The length of the tavern stretched between them with tussling bodies in the way. Prim’s rescuer was carrying her in the opposite direction of her friend, and that could not happen.
Primrose extended an arm as though that could do some good, as though she could reach her. “Olympia!” she shouted again.
Olympia heard her. Her head shot up and their gazes locked. Her friend was near the tavern’s front door now.
Prim was being carried in the opposite direction. She opened her mouth to object, to insist that the stranger, well-meaning though he may be, put her down at once so that she could make her way back to Olympia’s side.
Suddenly, Redding filled her line of vision. Oh no!
He was barreling toward her, so close that with a shift of his gaze, he would spot her.
Panicked, Prim ducked her masked face, burying her head in the stranger’s shoulder, effectively hiding herself.
Her heart thundered in her ears as she was carried. Hope beat hard and swift inside her. Certainly—hopefully—Redding would not notice her hair amidst the chaos all around them. How often did men really notice such things anyways?
The gentleman who carried her smelled surprisingly nice. Clean. She took a deeper sniff of his shoulder. A blend of . . . sandalwood? And the fabric of his jacket was soft and of fine quality.
Realizing she was conspicuously inhaling the scent of the man who carried her in his arms, she pulled her nose slightly away—and was then assailed with different odors.
The air quality felt different—by no means fresher, but the smells were different—a mix of foods, cigar smoke, colognes, and, in the distance, the pungent musk of the River Thames.
A door slammed and suddenly she was deposited on her feet. She swayed for a moment until a firm hand steadied her.
Prim was outside, free of the rowdy tavern.
She lifted her face to the flow of air and blinked against the night, peering around her and trying to take measure of her surroundings, feeling exposed and vulnerable without Olympia at her side.
This was not the well-lit main row that she had trod upon entering the Gardens. It was not totally wanting of light, but close enough, with only one lamp marking the narrow alley that ran behind the tavern and its neighboring establishment. The stink of trash from a nearby repository laced the air, the rank odor stinging in her nose.
A few other people, also intent on escaping the tavern brawl, stumbled out the door after them. Prim collapsed against the side of the building to catch her breath, rubbing at her sore shoulder. The others quickly made their way from the alley, leaving the backstreet eerily devoid of people.
Prim pushed to her feet and shook out her skirts, facing her rescuer, words of gratitude on her lips dying a swift death as her eyes clapped on the man before her. She could summon forth only a single awe-stricken word. “You.”
A proper introduction is required before a gentleman may speak to a lady. If such civility is circumvented, rest assured the lady’s reputation is also forfeit.
—Lady Druthers’s Guide to Perfect Deportment and Etiquette
The rules of civility are more suggestions than rules.
Chapter Five
Primrose instantly regretted her sharply flung you.
For one thing, it rang out almost accusingly in the air. What if the much-too-handsome gentleman did not recognize her? She was wearing a mask, after all. Whatever the case, she had just informed him that she knew him—that man-boy had indelibly stamped himself on her memory.
Splendid.
He inclined his head—his lush dark hair beckoning touch as much as a field of spring-fresh grass. She shook her head, dismissing the whimsical thought.
“And you are the young lady who was with the illustrious Mrs. Zaher earlier today at Gunter’s?”
She swallowed. Well, Olympia was correct. The domino was little good at concealment if someone had seen her before.
“Um. Yes. It’s the hair, I suppose?” she asked rather baldly, reaching up to touch her strands. “Is that how you recognized me?”
He clasped his hands behind his back and gave a slight nod. “It is rather distinctive. And I only just saw you this day.”
“Yes. Just.” She frowned, feeling a failure. Blast. So much for not being recognized. He did not know her name, but he knew Mrs. Zaher. It was an altogether uncomfortable situation and made the possibility of discovery on a larger scale feel much too likely.
For now, though, the only discovery Prim needed to worry about was finding her friend.
“I realize we have not been properly introduced . . .” His voice faded and he glanced toward the tavern door. “Are you here with Mrs. Zaher? Or your . . . chaperone perhaps?”
At the mention of a chaperone, she winced. “I—er, am here with a friend. A friend I must now locate. Immediately.”
“Of course.” The young man nodded very properly. “I, too, have become separated from my friends. I saw you were struggling. Forgive me for being so forward. I did not mean to offend. I wanted only to help.”
“Oh? You don’t normally fling ladies over your shoulder like a sack of grain?”
His mouth twitched. “No, it’s not my typical behavior.”
“That is good to know.”
They stared at each other for a long, awkward moment before he gestured ahead with a clearing of his throat. “It does not seem anyone else is fleeing this way. Shall we round to the front and locate our parties?”
She could not fault that logic. “Yes,” she murmured.
He held out his arm to her, and she hesitated before taking it, then reasoned that it would be strange if she did not—and she was all for making this encounter feel less awkward. He’d carried her out of the brawling tavern, after all. It would not be such a breach at this point if she accepted his arm for escort. At any rate, the sooner she took his arm, the sooner this interaction could come to an end.
They left the quiet backstreet and rejoined the population steadily swarming along the main row. She rested her fingers on his sleeve very softly, barely touching. That seemed only proper. Well, not touching him at all would be the most proper thing to do, but she was well past propriety the moment she snuck out from her house and entered Vauxhall. She was well well past propriety the moment she and he started speaking without proper introduction.
Those few words exchanged at Gunter’s hardly constituted a break in propriety. The exchange had mostly been between him and Mrs. Zaher, and as Olympia’s mother was a notable pubic figure, that was not so very irregular. Strangers spoke to her all the time, praising and complimenting her performances. No one lifted an eyebrow over the interactions. Well, aside from Prim’s mother. Lifting her eyebrows at the Zahers was one of her most favored pastimes. Second only to lifting her eyebrows at Prim.
This—what was happening now between her and man-boy—would lift Mama’s eyebrows so high they would disappear into her hairline. But then again, this was Vauxhall. Purportedly everything that occurred here tonight would qualify as a scandal and send Mama into the vapors.
As they stepped out from the back alley and strode beneath the lanterns dotting the main row, she battled an overwhelming sense of vulnerability. Prim felt as though her mask had been ripped away. He knew she was connected to the Zahers. He could easily discover her identity if he was so inclined.