Amanda McCabe (23 page)

He appeared so like an angel now, watching over her, protecting her from this darkness. She had ceased utterly to care about the color of his neckcloths or all the rules he broke when he went about in Society. She could not even care any longer that he was a viscount, that he was younger than she, that he wrote poetry and she was dull and prosaic.

Here, in this instant, she did not care about those things at all.

“I am fine,” she answered. “Or I will be when we find Lady Violet.”

Michael nodded, and his angel’s face darkened with worry. “Surely she could not have gone far.”

Rosalind glanced about again. She half-suspected that Violet could have been snatched away by evil fairies in such a place as this, but of course that was nonsense. Violet had to be
somewhere.
“We checked the library and the morning room. Her maid is checking in her chamber. Where else is there?”

Michael frowned, and shook his head. “This is not a vast house. I think we have looked everywhere…” His brow cleared. “Of course! The conservatory.”

“The conservatory?”

“It was my mother’s favorite place. People seldom go there now. Perhaps Violet went there to find some air without going outside to the gardens.”

He led her to the end of the corridor and they turned off onto a flagstone walkway illuminated by skylights overhead. At the end could be seen double doors made of glass, standing open. Rosalind stumbled
a bit on the uneven stones, and as Michael steadied her with an arm about her waist, they heard a scream. “No! This is against the rules!”

There was a great crash—and Rosalind and Michael broke into a run.

R
 osalind pulled away from Michael and ran the last few steps into the conservatory, with him close on her heels. She burst through the doors—and froze at the scene that greeted her.

Violet stood huddled against a long plant stand, her pale curls disheveled and one short, puffed sleeve falling from her shoulder. One trembling hand was pressed to her lips; the other held the shattered rim of a clay pot.

Rosalind heard a low moan, and her gaze swung from Violet to the man collapsed on the stone floor. Shards of the pot were scattered around him, with dirt and dried leaves dusting his hair and his elegant coat. He blinked, trying to focus, as he slowly sat up, one hand holding his head. She saw that it was Lord Carteret.

A red-hot anger bloomed in her heart, deeper than any she had ever known, or even imagined, before. This—this
cad
had taken advantage of Violet, sweet Violet! She lurched one blind step in his direction,
intending to scratch out his eyes with her bare nails, but she was stopped by a choked sob from Violet.

Rosalind swung away from Lord Carteret, and stepped over his legs, lifting her hem as if he was a piece of sewer flotsam that could soil the fine blue silk. She hurried over to Violet and anchored her arms about the girl’s trembling shoulders.

Violet dropped the remains of the pot and collapsed against Rosalind. “How could he do that?” she cried.

“It was against the rules, Mrs. Chase! It was against the rules.”

“Shh, my dear. You are safe now, don’t cry.” Rosalind patted Violet’s back as if she were a frightened infant, and pressed her cheek lightly against the girl’s hair.

She drew in a deep breath—and paused, frowning. She could smell Violet’s perfume, a light violet and rosebud scent, but there was something underneath. Something sharp and sour.

“Violet, my dear,” she said softly, careful not to raise her voice and alarm the girl. “What have you been drinking this evening?”

“Drinking?” Violet drew back to peer up at Rosalind, her face creased in confusion. “Only tea, and wine with dinner. Oh, and some punch.”

“Punch?” Rosalind then saw the crystal punch glass, half rolled under an iron chaise.

“Yes. The claret cup.”

That was
not
claret Rosalind smelled. It was strong whiskey, of the sort her husband had indulged in on rare occasions. She gently propped Violet back against the plant stand, as if she was a wax doll, and bent down to retrieve the glass. Most of the contents had been drunk or spilled out, but there were still a few dregs in the very bottom. Rosalind sniffed cautiously.

Yes. Most definitely whiskey.

She looked up, searching for Michael. She had almost forgotten he had raced behind her into the room, in all the excitement of her temper and comforting
Violet. She could not forget him now, though. He had his fists around the lapels of Carteret’s coat and was roughly hauling the groggy young man to his feet. On Michael’s face she saw written the utter fury she herself had felt so deeply. His sensual lips were thinned to an angry line, his jaw tight.

