by Anna Bennett
“We’re to meet my uncle in the rotunda for the concert at eight o’clock.”
“Very well, my grandmother and I shall lead the way.” He paid their entrance fees and ambled down a pebbled lane, pausing patiently at an artificial ruin that his grandmother admired. It pleased Beth to see him doting on her. Perhaps the memories of this night would bring the duchess joy after she’d been banished from her grandson’s house.
Beth, Julie, and Lord Darberville followed them, enjoying the sights and sounds of revelers. Beth was eager to experience Vauxhall. She’d never been but had read her share of gossip papers and knew that the pleasure gardens had earned the name in more ways than one. She’d already resolved to avoid the famously potent arrack punch. Still, the fragrant orchard, glowing lanterns, and winding walkways quickly charmed her.
As they approached the rotunda, the crowd grew denser. The duke turned and called over his shoulder to his friend, the marquess. “Stay close to the ladies, Darby. Don’t let them out of your sight.”
Beth tossed her damp curls. “We are not children who need minding, your grace.”
The men exchanged an odd look. “I would prefer that we not become separated in the crowd,” the duke said sternly.
She bristled a little, but even if she had a sufficiently clever retort—which she didn’t—bickering with him would only spoil the duchess’s special evening. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I have no plans to abandon our group.”
Before long, they were inside the rotunda, breathtaking in its size and magnificence. Beth tilted her head back and stared at the elaborately painted domed ceiling.
“It’s lovely,” Julie sighed.
“Let’s secure a spot near the stage,” Lord Darberville suggested, and he immediately began weaving his way toward the center of the room, with Julie in tow.
“Keep an eye out for Uncle Alistair,” Beth said to her sister over the din. Spotting him in the throng would be difficult, but Julie’s height gave her an advantage.
For her part, Beth searched the sea of fancy hats and tousled curls for two tufts of wild white hair. Though highly intelligent, her uncle was easily distracted, and she could imagine him wandering aimlessly, his senses overwhelmed by the venue and scores of people. He could be disoriented and confused right now.
She craned her neck around the room as they migrated toward the stage, and through an open door behind her, she saw a head of white hair that wafted in the breeze.
“Julie,” she called out. “I think I see him.”
Julie cupped a hand to her ear. “What did you say?”
“I’m going to retrieve Uncle Alistair. I’ll return shortly and find you near the stage.”
Before her sister could protest, Beth spun around and headed for the door, walking as fast as good manners would allow—which was not nearly fast enough for her liking.
The gentleman shuffling down the path must have been her uncle, and it would only take her a minute to find him and reunite with the group.
Or so she thought.
It seemed everyone was entering the rotunda at once and walking in the opposite direction as she. When she finally made it through the door, she scanned the hedge-bordered walkway for any sign of her elderly uncle. An assortment of couples strolled by, as did a half dozen young men who staggered across her path as though they were foxed.
“Uncle Alistair!” she called, not caring if she looked foolish to passersby. “Are you out here?”
A young man approached, cravat askew, while his friends snickered behind him. “You look like you need an escort,” he said suggestively.
“You’re mistaken.” She brushed past him, irritated that in the past quarter hour no less than two men had assumed she was incapable of going anywhere without a male to guide her.
The drunken group jeered. “She’s clearly smitten, Roscoe. Don’t let her escape.”
Beth’s heart beat frantically, but she ignored the men as she continued down the gravel path. They were just drunken boys, she told herself. A nuisance, but hardly dangerous. If she refused to take their bait, they’d look for trouble elsewhere.
Still, the more distance she put between her and them, the better, so she walked faster and, before long, noticed a stream of people heading toward a misty grove. Thinking Uncle Alistair might have been swept up in the flow, she followed the crowd. Beneath a canopy of leaves, a large circle of onlookers had gathered around five minstrels wearing feathered hats and playing pipes and percussion instruments.
Beth walked around the spectators, searching for her uncle’s favorite hat and his perpetually wrinkled dark green jacket. She’d almost given up hope of finding him when she spotted him on the perimeter, clapping merrily to the beat of the drum.
