White Knight Needed

Book 2: Reluctant Heroes

by Betina Krahn

Genres: Women's Fiction; Scottish & Highlander; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Brimming with romance and adventure, New York Times bestselling author Betina Krahn’s thrilling new series reveals the hero in every man . . .

Just as Barclay Howard declares himself finished with the idea of true love and in pursuit of the more pragmatic “free love,” he is thrust into another sort of commitment: guardian to his little nephew. Barclay hasn’t a clue about children and now must quickly relocate to his family estate. But when he is swept up in the raid of a free love gathering and jailed with a lovely, cultured, innocent bystander, things become more complicated—or perhaps simpler . . .

Norah Capshaw was fleeing a brute when she found herself swept into a lecture hall, jailed, and jobless. Without a penny or a relative to her name, she has sworn never rely on others, much less look for a hero. But she can’t resist Barclay’s offer of a position as tutor to his nephew. In fact, despite her distrustful nature, it’s hard to resist Barclay. Soon, with their attraction growing, and a mysterious man still following her, the two embark on a journey into the southern uplands of Scotland—and into the heart of a great love neither expected . . .

Praise for Hero Wanted
 
“This heated kisses-only story is fast-paced and delightful fun, grounded in authentic historical detail.”
—Bookpage STARRED REVIEW

“Memorable characters. . . . This will best suit readers who like plenty of action mixed in with their romance.”
—Publishers Weekly

“Sir Walter Scott himself would be pleased with all the feats of derring-do and acts of bravery RITAaward-winning Krahn deftly packs into the laughter-infused, sexy-as-sin plot in the launch of her fun new Victorian-set series.”
—Booklist
 

Release date: March 29, 2022

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 352

Reader says this book is...: entertaining story (1) happily ever after (1)

Sample

London 1883

Stares and whispers fell at Barclay Howard’s broad back as he exited his carriage and proceeded down Gordon Street. He paid little heed. He was used to them by now.

Three fashionably dressed young ladies stood by the door of a nearby milliner’s shop watching him with widened eyes. He recognized one as a young beauty to whom he had been introduced at his best friend’s recent birthday celebration. He squared his shoulders and continued on his way, oblivious to the pedestrians who scrambled off the pavement into the street to avoid him. Why should he acknowledge snobbish, overbred females when they wouldn’t give him the time of day, much less a hand in marriage?

He had better things to do, like attending a lecture that could very likely change his life. He realized he was scowling and relaxed his face as he turned down the narrowing lane that led to Lightner Hall.

The large, square brick building was of a design that conveyed a simplicity and utility in keeping with the nature of the wisdom dispensed inside. The only bit of architectural dash about the place was a gracefully carved stone lintel surrounding the open front doors. On the pavement outside the hired hall were sandwich boards advertising upcoming lectures and demonstrations intended for those whose taste in diversions were a step above corner pubs and raucous music halls.

He entered the small lobby and paid for admission—an entire pound—a surprising sum for the privilege of listening to people just talk, ironically about “free” love. The man and woman selling tickets glanced nervously at each other, waved him toward the doors of the lecture hall, and began to pack up their cashbox as soon as they took his money.

He took a seat in the back row, because sitting closer to the front always blocked the view for people behind him, and he did try to be courteous. The chairs, as often happened, were small and hard. He had to turn slightly to wedge his broad shoulders against the curved back and had to tuck his muscular legs to the side to avoid blocking the aisle. With a deep breath, he looked around at his fellow seekers of enlightenment.

They were a surprisingly fusty group, these “free-lovers”. . . a sea of tweeds and meerschaum pipes, sensible brogans and graying beards. The women weren’t much better. Most wore Puritan-dark dresses and dour expressions . . . they looked like they might be carrying rolling pins hidden in their skirts. A pair of younger females caught his eye until they turned. Sour expressions and protruding teeth made him decide to look elsewhere.

This was hardly the free-spirited group he had expected. But as the moderator called the hall to order and introduced the first speaker, Barclay made himself concentrate on what he might learn . . . though he had already learned that this was probably not the place to find “free love” partners.

The first speaker was a woman in a black woolen ensemble with a white standing collar that made her look absurdly like a village vicar with a bun. She opened with a barrage of questions about “women in bondage,” which widened Barclay’s eyes. Briefly. It was a disappointment to realize she was talking about the restrictions and limitations that marriage placed on women. The state of current laws, she said, treated women as little more than property to be managed or brood mares to be bought and sold with dowries. There were polite grunts and nods from men present and “Hear! Hears!” from the women.

