A Heart's Rebellion

by Ruth Axtell

  The next second it burst open, splintering the wood around the simple lock.

  Jessamine gasped at the sight of two men striding into the room. She squinted, wishing she could see more clearly.

  “You swine!”

  It was Mr. Marfleet’s voice in a roar she’d never heard. The next instant he hauled St. Leger off her and threw him to the floor.

  The other man—Captain Forrester—bent over her. She cringed with shame, drawing her body up close.

  “Easy there,” the captain crooned, bending over her.

  Her hands clutched at her gown, pulling it up.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  She shook her head, her breath coming in gasps. He helped her sit up. She strained to look around him, hearing a loud thud from the floor.

  The two men were rolling on the plank floor, grunts and angry exclamations issuing from them.

  “Pardon me—if you are sure you are all right.” Captain Forrester rose.

  She nodded. “Please, help Mr. Marfleet.”

  He bent over the men and tried to separate them. “She is unharmed. We must go.”

  Jessamine groped at her waist and found her quizzing glass still tied to its ribbon. She brought it up to her eye and saw Mr. Marfleet straddle Mr. St. Leger, his arm lifted. Captain Forrester caught his fist and held it back.

  Marfleet and St. Leger eyed each other, panting heavily. Mr. Marfleet was rumpled, his spectacles askew, his hair wild, but otherwise he appeared unhurt. A trickle of blood slid down the side of St. Leger’s mouth, a mouth that had so recently mauled hers. Jessamine scrubbed at her lips.

  “We must get her away from here,” the captain said, his words finally penetrating Mr. Marfleet’s understanding.

  Slowly, he lowered his arm and rose, keeping his gaze fixed on St. Leger. Captain Forrester helped Mr. St. Leger to stand.

  “Before he challenges you to meet him on Hounslow Heath, I urge you to leave here and keep silent of what has transpired tonight. Not a word will leave your lips—or those of your friends,” Captain Forrester told St. Leger, his voice quiet but deadly serious.

  When St. Leger said nothing, the captain glanced toward her. “It appears we arrived in time to prevent any lasting harm. If we hadn’t, be assured we would haul you up before the magistrates and force you to honor Miss Barry. As it is, I am sure she will be satisfied never seeing your dishonorable face again.”

  St. Leger wiped his mouth, shifting his gaze to Mr. Marfleet before coming to rest on her. She cowered, crossing her arms in front of her. “Miss Barry is here willingly.”

  Mr. Marfleet growled, his fists coming up. Captain Forrester held him back. “Give us your word that no breath of scandal will touch Miss Barry’s name.”

  Mr. St. Leger straightened his waistcoat, then reached for his jacket on a chair. As if he were going out for a stroll, he donned the jacket then took up his greatcoat, hat, and gloves.

  “If I hear so much as a whisper of anything touching Miss Barry’s name, be sure I shall hunt you down,” Mr. Marfleet said in a voice of steel to Mr. St. Leger as he stood near the door, one hand upon the handle.

  Placing his hat upon his head, Mr. St. Leger looked in her direction. “Good evening, Miss Barry. I will not say it has been a pleasure.” Before the other men could move, he addressed them. “You have my word.”

  The next second he was gone, the thud of his boots fading down the corridor.

  Jessamine huddled on the edge of the bed, wishing she could hide.

  18

  Lancelot wished he didn’t have to face Miss Barry. He hadn’t thought of much beyond rescuing her when he and Captain Forrester had rushed here from London.

  As the blinding rage faded, all he felt was cold disdain and the most profound disappointment in the woman he’d given his heart to. He didn’t think he could ever erase the image of her pinned under St. Leger.

  He wiped a hand over his eyes to dispel it.

  “Miss Barry, come, we’ll take you home.” Captain Forrester’s soothing tone shook Lancelot from the stupor he seemed to be in.

  He lifted his gaze until it met hers. She looked disheveled but still clothed. Captain Forrester was right. They had come just in time. Overwhelming relief filled him. If that swine had ruined her, Lancelot would have killed him. He still felt the anger hovering dangerously close to the surface of his reason.

