by Mary Balogh
A moment later, Daniel Kirby, small, pudgy, and pasty-skinned, stood shivering within the hostile, jeering ring of spectators. He was visibly shaking as Ferdinand strode toward him. He fell to his knees and clasped his hands together.
“I am not a fighter. I am a peaceable man,” he said. “Just let me go. I'll be gone from London before the day is out. You'll never see me again. I'll never trouble you again. Just don't hit me. Arrgghh!”
Ferdinand had reached out and grasped Kirby's nose between the middle and forefinger of one hand. He twisted and raised his arm until Kirby was standing on his toes before him, his hands flailing helplessly, his mouth wide open to gasp in air. There was a roar of mirth from the spectators.
“For God's sake, man,” Ferdinand said in the utmost disgust, “stay on your feet and throw at least one punch. Show some self-respect.”
He released his hold and for a moment stood before the other man, within arm's length, his own arms at his side, unprotected. But Kirby merely covered his injured nose with both hands.
“I am a peaceable man,” he wailed.
And so it was punishment pure and simple. And coldly and scientifically meted out. It would have been easy to render him unconscious with a few powerful blows. And it would have been easy to pity a man whose physical stature and condition gave him no chance whatsoever of winning the fight. But Ferdinand did not allow himself either the luxury of fury or the weakness of pity.
This was not for himself or for the spectators. This was not sport.
This was for Viola.
He had said he was her champion. He would avenge her, then, in the only way he could, inadequate as it was—with his physical strength.
She was his lady, and this was for her.
The spectators had grown strangely quiet and Ferdinand's knuckles on both hands were red and raw by the time he judged Daniel Kirby to be within the proverbial inch of his life. Only then did he draw back his right fist and drive it up beneath the man's chin with enough force to send him into oblivion.
He stood looking down at the plump, unconscious body, his hands still balled into fists at his sides, his mind bleak with sorrow and near-despair as the men around him, his friends and acquaintances, his peers, clapped slowly.
“If anyone,” he said without looking up—there was instant silence so that everyone could hear what he had to say—“has any doubt in his mind that Miss Viola Thornhill is a lady deserving of the deepest honor and respect and admiration, let him speak now.”
No one spoke until Tresham broke the silence.
“My duchess will be sending out invitations within a day or two to a reception at Dudley House,” he said. “It is our hope that the guest of honor will be Miss Thornhill of Pinewood Manor in Somersetshire, natural daughter of the late Earl of Bamber. She is a lady we wish to have the pleasure of presenting to society.”
“And it is my hope,” the Earl of Bamber said unexpectedly, “that she will arrive at Dudley House under my escort, Tresham. M'half-sister, you know.”
Ferdinand turned and walked away to where he had left his clothes in the keeping of his friend John Leavering. He dressed in silence. Although there was now an excited buzz from those who had watched the punishment, no one approached him. His black mood, so uncharacteristic of him, was too obvious to them all. But his brother clasped his shoulder as he pulled on his waistcoat.
“I am prouder of you today than I have ever been before, Ferdinand,” he said softly. “And I have always been proud of you.”
“I wish I could have killed the bastard,” Ferdinand said, pushing his arms into the sleeves of his coat. “Perhaps I would feel better if I had killed him.”
“You have done much better than that,” his brother told him. “You have restored life to someone deserving of it, Ferdinand. There is not a man here who would not gladly kneel to kiss the hem of Viola Thornhill's garments. You have shown her as a lady who sacrificed all for love.”
“I have done damn all,” Ferdinand said, gazing at his raw knuckles. “She suffered for four years, Tresham. And again in the last few weeks.”
“You will have to spend a lifetime soothing the pain of those four years, then,” Tresham said. “Shall I come with you to the White Horse?”
Ferdinand shook his head.
His brother squeezed his shoulder hard and comfortingly once more before turning away.
24
T he guard had already blown one long blast on his horn—the final warning for any laggards among the passengers to scramble on board the stagecoach before it pulled out of the inn yard and began its journey west. But only one outside passenger had yet to board. The guard slammed the door on the inside passengers and moved to take his place at the rear of the coach.
Mrs. Wilding stepped back, a handkerchief pressed to her lips. Maria clung to her free arm. Claire, smiling bravely, raised one hand in farewell. Viola, seated beside the window, smiled back. Farewells were so hard. She had tried to persuade them not to come with her and Hannah from the White Horse Inn, but they had insisted.
She would see them all again, of course, perhaps soon. Her mother had declared adamantly that her home was with her brother, that it was with him she would stay. But she had agreed to come to Pinewood for a visit later in the year. Maria and Claire could stay longer if they wished, she had said. Maybe Ben would wish to spend a part of his summer holiday there.
But the moment of parting was still hard.
She was leaving London behind forever. She would never see him again. He had sent her those precious papers this morning, but he had not seen fit to bring them in person. And in the accompanying note he had signed himself merely F. Dudley.
