Fiona smiled wickedly. “Well, it would certainly keep him from following.”
“That it would,” he agreed. “What do you think, Crumpky?”
Crumpky dragged in a deep, pained breath, clenching his chest. “Ye bastard!”
“Give me the knife, Harry,” Fiona demanded, holding out her hand. Aylesbury arched a brow and she sighed impatiently. “I’m not going to kill him … or cut of his legs.”
Taking the knife, she proceeded to gut the basting holding the three rows of black military braiding around the bottom of her skirt. Once begun, she was able to rip them away easily. Aylesbury took the lengths one at a time, binding Crumpky’s feet and hands.
“We’ll leave him here and call the authorities once we get home,” he told her. “They can come back for him. Sorry, Crumpky old chap, fellows like you always get their comeuppance.”
To his surprise, Crumpky grinned up at him, baring tobacco-stained teeth. “So will ye, gov.”
“Harry, watch out!” Fiona cried out and Aylesbury rolled to the side but not quickly enough as the blade of a knife slid across the back of his neck.
Aylesbury wiped a hand across the area, his hand coming away with only a smear of blood. It wasn’t bad then. Rolling unto his back, he found one of Crumpky’s cohorts coming at him again and threw up a foot to block him, sending the thug lurching to the side. Aylesbury leapt to his feet, warily watching the knife as the man steadied himself for another attack. This one was a huge, hairy brute with a bush of dark, scraggly hair that might have been home to any number of small creatures and a beard even more suspect.
“Harry, here!” Fiona was holding Crumpky’s knife out to him. While it would have been nice to have it, Aylesbury wasn’t about to leave her defenseless should something go awry. Though this ruffian was only an inch or so taller than he, he outweighed Aylesbury by a trice of stones easily. He could only hope it was more fat than muscle.
“Keep it!”
“Keep it?” she repeated in disbelief. “Do you feel like you needed a bigger challenge?”
Aylesbury huffed humorously, palming the short cudgel once more. “You’re about to end up like your friend,” he warned the newcomer.
“I doubt that,” the big fellow grumbled, stalking forward.
While a daunting sight, Aylesbury took heart. Obviously the thug had been hired for his menacing appearance and no doubt murderous skills, but he was lumbering and slow. A brawler, no doubt. He would be dangerous in close combat. Luckily Aylesbury was something of an out-fighter when it came to boxing, using his speed, quick reflexes and longer reach to strike from a distance and dance away from what would surely be a felling blow if the brawler managed to land a punch with those meaty fists.
But Aylesbury had some added meat to his own fist with the cudgel in hand. The club added weight and a rock-like solidity to his punches as he threw brisk snapping jabs, catching the brute on the cheek, jaw and nose in rapid succession. Ducking under the thug’s swinging arm, Aylesbury bounced hard punches off the man’s ribs and kidneys as he circled. The knife arced down again, catching Aylesbury across the back of the hand.
Fiona gasped but thankfully did not give into distracting and decidedly unhelpful squeals and screams as other ladies might.
Shaking the sting off, the marquis contemplated his next move. While he was wearing his opponent down, he wasn’t doing enough damage to ensure a successful getaway and there was still the third man out there somewhere to worry over. The brute swept a paw forward again, catching Aylesbury’s collar and dragging him closer, his beefy arm looping around Aylesbury’s neck. Knowing there would be no escape if he were so caught, Aylesbury dropped to his knees and sent the cudgel straight into the man’s groin.
The Marquis of Queensbury would not approve, but Aylesbury could only be as fair as his opponent intended to be. Borrowing a move from the man’s repertoire, Aylesbury wrapped his arm around the thug’s thick neck and braced himself as the man tried to pull him off. It took a while, longer than he thought before the giant felt first to his knees and then to the ground.
Dusting himself off, Aylesbury watched the unconscious man to make sure he stayed so. Even Crumpky was eyeing him in surprise.
“A knife,” Fiona said fiercely, waving the weapon at him until he took it. “A knife would have ended all of this much faster.”
“I didn’t want to kill him,” Aylesbury said as Fiona drew a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at the blood dripping from his neck.