“Uncle Alistair,” she said, mildly scolding. “We’ve been searching for you!”
He blinked as though dazed, but then the corners of his eyes crinkled warmly. “Elizabeth! I’ve been looking for you too. Or, I was, before I stopped briefly to watch these immensely talented performers. See, they’re each playing two instruments.” His lined face lit with childlike wonder, making it impossible for Beth to be cross with him.
“It’s quite a show,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the clang of cymbals. “But the rest of our party is expecting us. We must go to them at once.”
He looked crestfallen but dutifully shuffled away from the minstrels. “It would never do to keep the duchess waiting.”
Beth neglected to tell him that he’d already kept the duchess waiting and that Julie was probably half out of her mind with worry. She curled a hand around his arm and slowly guided him back to the walkway leading to the rotunda.
They were halfway there when the drunken mob she’d encountered earlier blocked their path. The rogue who’d spoken before stepped to the front, swaying on his feet. “Don’t tell me this is your beau,” he slurred, gesturing at her uncle.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she gripped Uncle Alistair’s arm a bit tighter.
“What is that young gentleman talking about?” he murmured in her ear, clearly confused.
“He’s not a gentleman,” she whispered back. “Don’t mind him.”
Then, with far more bravado than she felt, she addressed the unruly group. “Step aside and allow us to pass.”
“Wait a minute,” one of the men sputtered. “I recognize that bloke. He’s Lord Wiltmore, which means she”—he pointed rudely at Beth—“must be one of the Wilting Wallflowers.”
“I beg your pardon.” Incensed, Uncle Alistair wriggled his arm free from Beth’s grasp and took a menacing if wobbly step toward the men, who were easily four decades younger than he. “How dare you ridicule my niece—the epitome of loveliness and grace?”
Blast. Beth wanted to melt into the ground. Her dear uncle meant well but was only making matters worse. She tugged on his sleeve. “You are very sweet to defend me,” she said, “but you mustn’t listen to their taunts. Let us go back the opposite way, so we can meet our group.”
“I will not leave this spot,” he said, “until these men have issued you an apology. I shall not tolerate their defamation and salamander.”
Oh dear. The sodden fools stared mutely for a second, then burst into laughter. The one who’d insulted her shoved Uncle Alistair’s shoulder. “You’re as mad as they say, old man.”
She shook with rage momentarily, then something inside her snapped. “You daft … ill-mannered … drunken brute!” She swung her broken parasol and hit his arm—but he didn’t flinch.
Cursing, he wrested the handle from her grasp and tossed what was left of her parasol over his shoulder.
“You little shrew,” he spat. “I should teach you a lesson.” He yanked her by the wrist and pulled her so close that she smelled the alcohol on his breath.
Uncle Alistair tried to step in, but one of the scoundrels pushed him to the ground.
Beth looked around, desperate for help. Passersby walked faster, most avoidin
g the scene altogether. She tried to twist her wrist free from her captor’s clammy grasp, but he only squeezed harder.
“Uncle Alistair,” she said firmly, “you must get up, if you can, and go to the rotunda. Find Julie and the others and tell them where I am.” She couldn’t see any other way out of their predicament.
“I won’t leave you, my dear,” he said gallantly—even if he was still sprawled on the ground. “In fact, I insist that this gentleman release you at once.”
“You’re in no position to insist anything, you crazy old codger.”
“Very well.” Uncle Alistair pushed himself to his feet, wheezing from his exertions. Then he stood toe to toe with the beast who held her wrist. “You will let her go,” he said bravely, “or I shall demand satisfaction.”
Dear heavens, this couldn’t be happening. Beth’s throat constricted and her eyes burned.
The villain snorted. “You’re challenging me to a duel, grandpa?” he asked, incredulous.
“No, he’s not. I am.” The reply, low and lethal, came from a man behind Beth. She craned her neck and caught a glimpse of him. With his impossibly broad shoulders, clenched fists, and flared nostrils, he might have been the Devil himself.
