London, 1816

Miss Clara Woodbury was in possession of the customary solitary head which could only reasonably wear one hat at a time. This condition made the procurement of a third walking bonnet an irrational and unnecessary expense. This observation, which Clara had offered up in fifteen various phrasings over breakfast, had been thoroughly dismissed by her aunt. The viscountess insisted that young ladies participating in their one and only chance at a London social Season needed a minimum of three walking bonnets.

So Clara had dutifully joined her mother and aunt at the milliner where they’d ordered a bonnet with a startling resemblance to the one she’d plopped on her head as they’d left the house an hour prior.

Unfortunately, she was now back down to owning only two serviceable walking bonnets, as Clara’s oldest hat was being crushed along with her head, her body, and her dignity. The hundreds of hairs, two ears, and single nose that she also possessed were being equally assaulted.

Clara didn’t know what had caused her current predicament or even what that predicament actually was. All she knew was it had left her pressed tightly between her mother, who was screeching like an out-of-tune violin, and her aunt, who seemed to have forgotten every word in the English language aside from “oh, dear.”

She attempted to turn her head so that at the very least her nose could stop trying to spear its way through the shoulder of her aunt’s fine woolen pelisse but was hindered by the bonnet Clara could only assume was a lost cause. The headwear was caught on something. Every shift caused it to yank painfully at the coiffure beneath it.

And there was a lot of shifting.

The brim of her askew bonnet and its collection of decorative blue feathers filled Clara’s vision. Her best guess, from the brush of fabric along her neck that accompanied every jerk of her hair, was that her mother’s sleeve was somehow to blame for the constant pulling of the hat.

Mother’s lungs were certainly to blame for the screaming that pierced Clara’s ears as sharply as her aunt’s boot heel was pressing into her little toe.

“Oh, my heavens, get it off, get it off, get it off!” Mother squealed.

“Unhand me at once,” Aunt Elizabeth declared in a frantic yet haughty tone. She had not only remembered there were more words than oh, dear in the English language, but her wits had gathered enough to remind her that she had married into the aristocracy and was therefore a lady who could issue imperious orders. The thread of shaky panic running through that order was enough to increase Clara’s concern.

Who was her aunt attempting to order about? They were in the middle of a London square, hardly a location known for mid-afternoon assaults or robberies.

Admittedly, Clara hadn’t been giving her surroundings or her companions a great deal of attention, but surely the approach of an assailant would have been different enough to break through her moroseness over having to spend yet another afternoon shopping.

Then again, this was hardly a normal assailant. The silent figure had thus far managed to do nothing but press the trio together into a sandwich of social opulence that was not likely to endear Clara to any of the potential marriage matches her aunt insisted London would provide.

As much as Clara wanted to return to the country where she belonged, doing so because she’d been laughed out of London as an utter failure wasn’t exactly the way she wanted to do it.

The harsh, strong wind that had plagued them all day grabbed at her skirts and flung her loosened locks of dark hair into whatever small cracks of sight weren’t blocked by woven straw and feathers. Pressed as she was between her aunt and her mother, she at least didn’t have to worry about her fluttering skirts flying about enough to create an indecent show. That would send her home in shame as well as failure.

“I’ve got it. I’ve got it.”

A steady masculine voice cut through the feminine distress just before her mother jerked forward, pressing Clara even tighter between her female relations.

The movement had at least dislodged her mother’s arm from her bonnet, though the freedom was accompanied by a sharp tug of her hair. Her eyes were watering with the stab of pain but at least she could now tilt her head enough to uncover one of them.

Framed between one errant curl and her own blue pelisse was a man. Or at least, part of a man. She could make out the brim of a black hat, a man’s shoulder draped in a black coat, and the edge of a . . . kite?

Clara blinked rapidly and attempted to scrape her curl against her aunt’s shoulder to get it out of the way. This catastrophe had to have been caused by something more nefarious than a child’s toy.

It appeared, though, that their attacker had indeed been made of fabric, twigs, and twine. A long, sturdy string looped around the women at least three times, binding them together in this tableau of hysteria.

The wind that had apparently turned the toy into a weapon of social destruction caught hold of Clara’s loose curl and shifted it until she was once again all but blind.

“You have our thanks, good sir.” Aunt Elizabeth’s breathless voice was shaky, likely due to the trembles working through her body and rubbing against Clara’s. “Your quick thinking saved us.”

“Saved us?” Clara couldn’t keep the flatness from her voice. Since her aunt declared them rescued, the assailant must have been the kite. That was beyond humiliating. Her irritation had her muttering, “How much saving did we actually need? We’ve hardly been attacked by a runaway carriage or an unruly dog.”

“Don’t be ungrateful,” Mother whined.

