by Shana Galen
She plopped her forehead on her knees in disgust. So why was she sitting here torturing herself, remembering the feel of his body against hers, his scent clinging to her skin?
Something flickered outside the window, and she froze, staring at the darkening skies beyond. A shiver ran up her spine. Was someone watching her?
Nothing moved, and she shook her head at her own foolishness.
She needed a distraction—and not the imaginary sort. A cup of chocolate would be best, but failing that, gingerbread. With a shiver of delight, she remembered the gingerbread she’d pilfered from the kitchen yesterday morning. She retrieved the tin from the cupboard and unfolded the scrap of linen inside. Amazingly, the gingerbread was still moist, and Francesca ate it slowly. It was sweet—the perfect mixture of cinnamon and spices, complemented by the tangy taste of fresh ginger. When it was gone, she methodically licked each finger, savoring the last crumbs of the treat.
Not a bad distraction. She’d think of a hundred distractions until the memory of the Marquess of Winterbourne was as fleeting as his fading scent of leather and sandalwood on her hands.
The Golden Goose should have been the perfect retreat. Dark, rank, noisy—the drinks were cheap and so were the women. But though he had a full glass of gin in front of him and at least three barmaids vying for his attention, Ethan wasn’t enjoying himself.
“The blond.” Alex leaned back, and the rickety tavern chair creaked.
Ethan looked up from studying the depths of his untouched drink and saw his brother watching the women draped around the bar. Their rouged cheeks were as garish as their low-bodiced gowns and their unnatural shades of hair color, ranging from brass to flame. One of them winked at him, and Ethan looked away. Tonight he had no appetite for the fare they offered.
Farmers, merchants, and a disproportionate number of unsavory men crowded around the tavern’s half-dozen tables. Alex had told him the reputable residents of Selborne frequented The Queen’s Hotel on Gracious Street.
This was not The Queen’s Hotel.
Except for the barmaids, The Golden Goose was a solely male domain, its patrons engaged in the time-honored masculine pursuits of drinking, smoking, and gambling. By the looks of them, most managed to keep on the right side of the law, but there were several men present that Ethan had a feeling would smile, shake hands in greeting, and, when the chance arose, beat him senseless and empty his pockets for half a shilling.
Lounging in dark corners and crannies, those few didn’t meet his stare. But after years of experience in seedy taverns, he felt their eyes on him through the darkness and smoky haze, sizing him up, waiting for an opportunity.
Let them try. He’d welcome the distraction of a good fight. He certainly hadn’t come to The Golden Goose for gossip. He was beginning to wonder why he’d come at all.
Alex rocked back in his chair. “I’d take the blond.” The three buxom women pranced back and forth or leaned across the bar to display their wares.
“Why don’t you then?” Ethan had already dismissed the women, his eyes back on the dregs, seeking out those who looked to be spoiling for a fight.
“I’m not the one who needs cheering up.”
“And I do?” Ethan’s attention snapped to his brother.
Alex glared at him, cold gray eyes assessing. “I don’t know what the hell happened to you today, but you’ve looked Friday-faced since you walked in the door.”
Ethan glared back. “Nothing happened.”
“Right. So the maid who came running out of my drawing room, sobbing hysterically, had nothing to do with you?”
“Nothing.” Ethan crossed his arms.
One of the tavern wenches giggled loudly, but Alex continued to stare at him. “You didn’t say a word to her?”
“No.”
Alex’s chair thumped on the floor, and he leaned forward with a dubious look. “Are you sure?”
Ethan shrugged. “All I did was ask her not to make so much noise.”
“What was she doing?”
Ethan reached for his glass, turning it in a half-circle. “Dusting,” he muttered.
“Dusting?” Alex’s palm came down on the wobbly table with a crash, and nearby tavern patrons glanced their way. “With what? A hammer?”
“No, one of those feathery things.” Ethan sat up defensively. “It rustled too much.”
“It rustled—” Alex shook his head, running a rough hand through his much-abused hair. “And what about my cook? I suppose that had nothing to do with you either?”