Really? Barclay looked at the women attendees in dismay. Who in their right mind would think of these females as oppressed or—shudder—breeding stock? He scowled, thinking of his best friend’s birthday celebration and the formidable doyens and haughty debs who attended. It was hard to imagine any of them being led around by a halter.

By the time she finished with salvos against a society that kept women bound in marriages despite abandonment by husbands “gone to green” or forced them into infirmity by ceaseless childbearing, Barclay was eyeing the door. Clearly her notion of “free love” and his expectations were oceans apart. He started to wonder if the flyer advertising this lecture was some sort of joke.

Just then, one of the doors opened and a woman in a short cloak slipped inside the hall. He was struck by an air of urgency about her and a hint of trembling in her clasped hands. As she looked over the hall, he caught a glimpse of her face . . . a pale oval with delicate features framed in a halo of light hair. She hurried down the far side aisle away from the door and took an empty seat in a group of women dressed like nuns on holiday. He watched her for a moment longer, wishing she would turn again so he could confirm his brief impression of her face.

The second speaker, an august-looking man of middle years, was introduced and began a broadside against the exploitation of women and girls for money . . . which sounded rather lasciviously like prostitution. It turned out he meant hazardous factory work at low wages that trapped women and children in shortened lives of desperation. It was more decent to give women alternatives, he railed . . . allow them to decide when to have and raise children . . . allow them to control their own “fecundity.”

Barclay knew the definition, but he had never heard the word spoken aloud. So that was how it sounded.

There were ways, the speaker insisted, safe and practical ways for married couples—women in particular—to limit the number of their pregnancies and better care for the children they did bear.

Pregnancy? That was another term not used in polite society. Something a physician might say to a colleague, but never to a patient.

Just then, he heard voices from outside as the rear door opened again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man enter and stand glowering at the assembly. The fellow was a stocky, ruddy-faced sort with narrowed eyes, and he was breathing hard, as if he’d been running. At that exact moment, the young woman who had arrived late turned to look at the door. Barclay caught the shock on her face as she saw the man, then turned away and pulled the hood of her cloak closer around her face.

She was evading the man, he surmised. Had she meant to attend the lecture, or had she just slipped into the hall to escape the brute? He glanced at the man, taking in thick, gloveless hands that were clenching repeatedly at his sides. Every nerve in Barclay’s body came alive. He looked to the young woman, who glanced again over her shoulder and then looked around frantically. Searching for an exit. Clearly.

His own hands clenched into fists and his jaw tightened.

A long moment passed as her pursuer edged slowly along the back wall toward her side of the hall. The man could scarcely haul her kicking and screaming out of a lecture on the mistreatment of women. She wisely kept her seat, sensing that there was safety in such a venue. For the moment, the pursuit was a stalemate and the lecture continued.

There was more talk of money and women . . . economic slavery, the fellow called it. The laws of the land kept women shackled and children doomed to a life of mere subsistence. Under the guise of protecting them and preserving order, society enslaved women and children while giving them no say in their futures.

Barclay thought of the irony presented in the case of the young woman trapped in a free-love lecture by a man pursuing her. Who was she running from? A father? A husband? A bully from a brothel? Again she glanced over her shoulder, and something about her pale face and delicate features tugged at his most dominant instincts. He uncurled his legs and leaned forward, resting his arms on the back of the empty seats in front of him. The moment the presentation was over he intended to—

Raised voices filtered in from outside the main doors, growing quickly louder. He glanced at the heavy wooden panels with a frown, and a moment later both doors flew open and a sea of dark blue uniforms filled the opening. A man in a derby and a checkered suit led a dozen constables into the hall, where he stopped and issued an order in a booming voice.

“Stay where ye are! Yer all under arrest on charges of offendin’ th’ moral decency!”

A mad scramble ensued. Half of the audience rushed forward to defend the speakers, while the other half scrambled for the far doors that presumably led to an adjoining street. Barclay was instantly in motion, rushing toward the young woman, tossing chairs out of his way and into the path of determined constables. Luckily, the girl’s pursuer was pinned against the rear wall of the chamber by bobbies, and in several furious strides, Barclay was at the girl’s side and taking her by the arm.

“Let me go! What are you—”

“Out the nearest door,” he growled, shocked by her resistance. “Unless you want to spend the night in jail.”