  He could only watch as Captain Forrester put a hand under her elbow to help her stand. “Good, you still have your shoes on. Now to find your cloak.”

  She put a hand to her head. “How long have I been here?”

  “You don’t know?” Captain Forrester’s gaze met his across Miss Barry’s head. “Do you mean you were unconscious?”

  “I . . . think . . . so. I remember so little.”

  “You can tell us in the coach. We need to get you back home before anyone suspects you were not at the ball.”

  At the last word, she put a trembling hand to her lips, and tears started to trickle down her cheeks. Lancelot felt more pain than any blows St. Leger had given him. He clenched his fists in an effort not to be softened by her tears.

  “I can’t go home—I can’t go—”

  “Shh,” Captain Forrester whispered. “We’re taking you to Mrs. Phillips. She’s waiting for you. No one knows anything and no one need know anything. It’s thanks to Mr. Marfleet here that we found you in the nick of time. The ball is still going on, no one need be the wiser that anything happened to you.”

  Slowly she raised her head and met Lancelot’s gaze. There was a stunned, lost look in her eyes. Her mouth quivered, and she covered it quickly with her hand.

  He felt frozen, unable to go to her and comfort her. Why had she gone with St. Leger? How could she?

  Captain Forrester looked about him for her cloak, and seeing it at the end of the bed, he wrapped it around her. Then he led her to the door, his arm around her since she appeared unsteady on her feet.

  At that hour, the inn was quiet and Captain Forrester was able to escort her out without anyone seeing her but the innkeeper, who eyed her as she passed him.

  Lancelot walked behind them with a sharp nod to the man. The man quickly looked away and turned his attention back to wiping down the bar. They’d had to bribe him and threaten him before he’d divulged St. Leger’s presence.

  Once in the carriage, Lancelot sat facing Miss Barry. The coach swayed along the bumpy road. Everything was dark save the small light cast by the outside lanterns.

  “Can you tell us what happened?” Captain Forrester asked once they had gotten underway and he’d tucked a travel rug about her.

  “I can . . . can hardly think . . . straight.” Her words were slow, as if she had a hard time forming them. Once again she brought a hand to her head. “I scarcely remember. My . . . my head feels . . . like lead.”

  “Perhaps something was given you?”

  She raised her head, frowning.

  Captain Forrester enunciated each word, as if speaking to a child. “Someone may have put something in a drink, something to cause you to lose consciousness.”

  She brought a hand to her mouth. “How . . . ?”

  “Did you have anything to drink?”

  She hunched over, her hands to her temples as if it hurt to think. Lancelot kneaded his knuckles, wishing he’d caused St. Leger more harm. If that man had drugged an innocent young lady . . . A wave of revulsion swept through him.

  He’d seen much vile conduct among young gentlemen, both at college and among officers in India, but he’d never known a gentleman to take advantage of a young lady of gentle birth. Among women they considered beneath them socially, they exercised no scruples.

  “I . . . seem . . . to recall . . . something—champagne.” She looked up as if having solved a puzzle. “He . . .” At the mention of St. Leger, she averted her gaze. “He brought me some,” she finished in a low tone, forcing Lancelot to lean forward to hear.

  “I saw him,” Lancelot found himself saying
.

  They both looked at him. “I was looking for you,” he said with difficulty, “to—to ask you in to supper. I saw him bring you a glass of champagne.” The words sounded accusatory even to his ears.

  Her gaze fell and she nodded. “I . . . I remember drinking it.” She gasped.

  “What is it?” Captain Forrester asked, bending near her. Lancelot wished he were the one sitting beside her to put his arm around her. She looked so forlorn, so lost.

  “I remember saying it . . . tasted differently.”

  Captain Forrester met Lancelot’s gaze across the shadowy interior. “Was it bitter?”

  “I don’t remember . . . only that it was not sweet.” Her words continued slowly, as if she were still having trouble remembering or stringing the words together. “But he said it was a . . . different kind of . . . champagne.”

  “He must have put something in it to make you more . . . compliant,” Captain Forrester said in a grim voice.

  “Do you remember anything more?” Lancelot asked, striving to make his tone more gentle.