“Why not? He would have killed you.”
Crumpky chuckled at that.
“Be quiet!” both Fiona and Aylesbury snapped.
“Come on,” Aylesbury took her hand. “We need to go.”
“Very… Ahh!” Fiona cried out as the giant brute grabbed her by the ankle. Turning she raised her parasol and brought it down on his head where it cracked soundly. “Oh! Look what you made me do!” With a screech of fury, she beat him with it again and again until it was nothing but sad spindles and tattered violet silk.
Still the brute grabbed at her skirts and pulled her to the ground. Fiona struggled against him until he suddenly went limp, falling on to his back and Fiona froze staring at the knife protruding from his chest. She scrambled back but Aylesbury lifted her into his arms and turned her away.
“Did you …? Is he…?”
“I doubt it,” Aylesbury said grimly, leading her away. “Big bear like that, he’ll probably be even more angry when he wakes up.”
“Harry …” Fiona looked up at his face, as stony as if it had been set in granite. “I’m sorry, Harry.”
“Don’t be. He ruined your parasol, after all.”
Fiona groaned, unable to find any humor in their situation any longer. “Please, let’s just go home.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
From the journal of the Marquis of Aylesbury – May 1895
I never before understood how one could be enraged enough to kill but think I have it now. Of course, I am now well-versed as well in being so aggravated by a woman that I would like nothing more than to … I know not what, but the indecision will drive me as mad as she.
Hobbes was at the door when Fiona returned to Eaton Square with Aylesbury. The butler looked them up and down clearly bursting with questions, but even Hobbes wouldn’t break form long enough to ask about the state of their clothing, their rumpled hair or the bloody handkerchief Aylesbury held to his neck.
“Where is everyone, Hobbes?” Fiona asked quietly.
“The gong rang some fifteen minutes past, my lady. They should be dressing for dinner.”
“Where is your telephone located, Hobbes?” Aylesbury asked.
Hobbes didn’t even blink. “In my pantry, my lord. Shall I ring up someone for you?”
Aylesbury shook his head. “I’ll do it myself.” He turned to Fiona, rubbing the pad of his thumb over her cheek. His blue eyes were grave. “I’m going to call the authorities. You need to speak to your brother. In all fairness, he needs to be told.”
Fiona nodded and watched him as he walked away, his heels beating decisively against the marble floor.
“My lady…”
“What is it, Hobbes?”
There were a dozen questions in the old butler’s eyes when she looked back at him.
“You have a visitor in the library, my lady,” he said at last. “He insisted on waiting.”
Fiona glanced at the closed doors of the library off the foyer, wondering whom Hobbes would have considered worthy of not only the private room, but admission itself. Harrowby? Temple. Regardless of whatever future she may or may not have with Aylesbury, Fiona knew that kindness demanded that she let them both down gently. “Who is it?”
“Lord Ramsay, my lady.”
Her jaw sagged in surprise and Fiona simply couldn’t help gawking at him. “Ramsay? You let him in? Now you let him in?”
Hobbes said nothing but stared steadily over her shoulder. His expression was as impassive as ever but
Fiona swore she could see his lips twitching. “Proving your point, Hobbes?”
“I don’t know what you mean, my lady,” he said without expression. “You asked me to admit him next time he called. This is nothing more than that time.”
Fiona scoffed at that. Oh yes, she knew what he was doing. He was trying to teach her a lesson about who knew what was best for her. Unfortunately this was the last thing she needed today.
With a grimace, Fiona glanced at the door again. Lord, she was so tired already. The mere thought of confronting Ramsay was exhausting.
“Consider yourself sacked, Hobbes.”
“Of course, my lady.”
“Lord Ramsay,” she said as pleasantly as possible, leaving the library door opened wide behind her as she entered. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight. What brings you here?”
“What?” he asked bitterly, displaying none of the buoyant charm he normally put forth. “No kisses, darling?”
Fiona frowned as he closed the distance between them but refused to yield her ground. “You seem upset, Lord Ramsay. Is there something amiss?”