And a new fear took hold in her heart—the fear that Michael might fight, even challenge Carteret to a duel. As much as she wanted to see Carteret punished for his dastardly deed tonight, she could not bear to see Michael hurt. She could not see
two
people she cared about in pain this eve.

“Michael,” she called sharply. “Could you come over here for a moment, please?”

He glanced toward her, frowning as if puzzled that she was there. His hands were still tight on Carteret, who was moaning and brushing feebly at Michael with ineffectual motions. Rosalind held the glass up.

Michael pushed Carteret back to the floor and came to her side, still keeping a sharp eye on the prone young man. “What is it, Rosie?” he said roughly, impatiently.

“I think Violet has been drinking strong spirits,” Rosalind whispered. “There was whiskey in this glass, and she seems terribly disoriented.”

“My sister has never had anything stronger than watered wine in her life!” he protested vehemently.

“I am not suggesting that Violet became foxed on purpose. She is not a girl to make such mischief. I am merely suggesting that she is in a very poor condition right now, and I ought to escort her upstairs.”

“That is a very good idea. I don’t want Violet here while I deal with that—that—”

He uttered a word that was most assuredly against the rules, yet Rosalind could not chide him. It expressed her own sentiments toward Carteret exactly. But she did not at all like the darkness shadowing Michael’s beautiful eyes. She caught his hand between both of hers and held him beside her.

“Promise me that you will not do something like challenge Lord Carteret to a duel.”

“Rosie,” he answered, curling his fingers around hers. “He plied my sister with whiskey, and lured her in here to take advantage of her! How can I let these things go unchallenged?”

“They need not go unchallenged. I am sure he will pay—he is paying already.” She gestured toward Lord Carteret, who still lay in a heap on the floor, moaning about his aching head. “Violet took care of herself with him, but she cannot take care of herself all the time. She needs you here, in her life, to help her. Not dead in some field, shot through the head.”

“I would not be the one lying there. I am an excellent shot, Rosie.”

“But what if Lord Carteret cheated? If he does not scruple at giving young ladies strong drink, he would not at turning before the count of ten.” She leaned closer to him, clinging to his hand. She could not remember ever feeling more
desperate
before in her life. “Please, Michael. Violet needs you.
I
need you. Promise me that, whatever you do, you will not fight.”

His expression eased a bit, the sharp crease between his eyes softening as he stared down at her. “Very well. For you, I will not fight.”

Rosalind nodded, her heart lightened even if only a small bit. “Very good. I will hold you to that. And now I must take Violet upstairs before she becomes ill.”

“Of course.” Michael kissed her cheek quickly and released her hands. “What did Vi and I ever do before you came into our lives, Rosie? You are an angel.”

An angel. Funny—that was exactly what she had thought about
him.
Smiling secretly, she went to Violet and wrapped her arm around the girl. “Come, my dear, let me take you up to your chamber. You will feel better after you have washed your face and lain down on your bed for a few moments.”

Violet nodded weakly, and released her death grip
on the plant stand. She did look rather green, but at least her eyes were no longer glazed and clouded with shock. “Yes,” she murmured. “I feel a bit queasy, Mrs. Chase.”

“I will send for some strong tea. That will settle your stomach.”

Violet leaned against her. “People are probably talking about me. Saying dreadful things.”

“’Not at all. No one even knows you left the party except for me, your brother, your aunt, and the Waylands. We would never tell a soul; we are concerned only for your safety.”

Tears trickled down Violet’s flushed cheeks, silent harbingers of misery. “I was so stupid, Mrs. Chase! So very stupid.”

“Not at all, my dear. This was not your fault at all. It was entirely Lord Carteret’s. He is a very bad man.”

“He broke the rules!” Violet cried. “So very many rules.”

Violet’s words reverberated in Michael’s mind long after Rosalind had led her from the conservatory.
The rules.
Carteret had broken the rules. Violet seemed quite obsessed on that point.