That must have registered. Her struggling slowed enough for him to usher her to the nearest door—which led into a narrow, dead-end alley. Clearly that was why most of the other patrons had chosen to escape through the other side of the hall. He spotted daylight at the far end of the alley and took her by the wrist. “This way.”

Two steps were all he managed before he was jolted to a stop. She had planted her feet to resist and glared at his hand on her arm.

“What are you doing? We have to go nowwww—” A sharp pain shot through his hand and he released her with an “Owww!” He drew back, staring at his hand in horror. Blood appeared in a puncture wound, and when he looked at her, she was gripping a large hatpin poised for another strike.

“Why the devil did you do that? I was taking you to the street to avoid the constables.” He reached for her hand and she struck again—but this time he drew back too quickly for her and she stabbed only air.

“How dare you set hands to me?” she said, scanning both him and the narrow alleyway to the street beyond, most of which he was blocking.

He pulled out a handkerchief to wrap around his hand, feeling confounded. “I was trying to help.”

“I don’t need your help,” she said, her voice thin and a bit tremulous. “Stay away from me.” She brandished the hatpin as she pressed her back against the brick wall to slide past him. “Or I’ll scream.”

When she was directly across from him—mere inches away—he got a good look at her face and a pair of startling eyes. Green as grass they were, and her skin was as smooth as cream. Her hair had a red-gold tinge, from what he could see of it, and she had full, nicely curved lips.

With vengeful gallantry he backed away and bowed, sweeping his uninjured hand toward the street, inviting her to flee.

She slid farther away, watching his mocking gesture, then turned and ran toward the mouth of the alley—where two coppers intercepted her and managed to block her blow and seize her weapon before it did them damage. One grabbed her arms and dragged her forcefully toward a waiting police wagon, snarling that she was under arrest.

“Hey!” Barclay shouted, rushing after them. “You can’t just arrest a woman on the—”

“Yeah, we can,” said the constable’s comrade, coming from Barclay’s side with a truncheon already completing an arc toward the back of his head. The blow sent Barclay to his knees. Swirling dark spots in his vision melted together and the last thing he heard was a rough voice declaring, “An’ we can pinch you, too, ye bloody great toff!”

Norah Capshaw found herself with a clutch of older women who had also been stuffed into a Black Maria and hauled off to a nearby police station. The others seemed either outraged or oddly resigned to their fate. She was the only one with tears rolling down her cheeks, and a couple of the women noticed. One of the others, called Hermione, came to squeeze in beside her on the dirty bench and offered her a handkerchief. With some reluctance, Norah accepted it and dabbed her eyes.

“Your first time?” Hermione asked, leaning closer. “Getting ‘pinched’?” Hermione studied her confusion and clarified: “Being arrested.”

Norah was shocked. “Well . . . yes.”

“Don’t be afraid, dear,” Hermione said, taking her hand. “We’ll be with you. They’re bullies, these coppers, and like throwing their weight around. But they know better than to cross the line with us.”

Norah’s disbelief must have shown in her face, for the sweet-looking older woman produced a mischievous smile.

“It’s my fourth,” she said, leaning into Norah with a nod. She almost sounded proud of it. “I’m Hermione Barton, by the way.”

“Four times . . . arrested?” Norah repeated.

A tall, severe-looking woman across the jail wagon spoke up. “Five for me.” She smiled tautly. “Lucrecia Hay-good, here.”

“Four for me, too.” A short, older woman with a long nose nodded defiantly. “Essie Delbarton. Still alive and kickin’.”

Norah nodded as the rest introduced themselves.

“We’ve all been arrested before, dear,” Hermione declared. “On ridiculous charges. ‘Offending the public decency.’ Balderdash. Complete codswallop.”

“They just don’t want women to speak up about how badly we’re treated,” Lucrecia declared irritably.

“Or that we have power ourselves and can make the world a better place if we seize that power and use it,” plump Essie added.

“But they arrested us for just sitting and listening,” Norah said, looking at the women in the police van with her. “How is that indecent?”

“They were talking about pregnancies, dear . . . about how married couples can limit or space childbearing to improve their health and the health of their families. Birth control, my dear. Annie Besant and Charles Bradlaugh published that American pamphlet on how couples—in the privacy of their own homes—can plan or prevent pregnancies. They were arrested on morals charges but managed to be acquitted in the courts. Since then, the Society for the Suppression of Vice has been on a tear—proclaiming even the mention of birth control obscene and undermining of the public morality.”

