A Lady's Favor

by Josi S. Kilpack

  Bianca took a staggered breath. “No,” she said. “And he will not. He agreed to help me throw off Lord Strapshire, but that is all. Once that is accomplished, his attention will end.”

  Mama gave a low groan and began pacing again. “What a disgraceful man,” she muttered.

  “It is not his fault,” Bianca said, though she knew her defense was weak. She wilted inside to think of how all of this would reflect on Mathew. “This was my idea. I asked for his help, and he was kind enough to give it.”

  “You are both disgraceful then,” Mama said. “And I am thoroughly disgusted.”

  Bianca did not argue. She pictured Mathew’s body flying backward. Him on his hands and knees, his coat flipped up. The bloodied shirt. She closed her eyes and let the tears fall. She should never have asked him to help her, and he should never have agreed to her foolish plan. He should not have kissed her, and she should certainly not have kissed him back.

  The door opened again. “Your carriage is ready, madam. I took the liberty of keeping it through the side exit.”

  Mama nodded and began toward the door. Bianca followed, but then stopped. “I must speak with him, Mama,” she said, wiping at her nose.

  Mama turned back to her. “Speak with whom?”

  “Mathew.”

  Mama raised her eyebrows, and Bianca hurried to speak again.

  “I mean Mr. Hensley. I need to make sure he is all right.”

  “We are going home.”

  Bianca hurried after her and took her arm. “Please, Mama. Let me see him before we leave.”

  “It is out of the question,” Mama said, still walking though Bianca pulled at her.

  “But I must. Don’t you see this is all my fault? I have to explain. I have to make things right.”

  Mama stopped. “It is time you learned that not all things can be made right, Bianca. We are going home. We shall discuss what to do about Mr. Hensley tomorrow.”

  NINE

  Mathew paced back and forth in his study Saturday morning, reviewing the night before with fits of temper and anger and pure hatred for Lord Strapshire. Embarrassment and worry for Bianca scratched and fought for the uppermost level of his concerns. He could focus on one aspect for only so long before another clawed its way to the top.

  Why had he kissed her so publicly? Such an act was against his nature, her reputation, and all manner of propriety. Why had he let himself feel competitive? What had he hoped to prove? And what had happened to Bianca after he’d been thrown to the floor by that ridiculous buffoon?

  The punch had left Mathew’s head spinning, and blood poured from his nose, saturating his shirt and sending half a dozen women into hysterics. He’d been helped to his feet and shuffled off to a room where a kindly man attended to him while he coughed and choked on his own blood. The town physician was summoned and cracked his broken nose back into place, at which point Mathew lost consciousness. Someone collected him, helped him to his carriage, gave him something for the pain, and put him to bed. He’d awoken to a fog of dissipating memory and the lingering rush of emotion. It was now nearly noon, he’d been pacing for hours, and he did not know what to do. Should he go to the Davidsons? Send an apology to the hosts of last night’s event? Flee to London?

  Bianca.

  Another rush of emotion, this one mingled with regret, washed through him. He had to see her. Had to speak with her. After the attack he’d been too befuddled to seek her out, and he felt as though he had abandoned her completely. What she must think of me? What was I thinking to kiss her like that?

  “Gunderson!” he yelled, turning to the door and throwing it open. “Gunderson!”

  “Yes, sir,” the butler said as he hurried to Mathew’s call. Behind him came Ambrose; he’d not been far since Mathew’s return last night.

  “Please have my carriage readied.”

  The butler’s bushy gray eyebrows lifted, and he shared a look with Ambrose, who then stepped forward. “You are going out, sir?” Ambrose asked as calmly as ever.

  “I must speak with Miss Davidson and her mother. Explain myself.”

  “Um, certainly, sir, only . . . Are you sure you are fit for such a call?”

