Carola Dunn Read Free

him to come to the rescue again.
     Even if Betsy was able hop as far as the bank, which seemed unlikely, he could not be expected to risk his employer’s wrath by leaving his work for long enough to support her. Perhaps he would be kind enough to find a couple of men willing to carry her for a fee. Rosabelle looked in her purse. A shilling, a threepenny bit, some pennies, and a few farthings—and once ashore she still had to pay for a hackney to take them home.
     Mr Rufus finished with his customer, and a moment later turned with a steaming mug in each hand.
     “Your chocolate, ladies.”
     “I...I don’t think I can afford it now. I didn’t bring much money with me, and I shall have to hire someone to help Betsy ashore, and a hackney....”
     “It’s on the house.” He put a mug into her hand.
     “Oh, but your master....”
     “Trust me,” he said with a grin, “I shan’t be turned off without a character. Call it my treat, if it makes you feel better.”
     Blushing, Rosabelle persisted. “Can you afford it?”
     “A ha’pennyworth of hot chocolate will not break the bank, ma’am.”
     “He gives you a discount? I beg your pardon, I don’t mean to pry.”
     “Your concern for my solvency does you credit,” he said gravely, but with a twinkle in his eye. “Pray believe I shall not suffer for the expense of two cups of chocolate. Now drink up, and then we shall see about getting you both safe to dry land. We have the handcart we used to transport everything here. I daresay Miss Betsy will contrive to perch on it while I wheel her across the ice.”
     “Oh yes,” Betsy assured him.
     Rosabelle did not venture to protest any further. He knew his own affairs best, and the temperament of his employer. “You are very kind,” she said gratefully.
     She sipped her chocolate. Somewhat to her surprise, it was excellent, as good as she had ever had at home or at Gunter’s, the grand confectioner in Berkley Square. Perhaps Dibden’s was in a better way of business than their presence among the mostly tawdry hawkers at the Frost Fair suggested.
     Mr Rufus’s appearance ought to have given her a clue, Rosabelle thought, eyeing his back as he helped at the counter again. Those broad shoulders were clad in good Bath cloth, and the boots below his fawn stockinette pantaloons had the high gloss held only by the best leather. His high-crowned beaver was glossy, too. His neckcloth, she recalled, was snowy white, starched, tied in an exuberant knot which matched what she had observed of his character, and stuck with a gilt pin.
     She hoped he was not living above his means. Altogether, he was almost as smart as the Cheapside mercers’ assistants, who were notorious for lounging on their masters’ doorsteps, prinked up to the nines.
     Mr Rufus was better-spoken than most of those jackanapes. Maybe he had studied elocution with an eye to bettering himself—which might explain his attentions to a well-dressed young female. Rosabelle was more elegantly clad than many a blue-blooded damsel with a house in Mayfair and an estate in the country.
     No mere shopman could aspire to such heights, however. She preferred to believe he was simply chivalrous by nature.
     He turned, and caught her gazing at him. His amused air made her lower her eyes in confusion.
     “Are you ready to...? Oh, just a moment.” He swung round as the hot-pie lad dashed up to the booth entrance.
     “More pies!” He handed over a jingling purse.
     “They won’t be ready for a few minutes yet,” said Mr Rufus, emptying the coins into a cash-box beneath the counter. “You’re selling too fast for me. Sit down and catch your breath, Jack.”
     “I’m not tired, honest. It’s fun running around crying ‘Hot Pies.’ It was a prime notion to set up on the ice.”
     “Makes a change, eh? All right, you give Oswald a hand here and keep an eye on the pies in the oven, whilst I help these ladies ashore.”
     The youth had