  She swallowed, looking toward the window. “I . . . remember walking into . . . supper. I think I began to feel—yes, yes, I began to feel dizzy.” She clutched a hand to her breast. “I thought the room was swaying. But he took me by the arm. I remember sitting down, and the food seemed to be moving on the plate. But I tried to eat—he said I may have danced too much, become overheated.”

  She turned to Captain Forrester, her look imploring. “But I’ve danced as much before—I think I told him that—and never felt so. I remember very little more—I think he took me outside. I remember the night air, but I just wanted to sit down . . . and then I was in a coach . . . and then . . .” She fell silent, swallowed, and turned anguished eyes toward Lancelot.

  He wanted to erase that haunted look. “It’s all right,” he managed softly even as his heart felt wrenched in pain. “We arrived in time.”

  “Thanks to you,” Captain Forrester said. He smiled at Miss Barry. “Mr. Marfleet here was the one who noted you missing. He was quite concerned about you. I don’t think much time had elapsed since dinner when he asked Miss Phillips and me if we had seen you. He had seen you last with St. Leger and didn’t trust him.”

  Miss Barry stared at Lancelot from the moment the captain mentioned his worry.

  “None of us had seen you since supper,” the captain continued when Lancelot said nothing. “We immediately began to look for you. As soon as we realized you weren’t anywhere in the house, Marfleet here didn’t rest. He bribed or browbeat the servants until he found a groom who had seen a carriage leave from the mews.”

  She shook her head as if to clear it. “From the mews? That’s why . . . I seemed to be in a garden and it was dark.”

  “You must have lost consciousness soon after. I don’t think you were at the inn too long. We wasted no time in coming after you once Marfleet found out from one of St. Leger’s cronies where he—er—takes . . . ahem . . .”

  Her round eyes looked up at him. “Young ladies?”

  Even Captain Forrester’s cheeks looked ruddy in the semidarkness.

  “I’m sure he usually limits his pursuits to lowborn women who can’t defend themselves—servant girls, shopgirls, young chorus girls,” Lancelot finished for Captain Forrester, capturing Miss Barry’s shocked attention once more. He coughed. “That’s why it seems so incomprehensible that he should pursue his wicked intentions so far with a young lady.”

  She brought her hands to her cheeks. “How horrible.” She shuddered. After a moment she lifted her gaze to him once more. “But why me?”

  “Perhaps he just saw you as a defenseless young woman—your father is not here. You have only Lady Beasinger—a careless chaperon at best, with no real weight in society. I hate to disillusion you about the wiles of men, but he was probably bored and saw you as an easy mark.” Lancelot had kept his tone dispassionate, even hard, but he couldn’t help himself. He wanted her to realize how close she’d been to utter ruin.

  Captain Forrester flicked a look at him. “What he didn’t count on is that you had a defender in Mr. Marfleet.” The captain pressed her hand. “He may not flaunt his credentials, but never fear, my dear Miss Barry, the Marfleet name is one to be reckoned with in society. St. Leger, whose fortune is indifferent, will keep his word, I am certain.”

  As the words sank in, she dropped her head in her hands. “I am ruined! How shall I face Papa and Mama?” As if remembering their presence, she shook herself and sat up, looking away from them. “Forgive me—it’s not your concern. You have already done more for me than I merit. I deserve whatever comes to me. How could I have been so foolish?” she murmured as if to herself.

  Captain Forrester patted her hand that rested in her lap.

  Once again Lancelot longed to reach for her and offer her comfort, but something held him back. He could not forget her disdain of him and how she had encouraged St. Leger’s advances.

  “We are confident there will be no scandal. Unfortunately, it means that we will not be able to do anything to St. Leger directly. If St. Leger has the audacity to show his face in a drawing room or ball, we can only use underhanded means to keep him out. We shall certainly inquire at the clubs and see if he owes money anywhere. If he does, we can use that as leverage to insure his silence.”

  His words roused her. She clutched his arm. “Please don’t do anything, don’t say anything! I can never hold my head up again in public.”