“As if mentioning it were a greater threat to the public morals than the brothels men sneak out to at night,” Lucrecia said with a scowl.

“Hypocrites,” declared Maxine-call-me-Max, a handsome woman in a fashionable ensemble of fitted jacket and tie. “The same top-lofties who sit on the committee are the ones who treat their wives like property and keep mistresses in bondage to their baser urges. Power, my girl. It’s all about men and their power.”

Norah sat dumbfounded as they continued their scandalous talk and introduced themselves and their arrests as if they were proud of their unlawful activities. By the time they reached the station, were “processed,” and put into an odoriferous cell, she knew their names and had learned that five of the eight were widows . . . left without means of support.

Seated on battered wooden benches along the dingy walls, the women were soon telling stories of their experiences in the working world. They had found ways to get by . . . sharing living quarters, working at difficult jobs, or diligently learning a trade. Two things they universally refused to do were factory work and household service, which they deemed demeaning or dangerous or both. They’d had enough of taking orders in their lives and all relished their independence.

Norah was astounded by their openness and camaraderie. Never, in her ladyish education, had she come across such audacious ideas. She and her fellow students at Trinity Academy had been entrenched in a course of classical studies and socially useful accomplishments like marriage, the arts, and hospitality. Matters of law, money, and independence were as foreign to her as speaking Chinese . . . at least until three months ago, when her aged guardian died. That was when she’d had to leave the academy and learned she was penniless and on her own. With no warning, she was forced to look for work that would pay enough to keep body and soul together.

Now—sitting in a jail cell with a group of opinionated women—she was once again plunged into an experience she was wholly unprepared for. Listening to them, she felt like a child pressing her nose against a shop window displaying things she had never imagined existed.

When they turned to her for her story, she swallowed hard, dabbed her eyes again, and felt something in her middle relax. Maybe these women would understand her plight.

“My mother died when I was quite young and my father only lasted a few years more. Having no other family, I was given into the care of a legal guardian, who sent me off to a boarding school and then on to a women’s academy in Oxford. My guardian died three months ago, and I learned that my parents’ legacy had run out years ago. My guardian, Mr. Rivers, had continued to pay my academy fees out of his own pocket. I suppose I was fortunate he cared enough to continue my education.”

She looked down at the handkerchief she was worrying into a knot.

“That or he simply didn’t know what else to do with you,” Lucrecia said flatly.

Hermione gave her friend a sharp look, then turned back to Norah.

“I’m sure he wanted to prepare you for what was to come. So what are your plans, dear?”

Norah looked around at the tired but expectant faces of women whose circumstances, surprisingly, were not so different from her own. They had not only survived, they had grown stronger in conquering the difficulties they’d encountered. She felt embarrassed to admit: “I’m not certain what my plans are. I currently have a position as a tutor in an evening school for adults. It’s not the best fit, but it is better than being a typewriter . . . which I did for a few days . . . until my employer decided I owed him more ‘personal’ duties. When I refused he fired me. Before that I worked at a library in acquisitions. It turned out some of the books I ordered from the Continent were salacious in content and had scandalous illustrations. I was fired.”

“So this is your third job in three months?” Hermione was wide-eyed.

Norah nodded. The silence that followed stopped her breath.

Then Essie grinned, and her grin turned into a chuckle . . . which elicited laughter all around the cell. Norah’s face flamed and she hid it in her hands.

This was a new low—

“Oh, my dear, don’t be embarrassed.” Hermione pulled her hands from her face and dipped to catch her lowered gaze. “That has happened to all of us at one time or another.” There were murmurs of agreement around them. “We’ve all had trouble finding a place in the world. It’s just that three jobs in three months . . . that’s something of a record. You’re our new heroine.”

Norah looked up and found luminous eyes filled with sympathy watching her. Their laughter had been from surprise, she realized, and perhaps a release of tension.

Hermione engulfed her in a hug, and the others came to stoop beside her and give her hugs or pats and quiet words of encouragement. By the time they were through Norah felt better, though she couldn’t say why. Acceptance by a bunch of rebellious older women was hardly a status to which she would have aspired. But here she was, in dire circumstances, telling them her failures and feeling better for having their understanding.

The rest of the night passed slowly as the women settled in and leaned against one another to avoid the wretched walls and get what rest they could. Norah, however, had never felt less like sleeping. Her mind buzzed with thoughts ignited by their stories, opinions, and dauntless humor.

