The Bewitching Hour (31 page)

Priscilla gave the linen strip a firm tug as she tied it around Sir Montville’s arm. He had lost a great deal of blood and the pallor of his skin troubled her, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. She pushed a lock of hair back from his forehead and his eyes fluttered open. He appeared anxious, and given his earlier behavior, more vulnerable than she could have imagined.
    As loathsome as Sir Montville’s actions had been, she felt no bitterness. Perhaps he deserved to go to prison for his crime, but he had taken the bullet meant for her and she would have no part in sending him there. She owed him that much.
    Eyes wavering, he tried to lift his head.
    “Don’t move,” she said. “You’ve lost a fair amount of blood and we don’t want it to start up again. I must thank you for what you did.” A faint smile touched her lips. “You were very chivalrous. I want you to know that most of what was said earlier I have forgotten. I only know that you attempted to take the pistol away from Lady Williams and were shot for your effort.”
    He tried to shake his head.
    “Don’t argue,” she said. “You’re much too weak and I’m very determined about this. Had you not come here and intervened, I would likely be dead by now. Saving one’s life is no small thing.”
    The thin pale lips moved, forming a silent thank you. He exhaled a long, unsteady breath and closed his eyes.

Stratton heard a bang as the back door slammed against the side of the house. He spun around and headed for the staircase. Managing the steps three at a time, he reached the bottom in seconds, but took several wrong turns before finding the back door. He cleared the back steps with a single leap and dashed out the open gate where he found himself in a narrow alley, barely wide enough to accommodate a cart and horse. Off to his right, Lady Williams’ slim form grew smaller as she ran down the alley. She had managed to gain a considerable lead. He tore after her. Once she reached the street, she could easily lose herself among the crush of traffic. Cursing, he quickened his pace.

Her lungs burned as the ground rushed beneath her. She heard the thud of his boots against the packed dirt as he drew closer; the pounding of her heart in her head. Then the voice in her mind took over, obliterating all sound other than its own.
He will not catch me.
Eyes on the ground, she lifted her skirts higher and ran.

Stratton slowed as a knot of traffic appeared ahead and the next few seconds passed in a blur. As if oblivious to her surroundings, Lady Williams rushed into the street without regard for the horse and rider directly in her path. Frightened, the horse reared, nearly unseating the man on its back. Stratton flinched as the forelegs came down on Lady Williams, knocking her to the ground. It reared again. A woman screamed. Traffic came to a standstill. The rider managed to bring the horse under control, but not before the horse had trampled Lady Williams against the cobblestone.
    A crowd gathered around her still form. Stratton moved back further into the shadowed recesses of the alley, thankful that no one seemed to have noticed him. Watching a woman trampled to death by a horse should be shocking, yet other than pity for the man whose horse had done the trampling and a slight sensation of relief, he was surprised by his own lack of emotion. There would be plenty of witnesses to give their report when the constable arrived. He could do nothing here.
    His first concern was to remove Priscilla and Lord Mallory from Lady Williams’ house before someone made an identification and came to her door. This would be a big enough scandal without dragging his wife’s name through it all. As he hurried back down the alley, he devised a story he thought would sufficiently explain the circumstances. By the time he reached the house, Rand and Harris were waiting for him in the garden. Knowing it would be near impossible to accomplish what needed to be done without their help; he broke into a grim smile.
    “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see the both of you.”