Ethan spread his hands. “I can’t help it if the woman wants to resign.”
“She’d never mentioned leaving before. I practically had to drag her valise from her hands.”
“So she found another position.”
“She told me you came into the kitchen and demanded chocolate tarts.” Alex pointed an accusatory finger.
“I was hungry.”
Alex pointed a finger accusingly. “Since when do you like chocolate tarts?”
“What’s your point?” Ethan spun his gin glass. “She didn’t quit.”
“Only because I offered her a fortune to stay.” Alex shook his finger. “I’m billing you for half her new salary.”
“Fine.”
“And—”
“What the hell is wrong with everyone today?” Ethan shoved back from the table, unsettling his gin. The clear liquid sloshed over the rim of his glass and onto the scarred wood.
The men nearby turned to glance at them, but, apparently seeing no prospects for violence, went sullenly back to their drinks. It would take more than a verbal outburst to interest the clientele of The Golden Goose, though the underlying tension in the tavern was almost palpable. It mirrored Ethan’s own edgy nerves.
His expression bland, Alex lifted his hastily rescued gin from the trembling table and sipped. “Are you sure it’s everyone else?”
“What the devil does that mean?”
Alex held his hands up in mock defense. Ethan opened his mouth, a retort ready, then abruptly closed it again. A man shouldered past him, and Ethan moved out of the way, slumping into his chair.
Who was he deceiving? Not Alex, and certainly not himself.
She’d gotten to him. He was supposed to forget her, but somehow she’d gotten to him, and he couldn’t rid his mind of her. Even the choking smoke and the raucous laughter of the tavern didn’t divert him.
The goddamn chocolate tarts. If that wasn’t a sign he’d lost it, he didn’t know what was. He’d seen how Francesca’s eyes lit when the footman brought the tray and how they strayed back to the untouched sweets again and again. And he’d found himself unreasonably annoyed that she wasn’t allowed a chocolate tart. The girl was probably famished, and she obviously liked tarts. Why shouldn’t she have one if she wanted? Why shouldn’t she have everything she wanted?
Ethan closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. It was thoughts like those that were the problem. When he opened his eyes, Alex was leaning back in his chair again, an arrogant smirk on his face.
“It’s the Dashing chit,” Ethan muttered.
“The viscount’s daughter you told me about?” Alex uncrossed his arms and lowered his knee, banging his chair on the floor.
“Yes.”
“The one you mistook for a maid?” Alex chuckled.
“Yes.”
“The one—”
“Stop while you’re ahead,” Ethan said softly.
Alex clamped his mouth shut.
Massaging the bridge of his nose, Ethan tried to lessen the steady hammering behind his eyelids. Alex’s eyes danced with amusement. “She must have given you quite a dressing down.”
“I’ve had worse.” The noise level in the tavern escalated, and his head began to throb.
“And probably better. Forget her.”
“I can’t,” Ethan grumbled. Behind him, a burly man called for a whisky.
“What?” Alex said when the man had taken his glass and moved away.
“I said, I can’t.” Ethan winced at the disappointment he heard in his own voice. Next he’d be writing sonnets.
“Can’t what?” Alex shouted as a rowdy herd of farmers tramped through the door.
“Can’t forget her.” His teeth were so tightly clenched he could have bitten through iron.
“Oh.” Alex waved a hand. ”Spend ten minutes in private with the blond. You’ll forget about the prim Miss Dashing fast enough.” He smiled rakishly at the woman.
Ethan sipped the last of his drink and massaged his temples. It had been so long since he’d shown any interest in a respectable woman that his brother would probably fall over from shock if he realized the direction of Ethan’s thoughts. It had been years since he’d even glanced in the direction of a woman from the ton. Not since Victoria.
Victoria. The acid taste of humiliation was as fresh as his last swallow of gin. If he hadn’t spilled most of it, he would have taken another swig to wash it down. However young and guileless the Dashing girl appeared now, he knew she would be no different from Victoria in the end. No different from any of the women reared in a society where lies and betrayal were elevated to an art.
