Free Fortune's Lady by Patricia Gaffney

“I’ll go,” he told her. “Wait for me here.” He jostled her toward an empty space of wall by the door and gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Don’t worry.” He saw the door open, but turned away before the new arrival entered. It was not until he was halfway between Cassandra and her cousin that he heard three dreadful words.
    â€œHullo! Colin Wade!”
    Riordan halted in his tracks and turned around very slowly, like a Christian martyr about to be stoned to death. It was easy to locate the speaker, a young man in a white wig sitting at the loo table between him and the door. He knew before he looked at him that the fellow wasn’t speaking to him, but to the handsomely dressed, yellow-haired gentleman who stood in the doorway, smiling and rubbing his hands, nodding genially to his acquaintance across the way. The next thing he saw was Cass coming towards him, stopping midway, then turning back to Wade and holding her arm out in a baffled, beseeching gesture. Her lips were moving, but by some great good fortune her words were so far inaudible. He reached her in four long strides.
    â€œYou—Colin—”
    â€œShut up!” he told her in an intense whisper. “My name is Philip Riordan. I’m with Quinn.”
    â€œQuinn!”
    â€œLower your voice, damn it.” His hold tightened on her arm as she tried to pull away. From the corner of his eye he could see Wade watching them. She spun around and took a purposeful step toward Wade. Not knowing her intent, Riordan grabbed her with both hands.
    â€œLet go!”
    He had to shut her up. He did it the way that seemed most natural, by kissing her. He held her in a breath-robbing bear hug and kissed her soundly and thoroughly. Part of him wanted to keep it up until she responded, softened against him and kissed him back, but another part told him that wasn’t likely to happen this time. He let her go reluctantly.
    Cass caught a shaky breath, brought her fist back, and struck Riordan in the face with every ounce of strength she possessed. While he swore and clutched at his jaw, she darted past him and ran out the door.

III
    T HE COBBLESTONED STREET was torture; she might as well have been barefooted for all the protection her thin-soled sandals provided. “Damn, damn, damn,” she panted, almost weeping, exhausted but afraid to stop. She’d heard no sounds of pursuit, yet she was sure he would come after her. She had no idea what ill-lit street she was on, but a long stone wall bordered it on the left and beyond the wall was a park. Hyde Park? Green Park? St. James’s? She knew the city hardly at all, only from brief and infrequent visits over the years, but she knew it well enough to recognize that she was nowhere near Holborn. How would she get home? It must be after two o’clock. She still had a pound and seven pence, more than enough to hire a hackney, but she’d seen no carriages at all in this darkened, residential section of Piccadilly. And she couldn’t venture closer to the clubs and alehouses she’d run away from for fear of molestation. Or worse—of Philip Riordan.
    If only Freddy would come for her! But she had small hope of that. If Riordan couldn’t find her, there was little chance Freddy could. Limping now, she came to a halt by a bench beside the stone wall and sank down on it gratefully. It was dark here; she would rest for a minute and decide what to do.
    There was a light on upstairs in the house directly across from her. She imagined herself going to the front door and knocking. Dogs would bark, neighbors might look out their windows. After a long wait she would hear footsteps inside. The door would open. A servant, probably, in nightshirt and cap, holding a candle. “What do you want?”
    The fantasy ended there because she couldn’t conceive of a suitable answer. “Sanctuary!” she thought wryly, then sobered—a church! No, no,