  Mathew raised a hand to his swollen nose and winced at his own light touch. He walked to a decorative looking glass on the wall and cringed at his reflection. The bruising beneath both his eyes was even more pronounced than it had been when he woke up, and his nose was twice its usual size. What would Mrs. Davidson think if he appeared on her doorstep looking so repulsive? He needed to convince Bianca’s mother he was a gentleman but appearing like this would do the exact opposite. Yet he had to explain. He had to see Bianca.

  “Perhaps you could send round a note and visit in a few days’ time,” Ambrose suggested. Gunderson had retreated, allowing the men to speak in private.

  No! Mathew screamed in his mind. He needed to address this now. He needed to explain to Bianca that he had meant that kiss. He had to tell her that he was falling in love with her and that every minute in her company had left him more impressed with her than he’d been the minute before. That was why he had kissed her. That was why he had risked them both with such a hasty action. Convincing her and her mother that he was sincere, trustworthy, and a good match was the only way he could make this right.

  Another glance at his reflection, however, deflated his ambition. He turned to his valet. “You think a note would be best?” he asked, too overwhelmed to trust his sense of urgency. He trusted Ambrose to be mindful of Mathew’s best interest when Mathew’s thinking was not clear. He would only have one chance to defend himself and state his intentions. He needed to make his best case and presentation when that opportunity arose.

  “Allowing tempers to cool and bruises to heal seems the right course,” Ambrose assured him.

  Mathew dropped his shoulders in defeat, but he nodded and turned back to his study. “I will write a letter then.”

  “Very good, sir. I shall see that it is delivered immediately.”

  TEN

  Bianca was still in her dressing gown, thoroughly depressed over the events of the previous night when she heard a knock at the front door. Was it Mathew? Had he come to help her explain?

  She hadn’t dared leave her room all day, not knowing the mood of the household after last night’s disastrous turn, but reached the second-floor railing in time to see a man hand a note to Sherman. The aging butler thanked the man, put the note on the silver tray reserved for letters, and turned toward the drawing room.

  A moment later she could hear the exchange of voices—Sherman’s and Mama’s—but not clearly enough to discern any actual words. She took a breath, drew her dressing gown tighter at the waist, and proceeded down the stairs. She had tossed and turned all night, sick with worry for Mathew and embarrassed for both of them. Her desire to talk to him had not faded; in fact, she was more determined than ever.

  Mama looked up when Bianca entered the drawing room and quickly folded the paper she held in her hand and tucked it into the side of her sewing basket. Bianca kept her eyes on the letter, certain it was regarding last night but unwilling to allow it to distract her from the necessity of her course. She sat down across from her mother and put her hands in her lap with sincere humility. “I am so very sorry about everything that has happened, Mama. I am humiliated by the whole of it.”

  “As well you should be.” Mama then launched into a lecture, very much like the lecture from last night, about propriety and Bianca’s reputation as well as the family carrying the burden of shame along with her. “I do not know what you were thinking, Bianca,” she said when her ire wound itself down. “And I haven’t the faintest idea how to fix it, since Mr. Hensley’s interest was only superficial. You will be lucky if any man looks your way again!”

  Bianca nodded, accepting her mother’s tongue-lashing. She then paused a few seconds and took a breath. “I want to fix this, Mama, but to do so I must see Mr. Hensley.” Her eyes flicked to the clock on the mantel. I
t was one o’clock in the afternoon but there was time enough to make an afternoon call. Not alone, of course, Mama would come with her, but she could still see Mathew and apologize for all that had happened.

  Mama’s eyes flitted to the letter in her basket, confirming Bianca’s suspicions of who had sent it. Her heart rate increased, but then Mama lifted her chin.

  “No.”

  “Mama, I must,” Bianca said, her unbound hair falling forward as she leaned toward her mother. “I must explain myself and apologize for his injury. I must know he is all right. Come with me; we’ll go see him together.”

  “No.”

  “Mama, please,” Bianca begged. “He was helping me, and everything went so horrible wrong. I must—”

  “You have not yet told me why he helped you in the first place,” Mama said. “You have not spoken to him in years and yet he would do something like this for you. It makes no sense.”