“Yes there is.” He stopped, looking down at her with frigid blue eyes that were nothing, Fiona decided, compared to the warmth of Aylesbury’s. “I’ve waited for you as you asked. Patiently.”
Fiona couldn’t help but raise a brow but Ramsay didn’t notice as he carried on.
“I thought you loved me.”
“You know I did not,” she pointed out immediately, but he just ignored her.
“I thought you wanted to marry me as well.”
“I did.” Fiona took a deep breath and plunged in. “I’m sorry, Lord Ramsay. But I find I cannot marry where I do not love. I cannot marry you, with or without an elopement.”
“It’s the marquis, isn’t it?” he ground out. “I saw you hanging all over him. I’ll wager you don’t call him my lord, do you? What do you call him, Fiona?”
Staring at him incredulously, Fiona ignored those questions. “You saw me hanging all over him? When? Yesterday? Today? Were you following me again?”
“He stole you from me!”
“He did nothing of the sort,” she insisted fiercely. “My reasons for not marrying you have nothing to do with him and everything to do with you, Lord Ramsay. They have to do with rumors of your circumstances and questionable” – obviously justified – “temperament. I will not be wed for my money.”
“You whore!”
Stars burst behind Fiona’s eyes as his palm met with her cheekbone. Holding her hand against her wounded cheek, she gaped at him in astonishment. No one had ever struck her like that before. “Get out.”
“This is all your fault!” he spat out, spewing saliva like a mad dog.
“Get out!” she screamed and he lifted his hand again.
Involuntarily Fiona flinched away but the blow never fell. Instead, Ramsay was thrown to the side by the force of Aylesbury’s body as the marquis tackled him to the floor. Drawing back his fist, Aylesbury hit him and again while Ramsay cowered away, covering his face with his arms.
“My lady.” Fiona turned to Hobbes where he lingered in the doorway, looking more concerned than she had ever seen him. Biting her trembling lip, Fiona threw herself into his arms. Awkwardly he patted her shoulder. “There, there, my dear,” he said softly.
“Did you bring him?” she asked and felt Hobbes nod. “Thank you.”
“My apologies, my lady. I did not anticipate such an … episode when I granted Lord Ramsay admission.”
“It’s not your fault, Hobbes.”
“What the hell is going on down here?” Glenrothes shouted as footsteps thundered down the staircase, harkening more than her eldest brother’s arrival. “Fiona!” He looked at her in surprise, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he noticed her ramshackle appearance and the red mark already blossoming on her check. Looking about the library, he took in the situation in a glance.
“Eve, see Fiona to her room,” he said with a deadly calm that every one of them knew was more dangerous than his loudest bellow.
Hobbes disengaged himself from Fiona and snapped his fingers, sending curious servants scurrying.
Unmindful of the crowd gathering at the door, Aylesbury continued beating the now mewling Ramsay while Fiona watched in horror. What had happened? How had this happened? Ramsay was right about one thing. It was her fault for not being able to read her own heart. Cool hands caught her gently by the shoulders. “Come, Fiona,” Eve said quietly, trying to turn her away.
Fiona took a step but stopped. “Harry. Harry, please,” she repeated when he didn’t respond. He looked up then, his blue eyes burning with fury. She held out a hand to him. “Please, Harry.”
Immediately, the anger faded and he was on his feet. Fiona met him halfway, staring up at him as he stroked his knuckles gently over her swelling cheekbone. He pressed a kiss to her forehead whispering, “Are you all right? Did he hurt you any more?”
Fiona shook her head, taking his hand in hers and kissing the bruises forming on his knuckles. Tugging gently, she led him from the room, pausing by her brother. “Don’t kill him, Francis,” she said, casting the moaning, fetal Ramsay a pitying look.
Glenrothes ground his teeth as she left the room. Aylesbury stopped by Glenrothes as well. “Yes, don’t kill him, Glenrothes,” he said then leaned forward to murmur tightly, “But save some for me, will you?”
Glenrothes laughed humorously. “There’s ten of us, Aylesbury. I doubt there will be much left when we’re finished.”
