Vanity Read Free Page A

force, and a panicked murmur ran through their ranks. Voices were raised in warning, and the murmur of panic became a full-throated roar.
    “Odd’s blood,” Octavia’s companion swore as he identified the roar. He tightened his grip on her arm. “Trust the press gang to know where to find good pickings. We have to get out of here before they run amok.”
    Octavia lost all desire to free herself from her companion, who was suddenly her only anchor. Her feet were swept from beneath her, and if he hadn’t dragged her against his body, she would have gone down to the cobbles. The whole mass of humanity surged forward, men, women, and children screaming as they fought to get out of the square and into the surrounding streets where they could run freely. An army of cudgel-wielding sailors headed by a group of naval lieutenants poured into the square from the Edgeware Road, rounding up men and boys indiscriminately as they swept down upon them, inexorable as a tidal wave. Women’s sobs and cries of protest as their husbands and sons were torn from their sides rose above the angry, frightened roar of the frantic crowd.
    The press gang wouldn’t take up a gentleman, and Octavia’s captor was undoubtedly a gentleman, but their danger lay in being swamped by the crowd. The screams of the trampled rose high-pitched with anguish, then faded into long drawn-out groans of pain and despair as the heedless feet kept coming, kicking and stamping on fallen bodies.
    Octavia lost all sense of direction; she was aware only of the strong comforting grip on her arm as they were tumbled along on the tide. She could see nothing except chests and arms until something flashed across her sideways vision.
    “Over there!” she yelled, trying to make herself heard above the tumult. She darted sideways, lowering her head and pushing like an enraged bullock toward the deep doorwaythat had caught her eye. Her companion added his own bulk to the process, carving a path sideways through the throng until they were huddled in the doorway and the tide was sweeping past them.
    “Thank God!” Octavia leaned against the door at her back trying to catch her breath. Her hair had come loose from its pins, and her fichu was torn, exposing the creamy swell of her bosom. Her companion’s gaze slowly drifted over her disordered appearance, and abruptly she pulled her cloak tighter around her, covering her dishevelment, aware of the weight of the pouch lying heavily against her thigh.
    “You have sharp eyes, Miss Morgan,” her companion observed calmly, leaning beside her, watching the passing stampede. “We’ll stay here until it’s over.”
    “I presume you too have a name, sir,” she said in an attempt to recapture her earlier assurance.
    “Oh, most certainly,” he agreed, taking a japanned snuffbox from the deep pocket of his coat. He flicked the lid and delicately took a pinch.
    Nothing else was forthcoming. Octavia tapped her foot on the stone lintel. “Am I to be told it, sir?”
    He looked at her, one eyebrow quizzically raised. “I confess I hadn’t given the question any thought. However …” He bowed, managing an elegant flourish in the confined space. “At this moment Lord Nick is at your service, Miss Morgan.”
    She stared at him, trying to remember where she’d heard the name before. And what did he mean by
at this moment?
“Oh?” she said, her jaw dropping. “Lord Nick, the highwayman?”
    He smiled and shrugged. “Such calumny. I don’t know where people get these stories from.”
    Octavia shook her head as if trying to clear her thoughts. No gentleman, after all, but Lord Nick, the highwayman given the devil’s colloquial name for his uncanny ability to evade the law. If he was who he said he was—not that he looked in the least as she’d imagined a highwayman would look—then it seemed unlikely he was intending to lay a charge against her. But it seemed only reasonable andfriendly in the circumstances to return his