  “He is the only man with a title higher than Lord Strapshire and therefore the only one who could deflect the baron’s interest.”

  “Yes, but why would he help you?”

  Bianca looked away, determined not to say anymore. “Please do not make this worse by not allowing me to explain myself to him. Please allow me to make things right.”

  “All things cannot be made—”

  “I know all things cannot be made right!” Bianca shouted, pounding her fist into the soft cushion beside her as her frustrations overflowed. “I know that, but I must try. Don’t you see? This is about more than public humiliation and scandal and shame and proper manners, it’s about a man who helped me and suffered for it. I must talk to him.”

  “No.”

  Bianca growled low in her throat and stormed from the room, feeling as though her head would explode. Her mother was the most stubborn woman she knew! Why would she not listen? Why must she be so controlling of Bianca’s life to not even let her have a say in it?

  When she reached her bedchamber, Bianca slammed the door, and forced herself to stand still, willing the anger to dissipate before she made a fool of herself by throwing a tantrum—though part of her wanted to reduce herself to such a childish fit of fury. Once she felt she had control, she moved to the window seat and stared out over the portion of village she could see from this vantage point. She couldn’t see Mathew’s estate due to the woods between their houses.

  What had he meant by that kiss? What did he think of her not having helped him after Lord Strapshire’s attack? All she needed was two minutes to talk to him, and she was beyond frustrated at the refusal of her mother to even let her try to make it better. Here she was a grown women and yet powerless, still. Perhaps she could sneak a letter. There were some members of her staff who were loyal to her. Maybe . . .

  The click of the door made her pause, but only for a moment before she turned, her fists balled at her sides. She narrowed her eyes as her mother entered the room. Thinking they were going to continue the conversation from the drawing room, Bianca braced herself for battle.

  A moment later, however, three maids entered the room as well. They gave her an apologetic look as they moved toward the wardrobe. They opened the wardrobe doors and began removing Bianca’s dresses.

  “What are you doing?” Bianca moved forward to stop them, but Mama stepped in front of her and put her hands on her shoulders, forcing Biancato meet her eye.

  “Why are they taking my clothes, Mama?”

  “Because I don’t want you to have any other addled ideas about seeing Mr. Hensley against my wishes. You are bound to this house for the time being and, to make certain that you don’t try to leave, I am removing all opportunity for it. You shall possess only your nightclothes and dressing gowns until I can trust you to behave properly in society once again.” She smiled darkly. “It could be months judging by your current state of mind.”

  “You are being ridiculous!” Bianca said, trying to break free from her mother’s grip upon her shoulders. “As though I would go to him without your permission.”

  “You did so once already, did you not?”

  Bianca stilled. Mama knew about that first visit? Bianca caught the guilty expression of one of the maids currently filling a basket with Bianca’s shoes. Perhaps she did not have the loyalty she believed. She looked back at her mother and set her jaw.

  “Nothing happens in this household that I don’t know about eventually, Bianca. And you are not going anywhere nor will any notes be allowed out of this house. The servants have been put on notice of your punishment and will report the slightest disobedience to me. They put their employment at risk if they disobey me.”

  Bianca glared at her mother. “So I am to be a prisoner in my own home?”

  “Yes,” Mama said without hesitation. “For now.”

  Bianca lifted the skirt of her dressing gown. “And I am confined to this?”

  “Yes,” Mama said again, with ease and confidence. She finally let go of Bianca’s shoulders and stepped back. “This is how we will begin building the trust necessary to move forward.”

  She turned back to the door. The maids, arms laden with clothes, had already exited, and Mama followed them with her chin high. She closed the door softly, in direct contrast to Bianca having slammed it a few minutes earlier.