With a capitulating shrug, Aylesbury left them to it and followed Fiona away.
Chapter Thirty
From the journal of the Marquis of Aylesbury – May 1895
My life flashed before my eyes. The moments long in the past, an enjoyable journey. Others more recent, awash with regrets. Those as I live and breathe them, while pleasant, would have been mired in dissatisfaction were they to end where they now stand.
I feel I must make some greater strides to achieve my purpose before I haven’t another chance.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I am Eve. Thank you. I just need some rest.” After assuring her sister-in-law that she would ring if she needed anything, Fiona went to her dressing table and sat down with a sigh.
It had been all bravado, of course. She wasn’t fine at all. It was nothing but a veil of humor and nonchalance to mask the real terror that might have overcome her if she had paused even for a moment that afternoon to think about how extreme their situation truly was. And Ramsay – all Eve knew of it – had very little to do with her dejection. Crumpky and his associates been determined to track them down today. To take her even if it meant hurting or possibly killing Harry in the process.
And Harry! Trying to be light-hearted over the entire matter, Fiona knew, but there was nothing amusing about it. How reckless she had been! How unconcerned when they had both been in very real danger!
While it had been one thing to toy with her own safety, it had been quite another to realize that Harry might have been harmed because of her willfulness. What would she do if he had been hurt?
What would she do if she lost him?
Truly lost him? Not just his company, his presence, or even his affections this time. What if she cost him his very life and he were gone from this earth forever?
It didn’t bear thinking about.
Show a little respect for the peril we are in, won’t you? Fiona remembered those words as she brushed out her tangled hair. Real peril. Death. Not theirs, but only because Harry had taken the deathblow before it could be theirs.
He risked everything for her.
Surely that meant something.
Fiona finished brushing her hair and rose, unbuttoning the sumptuous Worth floral silk taffeta wrapper she had donned after slipping out of her ruined day dress. She slipped it from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor before untying the petticoats around her waist. Letting them fall as well, she bent to untie
her garters but a deep, pained rumble sounded from the shadows at the corner of her room, freezing her in place.
But a throaty baritone broke the silence then. “I beg you. Please, don’t stop.”
He’d snuck up to her room while the family was at dinner and the staff occupied serving them. He couldn’t wait until morning to assure himself that she had recovered from their afternoon or from Ramsay’s assault. That she hadn’t succumbed to hysterics or nerves.
No. He hadn’t thought either of those things, really. He just wanted to see her. To hold Fiona against him and feel life, her indomitable spirit cursing through her body.
So he had waited in her darkened room, a thief in the shadows when she had come up with Eve and disappeared into her dressing room. Watching silently as they spoke in whispers. Waiting to speak until he knew for certain Fiona was alone.
But then she had brushed her hair before the mirror, those caressing strokes through her long dark tresses mesmerizing him, holding him to silence. He imagined taking the brush from her, performing the task himself. Running those silken locks through his fingers and around his body as he drew her into his arms.
So entangled in the fantasy he had been that she had already begun to disrobe before he came to his senses. Like some bloody voyeur he watched, unable to move or make a sound as she shrugged her dressing gown from her shoulders. Sensual arousal had burst into blood boiling lust then as her wrapper slid down her body revealing her undergarments inch by inch. Undergarments that he never would have thought a virginal young woman like Fiona would possess.
But then he shouldn’t have been surprised. Everything he had imagined might lie beneath her simple gowns was true and then some.
No chaste white cotton for his bold lass, no. Fiona’s breasts thrust upward and held, cupped erotically by nothing less than a black satin corset tied with white strings. The contrast highlighted her narrow waist, the white lace that trimmed the edges was innocence in conjunction with eroticism. Each petticoat that fell was a revelation. The outer, matching the day dress she had on earlier, silk trimmed in a wide, gathered flounce with piped scrolling. Simple like the military styling of her outer garments. The next was white, diaphanous cotton gauze, ruffled and trimmed with purple and black satin ribbon. The next gossamer batiste, so delicate it was nearly transparent.
A Question for Harry Page 21