She had heard nothing from the Duke of Tresham. It did not matter. If he had already paid Daniel Kirby, then she would repay the loan.
She was going home, she reminded herself as the guard blew another deafening blast on his yard of tin as a warning to anyone on the street outside to make way. She had been happy there and would be happy again. Soon the memories would begin to recede, and she would start to heal once more. All she needed was time and patience.
Ah, but the memories were fresh and raw now.
Why had he not come? She had not wanted him to, but why had he not? Why had he sent the papers with a servant?
Ferdinand.
The coach lurched into motion and the clop-clop of the horses' hooves drowned out all other sounds. Mama was crying. So was Maria. But they were all smiling too and waving. Viola smiled determinedly and raised her hand. Once the coach had turned onto the street and she could not see them anymore, she would feel better.
But just when she expected it to begin its turn, it jerked to a sudden halt and there was a great deal of shouting and general commotion from the direction of the street.
“Lord love us,” Hannah said from beside Viola, “what now?”
The man opposite them, who was facing the horses, pressed the side of his head against the glass and peered forward.
“There be horses and a carriage of some sort drawn across the entrance,” he announced to his fellow passengers. “He'll be in trouble, that driver will. Be he deaf?”
It might be to his benefit if he was, Viola thought, noting that her family were no longer looking at her but at the cause of the delay. Even the walls and windows of the coach could not keep out the blistering profanities with which the coachman, the guard, and several of the outside passengers were berating the hapless man who had driven his carriage across the entryway of the inn yard despite the horn's warning and had apparently stopped there, blocking the stagecoach's path.
And then the sounds of merry laughter and another voice dominated all others.
“Come, now,” the voice called gaily, “you can do better than that, my fine fellow. You have not yet turned the air blue. I have business with one of your passengers.”
Viola scarcely had time to feel shock before the carriage door was wrenched open.
“In the nick of time,” Lo
rd Ferdinand Dudley said, peering inside and then reaching up a gloved hand to her. “Come, Viola.”
A moment ago her heart had felt as if it were breaking in two because she would never see him again. Now she was furiously angry. How dare he!
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “How did you know—”
“I went to the White Horse Inn first.” He grinned. “I have just put terror into half of London by springing my horses through its streets. Come down.”
She clasped her hands firmly in her lap and glared at him. “I am going home,” she said. “You are holding up the coach and making a spectacle of us both. Please shut the door, my lord.”
If the coachman had not turned the air blue before, he must surely be doing it now. Other men were shouting indignantly too. Only the inside passengers remained quiet, their attention focused on the interesting scene before them.
“Don't go,” he said. “Not yet. We need to talk.”
Viola shook her head while one of the female passengers informed the others in an awed whisper that the gentleman was a lord.
“There is nothing more to say,” Viola said. “Please go away. Everyone is terribly angry.”
“Let them be,” he said. “Come down and talk to me.”
“You go with him, love,” the same passenger advised aloud. “He's a right handsome gent, he is. I'd go with him myself if he would take me instead.”
There was a burst of appreciative laughter from those within hearing distance.
“Go away!” Viola said, angry and embarrassed.
“Please, Viola.” He was no longer smiling. He was compelling her shamelessly with his dark eyes, which gazed very deeply into her own. “Please, my love. Don't go.”
The other passengers awaited her reply with bated breath.
Hannah touched her arm. “We had better get out, Miss Vi,” she said, “before we are thrown out.”
The coachman and a few other men were still swearing ferociously. The guard had jumped down from his place and was advancing menacingly on Lord Ferdinand.
“If you insist upon staying where you are,” Ferdinand said, grinning suddenly again, “I'll follow the coach, Viola, and accost you at every tollgate and every stop between here and Somersetshire. I can make a very public nuisance of myself when I choose. Take my hand now, and get down.”
He had made it impossible for her to remain in the coach. How would she look her fellow passengers in the eye during the long hours ahead? How would she be able to face the coachman and guard at the various stops along the way? She stretched out her hand slowly until it was resting in Ferdinand's. He grasped it tightly, and the next moment she was descending to the inn yard while all the inside passengers, a few of the outside ones, and a sizable ring of spectators cheered and applauded.
“Toss down the lady's bags and her maid's, if you will, my man,” Ferdinand said, grinning at the guard and pressing a gold coin into his hand. With one glance at it, the guard forgot his wrath and did as he had been bidden. Ferdinand, meanwhile, was assisting Hannah to alight and then stretching up an arm to appease the coachman with another coin. His curricle and horses, Viola noticed, were still blocking the gateway, his groom holding the horses' heads.
She stood mutely watching while the curricle was pulled ahead and the stagecoach finally rumbled out of the yard—without her—and turned onto the street. The grooms and other spectators were dispersing.
“Ma'am.” Lord Ferdinand was addressing her mother. “May I have your leave to take Miss Thornhill for a drive?”
She did not want to drive with him. At this particular moment she hated him. The worst should be over now. She should be on her way home.
“Of course, my lord,” her mother said warmly. “Hannah will return to the White Horse with us.”