They advised her not to fret about the morning. The authorities didn’t worry so much about the attendees at such gatherings, they said. It was the speakers they intended to take before the courts. The women had no notion of how long they might be held or what fines or imprisonment they faced. That, Hermione said, was tomorrow’s problem, and she patted Norah’s hand and offered her a shoulder to doze on.

As she closed her eyes, the image of the man who had dragged her out of the lecture hall came to her again. Tall, broad, forceful—a big, dark brute. But now she wondered if he honestly had been trying to help her.

Then the ruddy face and glower of the other man—the one pursuing her—rose in her mind. The bounder had followed her all day—at the green grocer’s in the milliner’s shop, on the street. His stare was unnerving and he was clearly maneuvering to get her alone, to the point of trying to set hands on her.

Why? What could he possibly want with her?

Barclay awakened in a dim, stench-filled cell with a throbbing head and a back stiff from lying heaped and twisted on a wooden bench. His cellmates were a handful of lecture attendees and a number of gritty characters who could only be described as scrapings from London’s grim underbelly. He no longer had his watch, and a quick check of his pockets revealed they had been thoroughly picked—whether by his fellow inmates or the coppers themselves, he had no way of knowing. What he did know was that he was getting out of this place as quickly as possible.

When a turnkey brought them some bread and a pail of water, he seized the opportunity to send for his solicitor. By noon, Mr. Anglesmith had paid whatever fine had been levied against him and he was free to go.

Annoyed as he was at being rendered unconscious—a first in his experience—he refused to leave the station until he had his beloved pocket watch back. After a search authorized by the red-faced precinct captain, they managed to find it in a box filled with contraband in the station’s storage room. With vengeful pleasure, he had Anglesmith pay the fines for the rest of the men and women arrested in the lecture hall raid. He smiled as he watched the desk sergeant’s irritation when the men and women filed past him and out through the main entrance.

And there she was . . . the fair-haired woman he had tried to help. His hand was still sore, but it was nothing compared to the headache the coppers had given him. For hours in that dank cell, the memory of her had tramped through his thoughts, but when he hurried out the precinct doors and headed for her, he was stopped by a handful of older women whose fines he had just anonymously paid. They gathered between him and her like sheepdogs protecting a lamb.

He glowered, which was usually more than enough to clear his path. But they held fast and had the temerity to make shooing motions and tell him to move along. Before he knew it, the young woman was hurrying away from both him and her guardians, as if pursued by a predator.

His fists curled and his face heated, he saw people staring wide-eyed and hurrying past him on the pavement. Once again his imposing stature and face did him a disservice. Burlap—that was what he was—in a world that prized only silk.

Stupid of him to think that his chivalrous behavior would be recognized or appreciated in any way. He stalked off toward the cab Anglesmith had hailed for him, ignoring the pedestrians who scrambled out of his path.

“Females. They hold the keys to love and happiness and are damned stingy with them,” he said irritably to Anglesmith as they climbed aboard the cab.

The bespectacled, fortyish lawyer nodded and looked pained by Barclay’s conclusion. Anglesmith was a good listener.

“Always ready to judge us,” Barclay continued after giving the driver his address. “Repulsed or enamored by what is on the outside of a man . . . forgetting that it’s his insides—heart and mind—that make him worthy.”

Anglesmith nodded in sympathy. He was a bachelor himself. “They cannot help themselves, I fear. It’s bred in their bones.”

Barclay leaned to the side of the cab to look back for his disappearing female, finding her no longer in sight.

Fine. Let her go. Why should he apologize for trying to help her?

The ride to his home in Mayfair was uneventful, but the moment he arrived, that changed. A caller waited in the salon, and Haskell, his butler, hurriedly whispered that the man had insisted on staying and waiting no matter how long it took. He handed Barclay a card with the names of the fellow and the York legal firm he represented. The names seemed familiar and before he headed into the salon, he sent Haskell to stop the cab carrying Anglesmith away to tell the solicitor he was needed inside.

Straightening his vest and coat, he gave the latter a sniff and deemed it smelly but probably fitting for an interview with his grandfather’s lawyer. Bracing for whatever legal tangle he now faced, he strode into the salon.

“Henry Westerman, Esquire,” the fellow said gravely, approaching Barclay with an offered hand. “From Maren, Lister, and Dowd, Solicitors at Law. We handle the Earl of Northrup’s affairs, and it seems—”

“. . .