Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)

“Pauline!” he shouted.

She didn’t hear him—or didn’t turn, if she had. Instead, she paused for a moment. Then she rucked up her skirts and tore away, darting into the night.

She was chasing someone. He heard her call, “Stop! Stop, you bloody thief!”

Thief?

Griff ran after her, but he still had the crowd to navigate, and she had a formidable lead. He was amazed at how fast she could run in all those skirts. She was giving the villain—whoever he was—quite a chase through colonnades and across lamplit groves.

And as she ran, profanity unfurled behind her like a brightly colored banner. Whatever gains she’d made in elocution this week all disappeared.

“Bastard!” she shouted, jostling past a bemused gentleman Griff recognized as an Austrian ambassador. “Stop, you black-’earted devil!”

Well, if she’d wanted a disastrous public spectacle—she had it. No punch bowl necessary.

“I’ll ’ave your bollocks, you filthy whoreson!”

Griff made an apologetic No, no, not you grimace in the direction of the royal booth, not daring to slow down long enough to explain. He would have laughed if he weren’t so breathless—and so worried for Pauline.

They reached the borders of Vauxhall and plunged out into the surrounding neighborhood—a jumble of factories and shipping merchants’ homes and tenements. None of the streets were lit. God only knew what dangers lurked in the alleyways.

Still, she charged on.

What was she thinking? Whatever the brigand had taken, it wasn’t worth risking her life.

She was losing ground on the thief, but Griff was gaining on her.

“Pauline!” he shouted, digging deep for breath. “Let him go!”

“I can’t!”

She turned a corner in pursuit and Griff lost sight of her for a few bleak, endless seconds. He kicked up his pace, just praying that she’d still be whole and unharmed—so he could catch her and shake her silly.

Just as he neared the same corner, a short, piercing scream rent the air.

Holy God. Please.

He rounded the corner, and there she was—crumpled to the ground in the middle of the lane.

“Pauline. Pauline, are you hurt?”

“Don’t stop for me,” she cried. “Run after him.”

“He’s gone.” Griff didn’t even bother to look. “He’s gone. And even if I could catch him, there’s no way in hell I’d abandon you here.”

People were already filing out from the nearby dwellings, having a good look at the fine lady and gent in the street. Griff made his posture strong and turned a wary glance in all directions, letting any ruffians know that they’d better not take their chances.

“What’s happened?” he murmured, crouching down before Pauline. “Did he hurt you? Strike you with something?” He began searching for splashes of blood. A horrid thought struck him. “He didn’t have a pistol or a blade?”

“No,” she sobbed.

He breathed again. Thank God.

“Nothing of the sort. It’s just these dratted shoes. I caught my heel between the paving stones and my ankle turned.”

She lifted her skirt, and he could see her stockinged ankle, caught at an angle that made him wince.

He freed her foot first, then the shoe. With gentle fingers, he explored her swelling ankle. She choked back a sob of distress.

“Is it so very painful? Perhaps it’s broken.”

She shook her head. “It’s not broken. And the pain isn’t so bad. It’s just . . .”

“What?” he said darkly. “What did the villain do to you?”

“Oh, God. You’ll despise me.”

“Never.”

She slumped against him, as if all the fight and fire had gone out of her. “Griff, he took the necklace. Your mother’s amethysts. They were worth thousands. And now they’re gone.”

Chapter Eighteen

That was it, then. Pauline gave up. She surrendered to his care, not knowing what else there was to do. She’d always considered herself a resilient person, but tonight she was beat.

London one, Pauline nothing.

Less than nothing. Even considering the thousand pounds in wages Griff had promised her, she was now several thousand in his debt. The duchess would never forgive her. How would she ever pay them back?

The duke was still crouched at her side.

“Put your arms about my neck,” he directed.

She obeyed, halfheartedly lacing her wrists about his shoulders.

“Hold on tightly,” he admonished, muttering a curse. “You’re a farmer’s daughter and serving girl. I know you can do better than that.”

She willed her muscles to flex. He was right, she had a sturdy frame—which meant she wasn’t precisely a feather’s weight. She owed it to him to do her part.

He lifted her with a low grunt of exertion, shifting his arms until her weight settled against his solid chest.

“The shoe,” she said feebly.

“Damn the shoe.”