D
espite Aunt Mirabella’s exuberant attempts to make Cecelia’s ball the most tasteless affair of the season and the continuous gossip surrounding Lady Williams’ descent into madness, Stratton thought the evening was going marvelously well. Cheeks glowing, her eyes bright as she laughed at some comment made by her dance partner, Cecelia was very much the fresh faced young debutant in her embroidered ivory muslin as she energetically circled around her partner to the tune of a country dance.
    Servants in black and gold livery offered champagne, lemonade and sweetmeats. The ballroom was aglow with candles. Even the interminable length of the reception line was made tolerable as he renewed old acquaintances recently returned to London. His only complaint was that Priscilla could not take her place beside him tonight. Considering that she was currently peeved at him over his appointment with Bertram, it was probably for the best. She had, as planned, arrived with Mrs. Hutton and Lord Hamilton. Every so often her laughter would break through the constant flow of conversation and music. She had chosen to sit this dance out and was playing court to several young men who would soon be most unhappy to learn that she was now a married lady.
    A chill gripped him and he had to suppress a shudder every time he thought of how close he had come to losing her. He owed Sir Montville a great debt for stepping in when he did, and also for agreeing to keep Priscilla and Lord Mallory out of his account of the shooting when the constable questioned him. Were it not for that, he would have been quite happy to see Montville tried and convicted for his role in blackmailing Priscilla. And as much as he had wanted to rail at Priscilla for her reckless trip to Lady Williams’, he couldn't. By not telling her he suspected that Lady Williams might be her blackmailer, he had put Priscilla's life in danger. It would be a while before he forgave himself for that.
    She looked marvelous tonight, in a low cut shimmering lavender gown shot with gold threads. White satin gloves hid the ring on her left hand from view. They had spent last night in her maidenly canopy bed, too small by half for the both of them, but the close quarters hadn’t kept them from enjoying each other immensely. That afternoon, a small portmanteau containing her toiletries and a change of clothing had been deposited in his dressing room. She would be in his bed tonight and other than Mrs. Hutton, Rand and possibly Lord Hamilton, not a soul in this room knew. Amazingly, not even Cecelia had caught on. There was something vastly amusing about all this subterfuge.
    “Very well done,” Rand commented as he ambled up beside him. “In fact, exceedingly well done, considering all that’s transpired of late. I don’t quite know how you’ve pulled it all off. Little sister is glowing, Aunt is behaving, but most important, the love of your life is within your grasp and out of danger.”
    “I’m somewhat amazed, myself. What tales have you heard?”
    “It’s gone exactly as you wanted." Rand lowered his voice. "Lady Williams’ shot her cousin during an argument over money she owed him, then realizing what she had done, ran. Speculation is, she was either too distraught to pay attention or wanted to end it all because she thought she had killed him and couldn’t live with the guilt.” He snorted. “It’s bloody ridiculous, but makes a good tale. Harris is quite unhappy in his role as the man who saved Sir Montville’s life, but by next week a new scandal will have surfaced and he’ll be gladly forgotten.”
    Stratton glanced over at Pricilla and noted that another young man had joined her circle of suitors. “I’ll be happy when it’s past us, as well.”
    “Agreed.” Rand took a glass of champagne as a tray of the sparkling wine passed by them. He took a drink before commenting, “I must say that’s quite a gown your aunt has on. Does she know the same drapery is hanging in brothels all over Covent Gardens?”
    Stratton laughed and shook his head. “I wasn’t about to tell her and I hope to God no one else does.” He paused. “Bertram’s here. All things considered, I’m a little surprised that he came. His mother’s doing, I would imagine.”
    “You know, I can’t help but feel sorry for the bloke.” Rand nodded to where Bertram stood dancing attendance on his mother, the dowager Lady Bertram, a tall, thin, sharp featured woman who, from what little they had observed, was possessed of a tongue to match. “I believe she’s informing him who he should and should not dance with. It’s amazing that the same young man, who is so determined to meet you at dawn at his own peril, appears completely biddable around his mother. I seriously doubt she would approve of his plans for tomorrow.”
    “I expect she would not.” Stratton stopped; his mouth slightly open in surprise. “What the deuce? She sent him over to Cecelia.” He chuckled as the young man approached his sister who had just been escorted off the dance floor by her partner. She smiled graciously and nodded and allowed Bertram to pencil in his name on her dance card. He then executed a gallant bow and made his way over to another young lady, presumably the next on his mama’s list.
    “I’d hazard a guess Lady Bertram’s not overjoyed at his current choice of bride,” Rand said.
    “I doubt she would be any better pleased with Cecelia.” Stratton laughed. “My sister is not at all malleable when she makes her mind up about something. One thing is for certain, she needs to find a husband who doesn’t bend at her will. Otherwise, she will eat her mate for lunch and they won’t have a clue as to what happened.”
    Rand murmured, “And she looks so innocent.”
    “Appearances can be deceiving.” Dropping his voice he added, “You spoke with the second?”
    “I will shortly.”
    “Is all else going as planned?”
    “I presume so. I’ll leave here in a few hours to make certain.”
    He put his hand on Rand’s shoulder in a gesture of thanks. “I appreciate it. I would do it but I need to attend to my duties as host.”
    “I understand completely,” Rand said. “I’ll just add it to the wealth of favors you already owe me. Matter of fact, you could do me a big favor tonight.”
    “Anything.” Stratton stopped himself. “Well not quite anything.”
    Rand grinned boyishly. “There’s a lovely young widow I’ve got my eye on. Let me borrow your office for about an hour.”
    The viscount’s gray eyes lit with amusement. “You’ll never change, will you?” he asked. “There’s a spare set of keys to my office in the top right hand drawer of the secretary in the library. Go the back way and you’ll run into fewer people. Just make certain that you don’t let Cecelia see you.”
    Rand tugged on a forelock in mock salute. “Much appreciated, my lord.”
    Stratton couldn’t help laughing. “Go do what you need to do. It’s time I returned to my guests.”

