My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(58)

“Please—please say you never saw me!” Henrietta says in hushed tones before running from the room.

You follow her at a distance so as not to draw attention and run headfirst into Lady Evangeline. You sigh in relief.

“What happened there?” she asks, nodding toward Henrietta’s fleeing form. Clearly your attempts not to draw attention failed to escape Lady Evangeline’s perceptive gaze. No matter, for you need her help in getting to the bottom of this murky business.

“Lady Evangeline, we need to talk. Most urgently.”

She nods, her bright blue eyes searchlights piercing the foggy haze of the evening’s events.

“Of course, my dear. Come with me.”





Turn to this page.





You arrive at Seven Dials in London, near the notorious slums of St. Giles Rookery. All around you are thieves, murderers, murderous thieves, and at least eight different people exclaiming “Lawks!” You steel yourself, for you need all the courage and fortitude you possess to embark on this, your next chapter in life…

…and perhaps love? Your mind wanders to the handsome Scot you met at Lady Evangeline’s ball, Captain Angus MacTaggart. You wonder if you’ve beaten the letter you sent him, telling him of your arrival and interest in taking up the position he mentioned off-handedly at the ball. You know it was impulsive to come without working out the details, but the opportunity unleashed in you a new lease on life that cannot be ignored. Especially not when needy children stand to benefit.

As you pick your way through a street piled high with refuse and ladies of the night, you recall Mac’s manner that evening. How he operated as a guest in the high-society world of the ton, commanded respect, charmed all, but also seemed to burn with a silent desire to move on. Then there was the kindness and humor flashing in those hazel eyes, the knowing looks and hearty laughter, the rolling, harsh softness of his brogue, the way the candlelight brought out the fire in his auburn mane, the way his tight breeches clung to his—

“Looking for work, my dear?” says a strangely accented voice. You turn and see an elegant lady, incongruous for such a rough part of town, standing in her silk dress like a lotus blossom in a swamp. “A girl as pretty as yourself could be the gem of my establishment. Sweet. Innocent. And yet with an underlying wisdom and sadness. Yes, you would do very well indeed.”

“Leave the lass alone, Madam Crosby,” a rugged Scottish brogue interrupts. “She’s here to see me about teaching, not to become one of your doxies.” The woman doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest and merely shrugs. Mac leans proudly and ruggedly against the down-at-heel doorway of his fledgling Home for Orphans of the War. Many of said orphans peer down at you from the structure’s grimy windows.

“More’s the pity. Though the offer still stands. As you can see, my girls are the best paid and the best treated in London.” Madam Crosby waves an expensively gloved hand and walks into a fine building that stands out like a diamond ring in the mud. Several lovely and elegantly dressed women follow after her.

You turn to the source of the rugged Scottish brogue and find your breath momentarily taken away. Captain Angus MacTaggart is even more handsome than you remembered, the strong angles of his face now lit up by the midday sun. He strikes you the same way statues of heroes of war do, or Greek gods. Something about him seems mythic, larger than life. And very, very muscular. Judging by the giggles coming from the women you pass, you are not the only one to notice.

“Getting in trouble already, I see,” Captain MacTaggart says and then grins at you. Before you can think of a suitably witty comeback, you are interrupted by a golden wolf running out of the home and pouncing on you, followed by a small boy hollering at him and a pair of children hollering for the hell of it.

“Oi! Dodger, no!” cries the boy. The wolf reveals himself to be a cheerful yellow dog with adorably active, expressive ears on an endless quest to knock things over.

“Your stupid dog almost killed our teacher, you twat!” A rough-and-tumble little girl spits at the young dogmaster.

“Good. Can’t stand teachers. They fink they’re all fancy and better’n us. I ain’t got time for no teachers.” The third youngster, a gloomy, grim child with a black eye, scowls in your general direction.

“?‘Cos they is fancy, you knobhead. Don’t make me punch sense into you again,” the little girl says and spits once more.

“What lovely children you are,” you deadpan, eyebrows arched. The children scowl at you in turn. “What are your names?”

“Timmy,” the forlorn little dog owner manages.

“Sallie,” spits the girl.

“None of your bloody business!” shouts the teacher-hater.

“All right, all right, quiet yerselves down now!” Mac says with a hearty laugh. “I’ve got about twenty more o’ these little delights up in the home now, raising a ruckus. But they’ll be singing quite a different tune once we get your schoolroom set up.”

“Sometime in the next decade, I presume.” Another, even heartier Scottish brogue booms down from an open window.

“Aye!” Mac hollers up to a jolly, avuncular fellow Scotsman, who looks more than old enough to be his father. He turns back to you. “That’ll be Abercrombie—”