Page 21 of From Unwanted to Duchess
“Your Grace!” a voice called, and an unfamiliar gentleman poked his head out of a nearby carriage window. “If you’re looking for your godmother, she had her driver go forward to collect you, but then, upon seeing the mob, she made a sharp turn down Catherine Street toward Piccadilly!”
“Thank you, Lord Leicester,” the Duke said. “Come quickly. We shall try to catch them.”
Again, he grabbed her wrist, and together they ran, leaving the congested theatre district behind. Around them, other noblemen who had been in their carriages were now getting out and hurrying away on foot. Some had sent their servants ahead to make a barrier between them and the approaching protesters.
The Duke’s hand slipped from her wrist and wrapped around her hand properly. Together, they ran down Catherine Street and after several more twists and turns found themselves on Wellington Street. It was thrilling and terrifying at the same time. Frances held onto him tightly as they ran, her breath coming in gasps, her skirts hampering her movements.
When they reached the Strand, they paused, looking both ways for Aunt Eugenia’s carriage.
“Where is she?” Frances called. “Has she left us?”
“She wouldn’t have,” the Duke said. “Something must have happened. She likely had to take a different route to avoid the crowds. Come, let us try to make our way toward Mayfair. We can walk to my club if necessary and send word to her from there.”
He pulled her along as though she were a small child, but she didn’t protest.
Ten minutes ago, if anyone had told her that walking hand in hand down a dark street with him would be comforting, she would have declared them utterly addled. However, as it stood, it was.
They hurried through the streets, him still holding her hand, when he came to an abrupt stop.
“By Jove,” he said.
“What?” she asked, turning in the direction he was looking. And she saw it.
They had emerged onto Old Burlington Street, where there was a massive crowd—much larger than the one that had scattered the carriages. There had to be at least sixty people, maybe more, standing outside a grand corner townhouse. Their torches were raised in the air as they screamed, “No Corn Laws! Down with the Corn Laws! Down with the Lords! Heartless Lords!”
The mob had certainly kicked up a dust. It stood in stark contrast to the scattered protesters outside the theatre. This was organized. Focused. Angry.
“Goodness gracious,” Frances whispered. “What are they doing? Why are they in front of that house?”
“That is the house of Frederick John Robinson,” the Duke explained quietly. “He was the MP who introduced the Corn Bill to Parliament. They blame him for their suffering.”
“I see,” she said slowly. “I can understand why they’re angry at him, but why are they outside his house? What do they intend to do? You said this has been happening elsewhere. Why?”
She couldn’t finish the thought. She understood anger; she had felt it herself when discussing the injustice of the bill. But this? This was something else entirely.
“Angry, desperate people will do all manner of things one would not think possible. I think they mean to scare him above all else. However, whenever a group of people comes together in such a manner, one cannot be certain what will happen, so I suggest that we leave immediately.”
For once, Frances agreed with him.
Together they turned to go back the way they had come. However, more people were streaming in from that direction.
These people looked angrier than the ones at the theatre. There was a wildness to them that Frances knew all too well.
She’d seen it on the faces of all those who had been suffering for the past two years under the incredibly high grain prices. Her own father, who benefited from the law, had stopped going to church altogether because he knew people blamed him. She knew this with certainty because she still attended church, and people told her often that her father should be ashamed of himself for benefiting while his neighbors struggled.
And she agreed with them wholeheartedly. Still, she didn’t think that any of these people would care what she thought or what she had done to help. They stormed forward to join the others.
“James!” She called him by his name for the first time.
He turned and reached his arm out for her, but before she could grasp it, she was swept up in the crowd storming toward the house.
Her heart thundered, and sweat ran down her back. She felt the crushed white pearl powder drip from her face onto her pristine gown.
“James!” she called again.
“Frances!” he shouted back. “Frances, I’m here! Get out of my way!”
He pushed someone aside and appeared at her side. He wrapped one arm around her and pulled her close. Without thinking, she raised her left arm and wrapped it around his back, holding onto him.