Beth rather wished he was.
But their rescuer was none other than her vexingly handsome nemesis—the Duke of Blackshire.
Chapter NINE
Alex recognized the cretin holding Miss Lacey—Roscoe, if he wasn’t mistaken. He was one of the young bucks who frequented his favorite gaming hell. And the sight of his grimy hand on her slender wrist made him want to punch something—or someone. Hard.
“I believe there’s been a misunderstanding,” Roscoe stammered, releasing her at last.
Miss Lacey stifled a sob and flew to her uncle’s side. “Were you hurt?” she asked, brushing grass and mud off his jacket.
“No, my dear. I am fine. But I am deeply troubled that, because of me, you were placed in such a precarious premonition.”
When a couple of the drunks snickered, Alex stepped forward and cracked his knuckles.
The snickering stopped.
“Miss Lacey,” Alex said while glaring at Roscoe, “you and your uncle will go to the rotunda at once. I shall join you shortly, but first, Roscoe and I have some business to conclude.” There was no need for her to witness the aforementioned business. It wasn’t going to be pretty.
“Are you certain?” She asked, as though she were concerned for his welfare, which was nice, but also slightly insulting—as if he weren’t capable of handling a half-dozen drunken whelps on his own.
“I am quite certain,” he replied, and yet she made no move to leave. Was it too much to ask that she cooperate with him—just this once?
“Your grace,” the coward groveled, “we did not realize that Wiltmore and his niece were friends of yours. Besides, we were only jesting. Having a bit of fun.”
“Name your weapon,” Alex told Roscoe.
The color drained from the younger man’s face. “I have no quarrel with you, Blackshire.”
“Oh, but I have one with you. It began the moment you laid your hand on Miss Lacey,” Alex said, clenching his fists. Why in the hell was she still standing there beside her uncle, looking on anxiously, instead of returning to the rotunda as he’d asked?
“She suffered no harm,” Roscoe stammered, “and I’ve no wish to meet you at dawn.”
Alex stepped forward until his chest nearly bumped his opponent’s. “So then, you’d prefer to settle it now?”
“Your grace,” Miss Lacey interjected. “I fear that if we don’t leave immediately, we’ll be late for the concert.”
“Punctuality is overrated.” Alex grabbed two fistfuls of Roscoe’s jacket, hoisted him off the ground, and shook him until his eyes were practically popping out of his head. “Apologize to the lady,” he ordered. “And I might not kill you.”
“Forgive me.” The bastard gasped as though fighting for air.
The muscles in Alex’s forearms shook under the strain of Roscoe’s weight. “You’ll have to do better,” he ground out.
Roscoe’s hands and feet flailed as his eyes pleaded with Alex. “Miss Lacey, you have my deepest apologies.” He gurgled as though his cravat was choking him, then continued. “My behavior earlier was inexcusable, and if you would be so generous as to forgive me”—he coughed and hacked some more before finishing—“I would be forever in your debt.”
“I accept your apology,” Miss Lacey blurted anxiously. “Please, your grace, put him down at once.”
Alex shrugged. “As you wish.” With that, he tossed the bounder directly at his friends and watched them topple like bowling pins.
It didn’t feel nearly as good as it would have to plow his fist into Roscoe’s chin or bloody his nose, but he didn’t want Miss Lacey to suffer nightmares of the violence.
Even if it would serve her right for refusing to follow his orders.
Roscoe laid on the ground, moaning, as his friends slowly righted themselves, scratching their heads in a drunken daze.
Alex stepped over a sprawled leg and grabbed his grandmother’s companion by the hand. “Wiltmore,” he called over his shoulder, “follow us closely, and make sure no one else bothers Miss Lacey.”
The old man stood a little straighter and raised his chin like he was reporting to Wellington for duty. “You may count on me.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” If Wiltmore thought he was protecting his niece, perhaps he’d manage not to get himself lost again.
