Elisabeth Fairchild Read Online Free Page B

and your daughter.”
    Dulcie’s father blanched, tried to interrupt. “No apologies necessary.”
    “I am not, I am sure you must understand, my brother’s keeper.”
    “Of course.”
    “I had no idea Roger meant to leave London, much less that he intended to endanger this young lady’s reputation.”
    Mr. Selwyn gaped.
    Ramsay forged on, calm again, in charge of the situation. “I’ve no idea where you may find him now, nor any reason to believe you can compel him to marry her.”
    Marry him? Yes, Dulcie could see it now. She would marry him.
    Dulcie’s father sputtered. “Compel him, sir? Such was never my intention.”
    “Is it money you want?”
    “No, indeed! You are much mistaken, my lord.”
    Dulcie winced to hear her father’s rage, to see his light flare briefly scarlet. Such an excess of emotion was not good for him. “Father,” she said.
    Ramsay persisted in misunderstanding, addressing her as if she were a simpleton. “He can be very charming, my dear. Always has been. Did he promise to return to you?”
    Her father’s complexion took on a plum-colored hue. “It is a rescue we discuss, sir. Not a fall from grace.”
    “A rescue?” The blue eyes glinted with a curious light. Ramsay’s chin tilted in surprise.
    Dulcie spoke up, afraid her father might be stricken at any moment by an apoplectic fit. “Your brother saved me, my lord, from the mob at Carlton House.”
    It took a moment for the idea to sink in. “Saved you? Did he? Well!” He leaned forward, curiosity growing. “Tell me more, if you please.”  
     
     

Chapter Six
     
     
    April 30, 1812
    London
     
    Upon his return to London, Roger Ramsay made no further contact with Dulcie or her father, other than a brief note, expressing his thanks for the return of his coat.
    He looked for her though. In crowds. Especially those that turned violent.
    There were many that long, wet winter that might be classed as riotous, dangerous, even revolutionary. On the King’s business, he waded knee-deep in the thick of it. In Sheffield, Manchester, Leeds, Stockport--most recently in Nottingham. No ladies from London in these riots. Weavers, calico printers, stocking and lace makers provoked them. Machinery made their skills obsolete, their Christmas a lean one. The Luddites egged them on.
    As the weather warmed, the trees breaking bud, the land greening with the warm breath of spring, chip bonnets caught his eye. Dark-haired wenches turned his head. Again and again his thought turned to Dulcie, and lingered.
    He held fast the memory of her rescue. A pleasant memory. Far preferable to think himself a hero, rather than the provocateur who sent rifle companies into troubled areas to shoot angry, out-of-work men armed largely with pistols and pitchforks. The smell of wet soil and greening grass, the sight of fruit trees abloom and flowers nodding, reminded him of her fresh youthful beauty, her innocence.
    On a brisk April morning he returned to London, for the Queen’s drawing room at St. James’s. He looked for Dulcie among the crowds in Bond Street, St. James’s and Pall Mall. All along the avenues leading into the palace, Life Guards stood watch. Carriages and spectators thronged the streets, all come to catch a glimpse of the Royal arrivals.
    The Prince was driven from Carlton House in full state, three carriages for his aides, six matched bays in red Morocco harness to pull his coach. His Royal Highness wore full military uniform though he had never seen a day’s service. The Princesses glittered with Crown jewels.
    Certainly he would spot her in the crowd. But, he did not. A disappointment.  Afterward, in the calm aftermath, in the silence broken only by the crisp hiss of a turned page, and the shuffle of footsteps on wood flooring in Hatchard’s book store, he happened upon her.
    She stood, book in hand, by a window, light pouring over her shoulders. He recognized the dark, flyaway hair, the pale oval face. She had filled out, rounded