Michael turned to stare down at Carteret where he huddled on the floor. The man—or boy, really, as he could hardly be older than eighteen—appeared crumpled and miserable on the flagstones. But when he peered up at Michael, his bleary eyes burned with a strange resentment, a glowing, sullen fire.

For the first time, Michael had some idea of what had driven Rosalind to write those rules. It was not from some manic compulsion to control the behavior of others, as he had once imagined, before he knew her. It was to impose some order, some limits to the actions of people like Carteret. People who would take advantage of innocents like Violet—such as Rosalind had surely once been.

Women were weak, not only physically but within the dictates of Society. He had always known this, of
course; it was self-evident, a part of everyday life. But he had never really
known
that, not until this moment. Rosalind had devised those rules to give the girls at her school some power over what happened to them. If all of Society insisted on following the rules, even men like Carteret and his ilk would have to fall into line or be ostracized. They were a flimsy protection at best, yet somehow Rosalind had managed to make it strong—until he came along and undermined both her and her rules.

Mindless obedience to dictates would
never
be right in his mind. But some rules were necessary, and he had been an utter fool not to see that before. He owed Rosalind a great apology.

He strode up to Carteret and nudged him with the toe of his shoe. “Get up,” Michael ordered brusquely. “And cease moaning.”

“Your chit of a sister nearly broke my head,” Carteret whined. He held his hand away from his wound to show Michael the blood there.

“You deserved far worse. I said get up.”

Carteret used the frame of the iron chaise to haul himself upright. He really did look to be in bad shape, with blood dripping from the cut on his head and his coat sleeve torn. Michael mentally applauded his sister for attempting to take her pound of flesh.

Carteret sneered at him, or at least tried to. It came out looking more like a pout. “Are you going to call me out? Demand that I name my seconds?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but not tonight.”

Carteret’s sneer dissolved into surprise. “N—no?”

“No. But if anything of this sort ever happens again, I will not so restrain myself. For tonight, it is sufficient that you remove yourself and your friend Mr. Gilmore from my family’s house. In future, you will never show your face at the Thoth Club again.”

“No!” Carteret cried out. “Not the club! I must have…”

“You will
not
be a member of the club any longer. Your name will be stricken from the rolls. And you
will never contact, speak to, or look at my sister, Mrs. Chase, or Mr. Lucas. Is that perfectly clear?”

Carteret gave him a sullen nod. He could clearly see that Michael meant every word he said, and would never be swayed by pleas or threats. Carteret’s days at the Thoth Club were finished.

“Excellent. Now leave, before you bleed any further onto the floor.”

With one last glare, Carteret hurried out of the room, his footsteps fading away down the corridor. Michael had the suspicious feeling that he had not heard the last of that young man, but for now he was gone. It was all echoing silence in the conservatory.

Michael straightened his coat and cravat, and ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. He filled his lungs with the cool evening air that flowed from the open windows and slowly released a breath, trying to let go of his raw anger.

Once he felt as if he could face the civilized world again without disgracing himself, he followed Carteret’s path down the corridor. He had to make sure the cad left, and then he would send Aunt Minnie up to Violet’s chamber, and tell the Duchess of Wayland that their quarry had been safely found.

And then—then he knew exactly what he had to do.

Rosalind slowly made her way down the staircase back toward the party. She had left Violet, still queasy and teary but much calmed, to the capable ministrations of her aunt. She had taken Violet’s hairbrush to her own mussed curls and smoothed her gown. Now there was nothing to do but rejoin the fray.

She wondered, feared, what she would find there. Would Michael be off with his seconds, going to fight Lord Carteret with pistols at dawn? Or would he keep his word to her?

She knew that, under ordinary circumstances, Michael would always keep his promises. But she had never seen him look as he had this night, when faced with Carteret’s villainy. Michael was usually so very
affable, so full of jests and easy good humor. He could always make her smile or laugh, as no one else ever had before. Tonight, he had looked like a stranger, with a killing fire behind his eyes.