sight of the eating house. She could see it just across the next street.
‘She thinks she’s too high and mighty to pass the time with us, gents.’ The leader had greasy black hair and cold eyes. When she fought to free her arm, his grip tightened painfully and he backed her to the rough brick wall of a building. ‘She’s got a little fire in her, too, for all that she gives herself airs. Thinks she’s a lady.’ Claire felt his eyes move down her body and her skin crawled while her mind raced. Bravado would make him dangerous. He might not have intended any real harm with his catcalls and whistles, but he’d do real harm to save face if it came to proving himself in front of his boys.
‘I don’t know, Jonesy, she might be a real lady at that.’ Another one, a beefy, heavy-set young man spat on the pavement. ‘That dress is good quality. My sister would like a dress like that. Think she might give it to us and walk home in her shift?’ Claire struggled, trying to get a few good kicks in, but he was too fast for her, too strong.
‘I’d rather have a kiss and a little feel, wouldn’t you, boys?’ The leader holding her to the wall leered, laughing at her struggling efforts. ‘A kiss for each of us, laddies, and a bit of touching. It’s not every day we poor boys get to cop a lady’s breasts. Then we’ll be done with our business here. Sound fair?’
‘I think your business is done now.’ Low dangerous tones parted the gang, the men falling away as Jonathon stepped towards the leader, his eyes two blue avenging flames, the flash of a knife blade catching the twilight in his hand. There were five of them to his one, but he was unbothered by the odds.
‘Let her go, or taste my steel.’ His voice was calm, controlled, as if he dealt with street thugs daily. ‘She is not for the likes of you.’
The men backed away until it was just he and the leader. This was the part Claire feared, the part where the leader would put his pride ahead of practicality. He was unarmed. He should walk away, but that would entail a loss of face. His gang would tease him about it.. Claire felt his grip on her arm loosen and she breathed easier, stepping quickly towards Jonathon. He moved in front of her, shielding her from the gang. There would be no kissing, no touching.
But the leader wasn’t ready to admit defeat. He held his hands out to his sides. ‘There’s no contest, you with your weapon, and me with nothing to defend myself. No chit is worth getting cut over. But she’s a pretty one, she’s worth a little something and you’ve stolen our fun, guv’nor. I think you owe us a little sport in exchange. Fight me for her, fists only. First one down loses. You lose, I get to kiss her. You win, the two of you can go on with your evening. Either way, you get to go on with your night, only if you lose you might always wonder whose kiss she prefers.’ He waggled his eyebrows. ‘Who knows, maybe the lady likes a bit of rough.’
Jonathon sheathed his knife and began to remove his coat. ‘Hold this for me, Claire.’ It took a moment for her to realise what he meant to do.
‘No, there will be no blood shed over me,’ she protested.
One kiss was certainly better than kissing all five and who knew what else. ‘I’ll give him a kiss. It’s just a kiss.’
‘The hell you will, Claire,’ Jonathon growled, his eyes on Greasy Hair. ‘Now, stay back out of the way and let me deal with this cur.’ He took out the gold links from his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves while one of the men drew a chalk circle around the two combatants.
‘First one down loses. There is no stepping out of the fight circle. Stepping out results in a forfeit.’ The beefy one who coveted her dress called out the rules. ‘No weapons, only fists. Blood doesn’t count as down. As long as two men are standing, the fight goes on.’
The circle looked impossibly small to Claire. How could Jonathon possibly win? He wasn’t a street fighter. She was starting to see what a disadvantage he was at; it was their rules, their street. She thought that for all of five seconds until the beefy man called out ‘Go!’ and Jonathon swung hard for the man’s jaw with a lightning-quick punch and kept striking, first with his left, then with his right, and once more before Greasy Hair landed a punch to his gut that sent Jonathon staggering backwards, dangerously close to the chalk line.
‘Watch out! Jonathon, get him!’ The words flew out of her mouth as she got caught up in the fight, adrenaline sweeping her away as Jonathon regained his balance and swung out, his fists fast and lethal. He caught Greasy Hair in the nose. Blood spurted and Jonathon didn’t stop. He came at Greasy Hair again. His shirt and waistcoat stretched across his shoulders, his body exerting its determination to end it. There was something glorious and primal about