  Once she was alone again, Bianca sat on the edge of her bed and reviewed what had happened in a more objective light. This new confinement had done nothing to lessen her absolute knowledge that she had to see Mr. Hensley. Mama may have taken Bianca’s clothes and shoes, but she had left behind an idea that was quickly growing into a plan. It had never crossed Bianca’s mind to try to see Mathew on her own—she had thought only to wear Mama down until she agreed to allow a visit—but she still felt the burning need to apologize to him, and should she live to be a hundred years, she had to know the reason he had kissed her last night.

  What if he cared for her more than she’d dared believe? What if all the kind things he had said were sincere? What if he had agreed to this game for reasons that went beyond the favor he owed her as a result of the Incident?

  Bianca moved to the window and glanced at the sky; it was gray but the clouds were not heavy. Sneaking out of the house during the day was foolish—Mama would be on high alert during daylight—but tonight, after a day of guarding Bianca, she would be tired. She would have an extra glass of wine after dinner, as she often did on days when she was particularly irritated, and sleep like a stone. That was when Bianca would make her escape.

  Mathew might be scandalized at her showing up at his house in the middle of the night, but there was a certain romanticism to such an appearance. His parents were still in London, and when she explained her urgency, he would understand and then . . . well, who knew what would happen then.

  And it was not as though he could fault her for inappropriate dress when he had been only in his drawers on the day of the Incident. Her cheeks flamed at the memory, and she shook it away. He would understand why she was in her nightclothes once she explained, and she would spend the afternoon hemming her gown a few inches higher so that it would not drag during her escape. She could ask him about that kiss, then they could plan together what to do next. Perhaps he would even kiss her again.

  It would work; it had to work—she had no other course.

  ELEVEN

  A pounding at the front door woke Mathew, but it took a few moments for him to blink himself back to wakefulness. He leaned over to use the flint to light the candle beside his bed. While his eyes adjusted, he heard the servants moving and shuffling about. Then he heard voices—raised voices.

  He swung his feet to the floor and picked up his dressing gown from the chair beside his bed, then thought better of it and pulled on the trousers Ambrose had set out for tomorrow. He was still tucking in the tails of his nightshirt when he reached the stairway. A glance at the large grandfather clock in the hall told him it was almost two o’clock in the morning. He looked down into the foyer to see who had woken his entire household
at such an early hour.

  “Mrs. Davidson?” he said in disbelief as he hurried down the stairs, alarmed. The water dripping from Mrs. Davidson’s cloak told him that the gray skies and mild temperatures from that afternoon had been deceiving. A moment later a roar of wind rattled the roof and caused everyone to still and look toward the ceiling.

  Mathew stopped before Mrs. Davidson and noted the way she pulled back from him, her eyes wide. He lifted a hand to his face, but did not explain his appearance. She knew very well what had happened, and if he looked like a monster, well, she was the one who had come to him. Only she would not be here if not for something urgent.

  “What is wrong?” he asked with concern.

  “Is she here?” she said in a tone of accusation once she recovered from her surprise of seeing his bruised face.

  “Who?”

  “Bianca, of course,” she spat, looking past him, up the stairs, and toward the darkened drawing room. Gunderson and two footmen in dressing gowns and wigs—slightly askew—turned confused looks to Mathew.

  “She is not here,” Mathew said, offended at the suggestion. “It is two o’clock in the morning.”

  “I want your house searched, as well as the yard and stables. I know she was coming here.”

  “Why on earth would she come here?” Mathew said, though his heart tripped at the possibility. “As I said before, it is two o’clock in the morning, Mrs. Davidson.”

  “I know what time it is!” Mrs. Davidson shouted, a small amount of spittle hitting him in the face. He was a gentleman, and did not wipe it off. She turned to his servants. “Search for her! I know she’s here.”

  “I shall give instructions to my own servants, thank you very much!” Mathew said. He cleared his throat and faced the three men. “Please have the premises thoroughly searched for Miss Davidson.” It was a somewhat anticlimactic order since Mrs. Davidson had already issued it. “And have tea brought to the drawing room, please, and the fire lit.” There was a distinct chill in the air that had not been a factor before the storm had rolled in.