And at the moment, all Alex could think about was Miss Lacey. Upon discovering that she’d left the rotunda, he’d felt a surge of panic—closely followed by a wave of anger. But when he saw the rowdy band of men taunting her and Roscoe touching her … he’d felt pure, hot rage.
As he pulled her along in his wake, he willed his pulse to slow. She was safe now—at least for the moment. The problem was that no one was truly safe with him. He was a target, and that meant everyone around him was in constant danger too.
He’d told himself that Vauxhall would be safe enough. Whoever was trying to kill him, wouldn’t dare do so in such a public place, and Darby would help him protect the women and keep an eye out for suspicious behavior.
Besides, Miss Lacey’s unfortunate encounter had nothing to do with him. She shouldn’t have ventured out of the rotunda on her own, and Alex intended to make his displeasure with her known—at the appropriate time. For now, he simply savored the feel of her hand in his—soft, warm, and feminine. He didn’t give a damn if it was improper for him to hold her hand in public.
He wasn’t letting go.
She halted beside a fountain with shell-shaped basins, pulling him to a stop.
“I thought you wished to hear the concert,” he said impatiently.
“I do. But I fear my uncle is having some difficulty keeping pace with us. I thought we might wait for him.”
Alex craned his head around, and sure enough, Wiltmore shuffled along several yards behind them, never taking his gaze off his beloved niece.
“At this rate, we’ll be here till Christmastide,” Alex muttered.
She frowned and opened her mouth as if to issue a retort, then clamped her lips shut. He found himself vaguely disappointed.
“Was there something you wished to say, Miss Lacey?”
“Yes, actually.” She closed her eyes briefly as though summoning courage. “In regard to the incident with those men, I feel I must explain—”
“Not now,” he said curtly.
“But I only wanted to say—”
“Not. Now.” He was still too tightly wound to discuss what had happened. He had no wish to lose his temper with her—especially when it seemed that half of London was enjoying the pleasure gardens this evening. They’d succeeded in creating quite the spectacle already, and he’d consider it a small miracle if a full accounting of his fight with Roscoe and his friends didn’t appear in tomorrow morning’s gossip rags.
“Very
well,” she sighed.
Though he’d spoken sharply, she seemed wholly unperturbed. Almost bored.
As he stood there, waiting for Wiltmore and holding Miss Lacey’s hand, it occurred to him that she was one of a select few people who wasn’t intimidated by him. The combination of his notorious reputation and surly manners scared off most proper young misses—and rightfully so—but not her. It was as though she could see past the brooding, rakish duke to the person who lay beneath.
But she couldn’t—thank God. No one truly knew him or what he’d done, except perhaps his grandmother. And Alex intended to keep it that way.
* * *
Throughout dinner later that evening, Beth fretted about the earlier scene with Mr. Roscoe and his drunken friends. Of course, the altercation never would have occurred if she’d remained with her party in the rotunda, but the duke hadn’t allowed her to apologize earlier, and now she felt like a naughty child who must wait for her father to mete out her deserved punishment. Blast.
Fortunately, the duchess, Julie, and Lord Darberville were blissfully unaware of the incident. The duke apologized for their temporary absence and merely said they’d been delayed watching the minstrels perform. Even Uncle Alistair seemed to have forgotten that he’d impulsively challenged a man forty decades his junior to a duel.
Now, comfortably ensconced in an elegant supper box, they all exclaimed over the wafer-thin ham slices, freshly mixed salads, and the savory dishes the waiters presented. Lord Darberville entertained the group with slightly off-color tales from a house party he’d recently attended, and Julie recounted the events of the one and only ball they’d ever hosted—which had led to their sister’s hopelessly romantic engagement. The duchess sat in a padded chair with a shawl tucked around her, interjecting her characteristically shrewd observations and beaming with happiness.
Only Beth and the duke remained relatively silent—but perhaps for different reasons. She was contemplating what might have happened if the duke hadn’t stepped in. Uncle Alistair could have been forced to defend her honor and forfeited life or limb on the dueling field. She could have been mauled by an inebriated reprobate.
