He’d assumed she would steal his gig, too, earlier, and leave him stunned and bleeding in the lane.
He was the most distrustful, suspicious, insulting man she’d ever met, and why she was still trying to prove she wasn’t any of the things he thought, she couldn’t imagine.
Why, she had as much cause to distrust him—waking up naked in his bed like that.
Only honesty compelled her to admit that it hadn’t been his doing. That was entirely down to Aunt Charity and her vile new husband. There really could be no other explanation.
She came to the end of her second ballad and smiled at the people dropping coins into Mr Willingale’s hat. How she wished she had a glass of water. Singing in the open air made the voice so dry, so quickly. Perhaps she could prevail upon Mr Willingale to fetch her some? She darted a hopeful glance in his direction. But he just grimaced, as though in disgust, then turned and strode off down a side street.
He had no intention of helping her—not when he was opposed to her plan. The beast was just going to leave her there. Probably hoping she’d become nervous once he was out of sight and run after him, begging him not to leave her alone.
Well, if he thought she would feel afraid of being alone in the middle of a strange town then he didn’t know her at all. Why, she’d been in far more dangerous places than an English town on market day.
Though then she’d been a child. With her parents to protect her. Not to mention the might of the English army at her back. Which was why she’d never felt this vulnerable before.
Not even when she’d realised her aunt had abandoned her at The Bull. Though that had probably been largely due to the fact that she’d been numb with shock and still dazed from the sleeping draught at that point this morning. But now she was starting to think clearly.
What was to become of her?
She had no money. Only the few clothes she stood up in. And no real idea where she was or where she was going. In just a few short hours she’d become almost totally reliant on Mr Willingale. Who’d just disappeared down that alley. For a second, panic gripped her by the throat.
But she was not some spineless milk-and-water miss who would go running after a man and beg him not to abandon her to the mercy of strangers. She was a Carstairs. And no Carstairs ever quailed in the face of adversity.
Defiantly, she lifted her chin and launched into her third ballad.
Chapter Seven
Prudence had hardly got going when a trio of young men emerged from a side street and sauntered in her direction. She could tell they were trouble even before they pushed to the front of the crowd who’d gathered to hear her sing.
She did her best not to display any sign of nervousness. But it was difficult not to feel anxious when one of them pulled out a quizzing glass, raked her insolently from top to toe, and said, ‘Stap me, but I never thought to find such a prime article in such an out-of-the way place.’
She carried on singing as though she hadn’t heard him.
One of his companions, meanwhile, turned to look at the farmer standing next to him. With a supercilious sneer he pulled out a handkerchief and held it to his nose. The yokel turned a dull, angry shade of red and shuffled away.
The three young bucks had soon had the same effect on all her audience. By the time she’d reached the end of her song they’d all dispersed. Leaving her alone on the steps of the cross.
Time to leave. Her voice was past its best anyhow. What with having nobody to bring her a glass of water...
She darted the bucks a smile she hoped was nonchalant as she bent to pick up the hat.
‘Allow me,’ said the one with the quizzing glass, snatching it from the ground before she could get to it. He smirked at his companions, who chuckled and drew closer.
‘Thank you,’ she said, holding out her hand in the faint hope that he’d simply give her the hat. Though she could tell he had no intention of doing any such thing.
‘Not much to show for your performance,’ he said, glancing into the hat, then at her. ‘Hardly worth your trouble, really.’
The others sniggered.
‘It is to me,’ she said. ‘Please hand it over.’
He took a step closer, leering at her. ‘Only if you pay a forfeit. I think a hatful of coins is worth a kiss, don’t you?’
His friends found him terribly amusing, to judge from the way they all hooted with laughter.
He pressed forward, lips puckered as though to make her pay the forfeit.
She backed up a step. ‘Absolutely not,’ she protested.
‘A kiss for each of us,’ cried the one who’d driven the farmer away with his scented handkerchief.