  “There, there, don’t fret. Mrs. Phillips and Miss Phillips will be able to comfort you more than we, but be assured, they will be of an opinion with us. We were very discreet this evening, and not too much time elapsed since St. Leger spirited you away. I am sure the ball is only now breaking up.” He took his watch out of his waistcoat pocket. “It is going on three. They may not even have played Sir Roger de Coverley yet. Mrs. Phillips pled fatigue and made it clear she was leaving the ball early with both of you. Even if they didn’t see you, the guests will assume you all left together. When you appear in public again, no one will be the wiser.”

  Miss Barry’s brief outburst seemed to have cost her all her energy. She lapsed into silence, her gaze fixed on the window for the rest of the ride.

  Lancelot spent the time praying to overcome the anger and bitterness lodged in his chest. Show me what to do, Lord. You see the extent of the vileness, the villainy of that scoundrel. He mustn’t be permitted to escape scot-free—to do the same thing to countless other defenseless women.

  By the time they arrived, Miss Barry’s head was slumped forward, either from exhaustion or the lingering effects of whatever drug St. Leger had laced her drink with.

  Lancelot rose as soon as the coach came to a stop and opened the door and let down the step. There was no footman at the door, for which he was grateful. Surely, Mrs. Phillips had shown wisdom in not alerting the staff. The lamps were still burning. Captain Forrester roused Miss Barry and helped her down. As Lancelot approached the front door, it opened.

  Miss Phillips peered round the edge, and when she saw them, she opened it wide. She was dressed in her nightgown and dressing gown, her dark hair braided down her back under a nightcap.

  She drew Miss Barry in, hugging her. “Thank God you are all right.” She looked at the two of them with a question in her eyes.

  Captain Forrester nodded in reassurance. “Apart from the aftereffects of whatever drug she was given, she is unharmed. The best thing is to get her to bed.”

  Miss Phillips gasped at the word drug.

  Before she could say anything, Lancelot said, “We will not keep you.”

  She gave them both a heartfelt thank-you.

  Captain Forrester said, “Get some rest, both of you. How is Mrs. Phillips?”

  “She is fine. I insisted she go to bed, that I would watch for your return.”

  “That was wise,” the captain said, reopening the door. “We shall be around tomorrow to see how everything is.”

  He shut
the door behind them, and they returned to the carriage.

  When they were on their way, Lancelot having given instructions to the driver to drop Captain Forrester at his lodgings, Captain Forrester spoke in the dark interior. “What do you think—will any hint of scandal arise from this night?”

  Lancelot drew in a breath, pondering. “It all depends upon how good St. Leger’s word is.” He motioned toward the front. “I shall pay the jarvey a generous sum, although I don’t think he saw Miss Barry, bundled up as she was. She doesn’t reside with Mrs. Phillips, so cannot be linked to this address.”

  “I don’t think St. Leger’s friends will talk,” the captain said. “Why should they wish Miss Barry ill?” He shifted in his seat as if debating. “It’s hard to say if speaking to them will have a beneficial or adverse effect.”

  “Yes.” Lancelot rubbed his jaw, feeling the fatigue. “That’s what’s so frustrating. We don’t want to make enemies of them. Yet, I find it hard to countenance allowing St. Leger to walk blameless. But anything we do will only bring attention back to Miss Barry, no matter how innocent she was in the matter.”

  “You do realize that, don’t you?”

  Lancelot stared at him in the predawn light. “Why do you say that?”

  Captain Forrester shrugged. “At the inn you looked like someone had clobbered you—and that was before your tussle with St. Leger. I would hate to think you have put any of the blame upon Miss Barry for finding herself in this situation.”

  Lancelot blew out a long breath, wishing the captain had not been so discerning.

  “Men like St. Leger use any means, flattery, charm, sympathy, to win a woman’s trust,” he added. “Incapacitating her with a drug is beyond the pale.”

  The captain said nothing more, allowing Lancelot to mull on his words. After a moment or two, Lancelot said, “What you say is true. My anger doesn’t originate with tonight, however. It has been growing since the evening I saw Miss Barry alone in St. Leger’s company—after drinking champagne. I warned her then about him.”

  “She’s very young and innocent about men.”