100. A Rose In Jeopardy by Barbara Cartland

angry,” Rosella whispered, glancing over her shoulder, as she half expected Lord Brockley to be watching their slow progress.
    But there was no sign of him. He must be still at the table, sipping his coffee and finishing his cigar.
    Her words had the desired effect, however, as, with much puffing and blowing, Algernon heaved himself onto his feet and stumbled up the stairs clinging to the banister with one hand and onto Rosella with the other.
    Mrs. Dawkins brought up the rear, administering a shove to the small of his back whenever he looked as if he was coming to a halt.
    When they reached his bedroom door, he gave out a loud groan, staggered in and tumbled onto the carpet.
    “What shall we do?” Rosella asked, looking at Mrs. Dawkins, who was still catching her breath.
    “Come to me, my sweetheart!” he gurgled, reaching out to catch hold of Rosella’s skirts.
    Mrs. Dawkins turned red with embarrassment.
    “My Lady. Please, come away. You must not go into a gentleman’s bedroom, it would not be proper.”
    “I don’t want to,” Rosella replied. “But we cannot just leave him there.”
    “I will send for one of the footmen or perhaps two of them to help him into bed,” Mrs. Dawkins suggested. “Oh, Lady Rosella. What a night! I don’t think I’ve ever seen two gentlemen eat and drink so much. Smoking those cigars at table. And now this! Will it always be the same from now on, do you think?”
    “Let’s hope not, Mrs. Dawkins,” Rosella answered.
    But deep inside herself, she knew that what she had seen tonight was just the beginning of her difficulties with Lord Brockley and Algernon Merriman.
    *
    A bright ray of sunlight, which had found its way through the thick curtain material and onto his narrow hard bed, woke Lyndon.
    For a moment he had no idea where he was – even the dark clothes that were hanging over the iron rail at the end of the bed were unfamiliar.
    He took a deep breath and smelt river water and tar, all mixed together with the tang of beer and frying bacon and then he remembered that he was staying at a small inn close to the London Docks.
    The strange clothes, of course, were his disguise!
    He looked at his watch, and saw that it was only half past five. He could curl up and sleep for at least another hour.
    But then he recalled last night and his heart swelled with excruciating pain as he remembered the cold look on Marian’s pretty face as she took the arm of his best friend and turned away from him.
    He would never be able to rest properly with such thoughts surging through his mind.
    Below the window of his little room, he could hear iron horseshoes slipping over the cobblestones and men’s voices speaking in a strong Cockney accent.
    He would get some breakfast from the innkeeper’s wife and go out to see what was going on.
    An hour later, he found himself by a great wharf, looking up at a forest of tall masts pointing at the sky.
    The wharf was thronged with rough sailors dressed in grimy sea jackets and baggy trousers, men of all colours and nationalities, shouting and arguing with each other as they disembarked from the ships moored on the river.
    There were Africans, Indians, a Chinaman carrying two baskets on a yoke and many Englishmen from London, Bristol and Liverpool, their faces burnt by tropical suns so that they were almost as dark as the Indians. All of them walked with a rolling gait as if they were still treading the decks of a wave-tossed ship.
    No one took any notice of the mysterious black-cloaked figure in the wide hat.
    ‘I could so easily slip on board one of these ships,’ Lyndon thought, ‘hide among the cargo and be carried off to anywhere. The Spice Islands, Australia, Brazil!’
    One ship in particular caught his fancy. It was not one of the largest, but its sides were beautifully painted in black and gold.
    He moved closer and saw that there was an unusual figurehead at the prow, a most shapely carved woman with a black mask covering her eyes.
    And