Page 9 of Twelve Drummers Drumming

Jemima laughed darkly. “It has been noted by a few of my acquaintances. I suppose I never really learned the secret of lying politely, as ladies are supposed to.”

The soldier’s face twisted suddenly with something like sadness, but Jemima could not be exactly sure—it was a mere flicker, and then it was gone. He wiped his right hand on his black trousers, smearing them with mud, then bowed as best as he could with his left leg immobile.

“Captain Rotherham,” he said. When Jemima said nothing, he spoke again, more hesitantly. “Captain Hugh Rotherham.”

This was ridiculous, Jemima told herself. This was not how young ladies met elegant bachelors! Falling over each other into a muddy London street!

Still, there was nothing to be done save following Society’s niceties. Jemima curtseyed. “Miss Jemima Fitzroy.”

Captain Rotherham’s smile lit up the street. “Miss Fitzroy, I must admit it is an absolute delight to meet you.”

Jemima flushed, heat seeping through her. What nonsense. No gentleman had ever suffered her company, and she had no wish to be mocked. “I have already apologized, Captain Rotherham, I see no reason to tease me after I have tried to make amends.”

The flush in her face deepening, Jemima turned away and began to walk back toward her home. Enough of this nonsense. The air was chill, and her gown was damp. All she wished to do was return home and change, though it would of course necessitate seeing Caroline again.

Drat.

“Miss Fitzroy!” Captain Rotherham’s voice called after her, and she could hear his footsteps and crutch following her. Then, “Dang and blast, the march has moved on! I’ve been left behind!”

Jemima picked up her feet and quickened her pace, but it was not enough to escape Captain Rotherham, determined as he was. His hand closed on her shoulder, and he twisted her round, the smile gone from his face.

“Your antics have delayed me such that I shall miss official presentations!”

Jemima reached up and forcibly removed Captain Rotherham’s hand from her arm, ignoring the part of her that wished it would remain. She could not permit herself to be, be manhandled like this!

There was now a slightly damp and muddy handprint on the right shoulder of her gown—something Jemima knew would be the devil to remove.

“You cannot force another apology out of me,” Jemima said. “I do not think you should even be receiving the small and pitiful thanks a November crowd can offer you. In any case, I have done all I can, and if you insist on finding offense where none is intended, then this brief acquaintance is at an end.”

Jemima did not just walk away; she stormed away.

Was she always to be mocked, to be disbelieved, to be ignored when she spoke the truth? Her heart sank as she remembered the scene she had left at home: Caroline and Dr. Stuart Walsingham’s engagement, her stepmother’s speech, her outburst…

“Now see here!”

Jemima was not entirely sure how Captain Rotherham managed it, but she was startled to find he had somehow gone ahead of her and now stood before her blocking her path. Her stomach lurched once more. It was most disobliging, and she really shouldn’t be talking to a gentleman—nor a stranger—she had not been introduced to.

She opened her mouth in anger, but he spoke before she could.

“I know I have been rude, and I know moreover it was not your fault that I…that we fell. And so, you’ll get an apology out of me, Miss Fitzroy, and that’s a good deal more than most get, so I hope you’ll be grateful for it! But I have fought for my country, young lady, and that is something few women can boast, so perhaps you should show a little more respect when you speak to me!”

Jemima could see that he was flushed, a medley, surely, of embarrassment and irritation and perhaps a little fury. He had the same temper she did, and it roused something in her that no other man ever had.

Apology, indeed. Apologizing in such a way!

Jemima’s smile was thin. “Your lackluster apology is accepted.”

She turned to go, but before she could make a move, Captain Rotherham said, “Wait.”

It was a word softly spoken yet contained more warmth and real feeling than any word which had passed between them.

Jemima’s eyes flickered up to his, and once again she marveled at their darkness, at their depth, at the intensity with which they were being directed at her. At her. The Fitzroy always lost in a crowd.

Captain Rotherham took a step toward her and lowered his voice so the rabble of people that passed them on the street could not attend. “You do not seek to ask me why I know that it was not your fault we fell?”

She tried to speak but found her mouth too dry. She swallowed. “No. I would force no confidences from you.”

Captain Rotherham smiled gently. “Then you are different from most women that I have met.”

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