Well, he had never been much of a collector.
He lifted his glass. “Alex, the blond’s yours if you want her.” He clinked his empty glass to Alex’s. “I’m leaving.”
Ethan shoved his way through the crop of farmers and emerged on the street through a cloud of muttered curses.
There had been times, after Victoria, when he would have lost himself in the women, the noise, the stink of the tavern. Nights when slamming his fist into flesh—and having his own flesh equally abused—was the only way to banish the image of blue eyes and golden hair to the black well in his mind where it belonged.
Not tonight. Tonight he welcomed the unpolluted country breeze on his face, the reprieve from the grating of voices.
On the street, he took a moment to find his bearings. Stepping out of the light leaking from the tavern, he angled for the livery stable where he’d left Destrehan then slowed when he saw two men standing in the shadows.
Ethan reached for his pistol, hand closing on the familiar handle before he’d even had time to consider them. But as he moved closer, he realized the men were deep in discussion and hadn’t noticed him.
His grip on the weapon eased, but he didn’t relinquish his hold. They were standing under the awning of a shop, long since closed for the night. The sign above read Bonnets and Begonias.
Both appeared to be locals—one dressed as a merchant, the other in what looked to be servant’s livery. As there were few large estates in the area, Ethan wondered if the man was one of Alex’s.
“When I left, Dr. Dawson had just arrived,” the servant was saying. Ethan came closer and noted the colors of the man’s livery were not those of Grayson Park.
“Is she badly hurt?” The merchant looked up to acknowledge Ethan’s passing with a nod.
Ethan slowed. He felt a prickle of apprehension, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.
“Don’t know.” The servant twisted to glimpse Ethan and bobbed his head. “All I know is, she was attacked. Had to be carried inside.” The men moved closer together, giving Ethan room to pass. “The mother howling and screaming in that god-awful Italian.”
Ethan stumbled. It felt like a cord had been attached to his shoulder blades, and someone had just pulled it tight. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. He was in France again—the roar of the crowd, the flash of the guillotine—and he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t save them.
“Father bellowing for a doctor,” the servant went on, jolting Ethan back, “and calling for his pistols.”
No.
Ethan swung around and grasped the man by the arm. With horror, he saw the servant wore the blue-and-gold livery of Tanglewilde.
No. Not Francesca.
“What happened?” Ethan hissed. The servant tried to pull away, and Ethan found himself shaking the man. “Is Miss Dashing hurt?”
The servant half-turned to his companion, but Ethan pushed him against the shop window, pressing an arm across the man’s shoulders. “Tell me, goddamn it!”
“No,” the servant choked out. “S-she was attacked.”
“Who?” Ethan pressed the man back harder. “Which daughter?”
Don’t let it be her, he prayed.
“The elder.”
Ethan gulped for air. Not again. Not again, was all he could think.
“Miss Francesca,” the servant panted.
The cord tightened, squeezing Ethan until his whole body vibrated with tension. “Who did it?”
The servant shook his head. “I don’t know, sir.”
“Where is she now?” Black spots danced in front of Ethan’s eyes. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think for the panic and rage.
“At home, sir. At—”
The servant’s words were lost in the rush of blood in Ethan’s ears. He released the man and began to run.
Eleven
The night air pummeled Ethan’s face as he urged Destrehan faster. But the frigid wind was far warmer than the cold knot of fear and fury in his belly. What the devil had happened? And how?
He’d left her safe and whole only hours before, even warning her father about the dangers of allowing her to go out alone. Old fool.
Lights blazed at Tanglewilde as Ethan raced up the drive, jumping from Destrehan before his mount had even come to a stop. He tossed the reins to a gaping youth, pushed past him, and barged into the entrance hall. Ethan swung around when he heard the fast click of shoes on the marble.
“What’s going on here?” a man’s voice echoed through the hall. The irate majordomo hastened toward him. “Who do you think—”
“Where is she?” Ethan barreled down on the servant. The majordomo skidded and slowed.