Priscilla observed her husband as he moved easily among his guests, laughing and conversing; making certain all was going as it should and behaving as if absolutely nothing out of the ordinary was planned for tomorrow morning. However, as far as she was concerned, his role as host was not sufficiently distracting. Every so often he would turn his head and send her a wink or a grin letting her know that she was never far from his thoughts or his sight, and that did not lend its self at all to her plans. She had spent the last hour and a half waiting for an opportunity to speak with Bertie without Stratton’s knowledge, but thus far it had proved near impossible. She had given her promise that she wouldn’t to talk Bertie and he would be most upset if she didn’t keep her word. She hated breaking it but she just didn’t know what else to do. They had come so close to losing one another, just two days ago. Why couldn’t he couldn’t he be reasonable and simply call off the duel? She frowned as he glanced over at her and smiled. And why couldn’t he disappear into the card room like most men his age? He was taking his role as host more seriously than was convenient.
    “Would you care for something to drink, Miss Hawthorn?”
    With an effort at patience she looked up into the brown eyes of Lyndon Trent, an eager young man one year her senior who seemed most encouraged by Lord Mallory’s absence. She offered what she hoped was a non-flirtatious smile. She was trying her best not to be rude but it wasn’t fair to offer hope where there was none.
    “Thank you but …” she began, but the words died in her throat. Stratton was leaving the ballroom with Lady Fitzberry. It took only seconds to locate Bertie who was outrageously conspicuous in a gold quilted jacket. He and another young man she vaguely recognized were headed in the direction of the wide balcony that ran across the back of the house. What marvelous luck! If she could reach the balcony before Bertie did, she could speak with him there. “Please forgive me, Mr. Trent but there is someone I must speak to.”
    Without waiting for a reply she walked toward the tall glass doors that opened onto the balcony. This was ridiculously easy she thought gleefully as she stepped outside to wait. Less than a minute later she heard a very recognizable low refined drawl.
    “He can still back out.”
    
Mr. Danfield? Good Lord, how had that happened? And where was Bertie?
She quickly moved back against the wall until she blended into the shadows and strained to hear the exchange.
    “He won’t,” Bertram’s earlier companion said. “His mind is made up to do this.”
    “Very well,” came the soft, jaunty reply. “Southeast corner St. James Park. We shall be there with bells on.”
    Rand descended the stairs that led to the garden and disappeared while the other man went back inside.
We shall be there with bells on?
For someone who claimed to be her husband’s best friend, she thought irritably, he didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned for his health. He was calm, cheerful even. This made no sense at all. Moving over to the railing, she stared into the night. The evening was cool without being cold. If she took in a few deep breaths maybe her mind would clear and she could come up with an idea. Then it hit her. Southeast corner of St. James Park. She knew where and when the duel was to take place. Her lips curved into a grim smile. He would be furious, but she wouldn’t be breaking her promise. She had promised him she wouldn’t talk about it but she hadn’t promised she wouldn’t be there. There would be no duel tomorrow. They wouldn’t dare carry it out with her in attendance. Satisfied with her decision, she turned on her heel and re-entered the ballroom.