They were all smiling, Viola saw when she looked from one to the other of them—just as if they were witnessing the beginning of a happily-ever-after. Even Hannah was beaming. Did they not understand?
He was offering her his arm. She took it without a word and went with him out to the street, where he handed her up to the high seat of his curricle before striding around to the other side and climbing up beside her. He took the ribbons from his groom's hand.
“I am very vexed with you,” she said curtly when the curricle was in motion.
“Are you?” He turned his head to look briefly at her. “Why?”
“You had no business stopping me from doing what I had decided to do,” she said, “and what I wanted to do. This morning, when there were important papers to deliver to me, you sent them with a servant and a note signed F. Dudley. Now suddenly this afternoon you need to speak with me urgently enough to drag me from a stagecoach.”
“Ah, this morning,” he said. “I had a very important commitment this morning that made it impossible to call on you in person. But it struck me that you had a right to see those papers at the earliest possible moment. I had time only to dash off a quick note. Did I really sign myself that way? Were you offended?”
“Not at all,” she said. “Why should I be?”
He merely flashed her a grin.
“There is nothing more to be said,” she told him. “I have already sent a letter thanking you for the papers. Where did they come from, by the way?”
“Bamber,” he said. “He went to Yorkshire to call upon the countess's solicitor. It seems that his father used his services occasionally. He did so just before his death because Westinghouse was away from London when you left for Pinewood. The York solicitor neglected to bring the papers to light afterward, though, probably at the countess's urging. Bamber did not know where to find you with them, and so he came to me.”
“I would have expected him to keep his mouth shut too,” she said tartly. “He cannot feel kindly toward me, after all.”
“He is a ramshackle fellow,” Ferdinand said, “but not dishonest.”
“Everything has been said, then.” She turned her head away from him. “It could have been explained just as well in a letter. You did not need to see me again. I wanted to be on that stagecoach. I wanted to go home. I did not want to see you again.”
“We have to talk,” he said—and then was silent.
“Where are we going?” she asked after a few minutes.
“Somewhere where we can talk,” he said.
Her question had been rhetorical. It was clear that they were headed in the direction of the Duke of Tresham's house—the one where his grace housed his mistresses. The curricle drew to a stop there a couple of minutes later and Ferdinand jumped down before coming around to her side.
“I won't,” she said firmly as her feet touched the pavement.
“Sleep with me?” he said, grinning down at her. “No, you dashed well won't, Viola. Not today anyway. We need to talk.”
Alone together. Here, of all places, where they had spent one night of delirious happiness. She hated him with an intense anger.
He took her to the room he liked best—the back room with the pianoforte and books, where Jane and Tresham must have spent a great deal of time. She took off her outdoor garments and went to sit primly in the armchair beside the hearth. Her face was pale and expressionless. She had not once looked at him since they entered the house.
“Why didn't you trust me?” he asked her. He stood some distance from her, his hands clasped at his back. She had lost weight and bloom since that day of the village fête. But somehow she looked as beautiful as ever. Or perhaps it seemed so because he was no longer able to see her objectively. “Why did you go to Tresham instead?”
She looked up at him sharply then. “How do you know that?”
“He told me so,” he said. “Did you think he would not, Viola?”
She stared at him. “Now that I think of it,” she said, “I can see that it is something he would do. He would want to tell you how I was willing to bargain with him and take money from him in exchange for refusing to marry you. Yes, I can see that he would get satisfaction from
telling you how calculating and mercenary I am. Does he know about the receipt the Earl of Bamber brought you? How disappointed he must have been—and how terrified that after all I might accept a marriage offer from you.”
She was still angry, he could see. He had learned early that Viola Thornhill was not easily dominated. She would not readily forgive him for forcing her to get down from that stagecoach.
“Why did you not trust me?” he asked her again. “Why did you not ask me for the money, Viola? You must know that I would have helped you.”
“I did not want you to,” she said. “I did not want you to know why I worked for Daniel Kirby. I wanted you to believe that I was Lilian Talbot because I liked being her and doing what she did. I wanted you to abandon the foolish notion that we could marry. I still wish it. I was Lilian Talbot, even though I hated every moment of her life. And I remain what she was. I wish the Duke of Tresham had not told you. Better yet, I wish I had not gone to him or had waited another day. That receipt has set me free, you see. But not free to live here or to associate with people like you.”
“I can never ever be worthy of you, you know,” he said. She looked at him in astonishment, but he continued. “When I learned as a boy of the life my mother and father lived, as well as most of their friends, I was so disillusioned with love that I shrank from it forever after and withdrew into cynicism. Apart from my studies I have done nothing worthwhile in all the years since. Certainly I have not given love. You, on the other hand, have stuck steadfastly by love even though it has hurt you immeasurably. And you keep on sticking by it. You are intent upon not hurting me, are you not?”
She turned her head away. “Don't make a saint of me,” she said. “I did what I had to do. But I am a whore nonetheless.”