“Lord Winterbourne,” the man said with an attempt at formality, “I—we did not expect you.”
Ethan continued to advance.
“If you would be so kind as to wait in the drawing room”—the servant gestured with a shaking hand—“I will see if Lord Brigham is at home.”
Ethan halted before the man, his face mere inches from the servant’s. “I don’t give a damn whether Brigham wants to see me or not. Where is she?”
Retreating a step, the majordomo spread his hands. Ethan sent him a look that would chill icicles in Hell.
“She’s resting in her room.” The servant raised an unsteady hand to his neckcloth.
“Which way?” Ethan glanced down one side of the entrance hall then the other.
“Sir!” The majordomo’s face paled. “Surely you do not expect to be granted entrance to Miss Dashing’s bedchamber?”
Ethan resisted the urge to grab the man by the lapels and throw him against one of the marble busts lining the hall. Instead, he took a deep breath. “Look...ah—”
“Norton,” the majordomo supplied, standing straighter.
“I don’t have time for this, Norton.” Ethan took a step forward, his advance trapping the servant against a pedestal. “Take me to her room, or I’ll search the whole goddamn house myself until I find it.”
“How dare you, sir!” Norton tried to wriggle around the column. “Perhaps you are accustomed to this sort of behavior at Grayson Park, but at Tanglewilde we observe a strict decorum.”
“Fine.” Ethan glanced around. “Search the whole house it is.” He turned and started down the entrance hall.
“Lord Winterbourne,” he heard a gruff voice call from behind him. “This way.”
Ethan spun around and lowered his clenched fists. A tired, disheveled man with a scruffy gray beard and rumpled hair hastened toward him from the opposite end of the hallway. “I’m Alfred Shepherd, the head coachman. I’ll take you to her.”
“But—” the majordomo began to protest.
Shepherd held up a hand in warning, then motioned to Ethan. The coachman walked quickly, and Ethan followed wi
thout comment. He’d follow the devil himself if it would get him to Francesca faster.
Upstairs, one glance down the dimly lit hallway showed Ethan which room was hers. The staff had gathered outside and spoke in hushed, somber tones.
As he and Shepherd passed the adjacent room, he saw a young girl—blond and pretty—hovering in the doorway. She was taller than Francesca and her coloring fair, but Ethan could see the resemblance. She started when she saw him and took a hesitant step forward. She looked pale and tired, and the cord pulling his shoulders constricted once more.
“You were here this afternoon,” she said. “Are you here to help?”
He heard the desperation, the worry in her voice. Ethan opened his mouth to respond but said nothing. What was he doing here?
Better to think of that later.
“Yes,” he finally answered.
She smiled and put a hand on his arm. “Oh, good! Father is so distraught. He doesn’t know what to do.”
“Where is your father?”
She nodded toward her sister’s door. “Inside with the doctor and Mamma.” The girl bit her lip, tears in her eyes. She looked behind him to the head coachman. “Mr. Shepherd, do you think Cesca will be all right?”
Shepherd stepped forward. “Of course, miss.” He took her hand from Ethan’s sleeve, and Ethan looked down at the warm place it had rested. “Just a bump on the head.”
But Ethan heard the hesitation in Shepherd’s voice. The fear. The cord tightened again, and the tension in his body was almost painful. Slowly, he walked forward.
In silence, the group of servants moved aside.
Francesca’s door was ajar, and, pushing it open, he stepped inside. The dark room smelled of candle wax and worry. In the dim light he could make out almost nothing, but gradually the outlines of furniture became more distinct, and he heard hushed voices.
In the heart of the room stood a large half-tester draped with a pale, flimsy fabric, and Francesca lay in the center. She was propped up with a wealth of plush ivory pillows, her hair a spill of rich chocolate around her pale face. Pink-and-white bedclothes were tucked around her small body, leaving only her arms exposed. Underneath the bulky covers, she seemed too delicate, her limbs thin and fragile in white silk with lace at the slender wrists.