Clara winced. Where had her hearty, practical mother gone? This was the same woman that had taught her how to cross a stream while carrying a parcel and not get her hems wet. This was the same woman who had fed a screaming toddler with one hand while comforting a grieving widow with the other.

And now, after four days in the company of her older sister, she was simpering helplessly because of a kite.

Clara would rather not spend enough time in London to discover if the condition would eventually affect every woman in her family. Namely, herself.

Aunt Elizabeth sighed and sent her elbow digging into Clara’s ribs. Was she attempting to wriggle out of the cage of kite string or correct her niece’s behavior? Either way, Clara was finished with the entire uncomfortable business. It would be a minor miracle if their spectacle had not attracted a crowd, but whether or not God had blessed them with momentary anonymity, the sooner she was extricated from this predicament, the better.

And it seemed her fastest way out was at the hands of the unknown man.

“Apologies, kind sir.” Clara flailed one hand about, attempting to grab one of the loops of confining string. “I’m certain we would have survived the final impact of such a dastardly foe as a kite, but it is nice not to be required to do so.”

“Of course.” He cleared his throat, but the sound seemed more to cover the beginnings of a chuckle than out of physical need. “If only I’d arrived here sooner and prevented your current entanglement.”

Another wiggle, an accidental stomping of her mother’s toe, and a jerk of her head to further dislodge the bonnet, and Clara could finally see past her aunt’s shoulder.

Their rescuer was no longer wearing a hat and the violent wind danced through the strands of brown hair that were a little too long to be fashionable.

He had one arm secured around a paper and twine wrapped package while the other fought awkwardly with a broken kite still trying to ride the strong gusts of wind.

Clara tried to twist so she could look about the square. “Who does that thing belong to, anyway?” There wasn’t a child about that she could see. Not many Mayfair residents either, which was fortunate.

The man made a show of looking about the green, but if his greater field of vision yielded any clues, he didn’t give it away. “I believe the owners have made themselves scarce, my lady.”

“I am not a lady,” Clara instinctively corrected.

“Honestly, Clara.” Mother sighed.

“Er, my apologies,” the man said with a quick glance at Clara’s aunt, who stood at the front of the unfortunate little trio, looking every inch the lady she was. Of course their would-be rescuer was more than a little confused. “I, er, meant no disrespect.”

Neither had she, but her mother and aunt would consider it impolite, regardless. It wasn’t that Clara had a problem with the peerage individually. She’d grown up happily playing with her cousin and had enjoyed visiting her grandfather’s barony until he died, and the estate passed to some distant relation.

It was being counted among the class as a whole she had a problem with. She wanted to help people. She wanted to make a difference in their lives. That would be harder to do if she was seen as inaccessible or if people assumed she considered herself better than an average person.

What she wanted to do right in that moment was fold her arms across her middle and stomp her foot in frustration, because it wasn’t fair for her family or anyone else to make her feel bad for simply wanting to be normal. Since she could do neither, she stuck her nose in the air and tried not to feel any more ridiculous than she had a few moments earlier. “It is the truth. We should seek truth without hesitation.”

“Refusing it shows we value men’s esteem more,” the man said quietly.

If she wasn’t being held in place by her aunt and her mother, Clara’s knees might have given way in shock. She stared down at the man, her mouth slightly agape.

He lifted his attention from the string and met her gaze, a grin now fully evident on his face. “Not an exact quote, I’m afraid, but the idea is there.”

She blinked at him several times in silence.

“It’s Blaise Pascal.” His tone was less confident as he gave her a small nod before setting the paper-wrapped package carefully on the ground to free up both his hands to work on the kite.

“Yes,” she blurted out. Could she get away with blaming the slight breathlessness in her voice on her attempts to get free? “Pensées. Have you read it?”

“Of course he’s read it.” Aunt Elizabeth shook her head, sending the feathers of her uncrushed bonnet brushing against Clara’s nose. “It’s hardly a popular enough book to be quoted as dinner conversation.”

Clara twisted to free her face from the feathers and her leg brushed the man’s arm. She looked down. He looked up. Then he gave her a quick wink before turning his attention back to his efforts to lower the loops of string to the ground.

“I’ll have you free in a moment.” He grunted as the wind tried to throw the kite back into the air. After tucking the object securely beneath his knee, he cast a look around the square. “No one else seems inclined to lend anything aside from eyes and ears to the situation.”

He tugged on the string and Mother knocked into Clara’s back once more, making her head smack against Aunt Elizabeth’s shoulder. This time the bonnet feather went into Clara’s mouth.

She sputtered inelegantly, trying to force the downy bits from her tongue.

Aunt Elizabeth sighed. Again.

Mother shrieked. Again.

Clara wished she could close her eyes and wake up snug in her little room at the rectory in Eldham. Again.

The London Dreams Series

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