To his surprise, she didn’t offer him a comforting word, which after everything she’d said so far might have been what he’d expected.
“Is he right?” she asked, the question in her eyes merely curious and free of any judgement.
Aubrey shrugged. “I don’t know.”
She nodded, holding his gaze. “My father thought I was a foolish, weak girl. Someone who could be manipulated to his will. The first man I ever loved believed the same thing. Because of them I was thrown from my home in disgrace, without a farthing to call my own. I had nothing but my pride, Aubrey.”
Aubrey stared down at her and felt a wave of pride himself for the woman at his feet. She wasn’t there because she was weak and at his mercy. She was there because she was strong and was offering him a little of that strength, a little of that experience she had gained through adversity.
“You are a remarkable woman, Dolly,” he said, the smile he gave this time was genuine and full of sincerity.
“Yes, I am,” she replied, quite serious in her agreement. “And if you would only allow yourself - test yourself - you would discover that you are a remarkable man, Aubrey Russell.” She squeezed his hand tight, her eyes glittering with determination. “Show them who you really are, Aubrey. Stand up and spit in the eye of your father or anyone else who makes you feel weak and worthless. Show them what you’re made of!”
Aubrey hauled in a breath and stared back at her, before giving a nod.
“Yes,” he said. “You’re right. I’ve been a spineless fool.”
“No!” she exclaimed, laughing and shaking her head. “Never that. You just needed a friend to buck you up that’s all.”
Aubrey brought her hand to his lips and kissed the fingers. “Then I am a very lucky man, to have found such a friend as you, Dolly.”
Chapter 11
“Wherein Mousy gets the mill he’s been longing for.”
Violette hugged her arms around herself and stared at the clock. She hated this. Hated that this was a woman’s lot. To sit at home and watch the clock while the men went out and did things. Men went out and had adventures, they went to war and changed the face of the world. The women stayed home and made sure there was a small piece of the world that hadn’t changed at all when they returned. They ensured that their little piece of England was still bobbing along, just the way they liked it, and perhaps gratified them with the addition of a child or two in the nursery at the appropriate intervals, if they’d done the job particularly well.
Violette pushed back the bitterness of those thoughts. It was unlike her to be so cynical, but the past couple of years had taken their toll. She was also well aware of the fact that she had very clearly, if unwittingly, hurt Aubrey Russell by her actions.
She had been charmed by his goodness, his chivalry, and the simple honesty in everything he did and said. There were no games with Aubrey. You could see everything he thought and felt in his eyes, and his frank admiration for her had been a heady thing. His solid, honest presence had warmed her and invited her to trust in him, and to feel things she had no right to.
After the mental and verbal games that had worn her down with her dealings with Gabriel Greyston, Aubrey was a breath of fresh air in a world that had become so very stale and jaded. In the days before she had finally run away she had known what it was to despair.
All the servants employed in the great house that had become her prison belonged to Gabriel Greyston now. He had sent all of the staff she had known since childhood away and left her completely isolated and at his mercy. Her only protection had been the fact that she would not inherit her vast fortune if she married before her twenty-first birthday. Gabriel Greyston had made no secret of the fact they would marry the moment that day arrived.
That day had arrived though. Today was, in fact, her birthday, and she had no doubt at all of the lengths to which Gabriel would go to make her his wife.
She shuddered at the idea. Gabriel had despised her brother and their family for as long as she could remember, though she had never been able to discover the reason, beyond the fact that Gabriel’s whole branch of the family had been long deemed insane. The feud had been started by their fathers, over a woman, she believed, but why the son should carry it on with such vitriol, she didn’t know. She knew his parents had both committed suicide on the same day, the father before his young son’s eyes, if the scandal that had reached even her ears (albeit years later) was true. Such unspeakable acts had damaged the young boy’s mind, and though she pitied him, she could find no sympathy for him now. There was something in the dangerous glitter of his eyes that spoke of a mind at war with itself.
She gave a heavy sigh of frustration, and then turned with an apologetic smile as Celeste looked up from her embroidery, aware that it wasn’t the first time she made such a restive sound that evening.
“Ne t’inquiète pas,” Celeste murmured with a smile and covered Violette’s hand with her own. “They’ll find ‘im and get him to safety.”
Violette smiled and nodded, trying to make herself believe this could be over soon. Somehow, despite her determination, there would be a part of her that wouldn’t truly believe her brother lived until she saw him with her own eyes.
“Have you seen Aubrey today?” she asked, avoiding Celeste’s eyes. She had wondered at first at the closeness between Celeste and Aubrey, but had soon come to realise they were far more like brother and sister in the way in which they both so obviously held each other in affection, and yet didn’t mince their words when they bickered. Besides, she couldn’t imagine a man like Alex allowing himself to be cuckolded under his very nose and to say nothing. No. That was too far-fetched.
“No,” Celeste admitted, and to Violette’s chagrin she put her embroidery aside and turned to look at her. “What ‘appened between you?”
“Happened?” Violette asked, feigning innocence as she wasn’t sure she wanted to broach the subject.
Celeste gave an unladylike snort and raised one eyebrow. “Mais alors, Violette,” she said, and Violette could only be charmed by the pretty French accent that seemed to soften her words, even though she was quite obviously about to be given something of a scold. “It is quite clear that Aubrey ‘as stars in his eyes whenever you enter the room. The poor man was distraught when ‘e discovered you ‘ad run away, again. Yet today ... today ‘e does not come.”
Violette shook her head and swallowed hard. “I should never have encouraged him,” she said, blinking hard and wishing life could be simpler. Why could she not just fall in love with a good man and marry him? Why was that so hard?
“Non,” Celeste replied, her tone rather hard. “Not if you meant to hurt ‘im so.”
Violette caught her breath at the idea. “Oh, I never meant to!” she cried, feeling miserable. “But he was so very kind, and I ... I liked him straight away. But he ... he believed I was Eddie’s mistress, I think perhaps he still does.”
Celeste threw up her hands in frustration. “Eh, Alors?” she demanded, sounding really rather cross now. “And what else did you expect him to think? Why did you not tell ‘im this man was your brother? You knew what he’d think!”
Violette put her head in her hands. “Yes,” she whispered. “I let him think it.”
“Why?” Celeste demanded as her spaniel got up and padded to her side, sensing his mistress’ distress. “Why not just tell ‘im the truth?”
“Because I know I can never marry him and I thought he’d be disgusted by the idea I was his mistress. I was trying to protect him, both of us. And I wanted to keep him - all of you - out of this, but I know that was foolish. I can’t do this by myself!” she said, swallowing down a sob. “But if anything were to happen to any of you because of me ...”
“Bah!” Celeste replied with disgust. “Alex is not a man easily crossed, believe me.”
Violette gave a wry smile. “No,” she replied, reaching down to stroke the spaniel’s silky ears. “I’m beginning to see that.”
“But I think that is not all,” Celeste replied, her wide blue eyes altogether too knowing.
Violette shook her head as shame flooded her. “It ... it was like playing a part,” she admitted. “If I was this mysterious creature ... Miss Mystique!” she added with a bitter laugh. “Well then I wasn’t Lady Violette Greyston.” She turned her eyes on Celeste and hoped she could understand. “I liked him,” she whispered. “Very much indeed, and ... he liked me, even if I wasn’t as innocent as he’d hoped and ... just for a moment I forgot that ... that I would never be allowed to ...” Her eyes felt hot and prickly.
Either Gabriel Greyston would catch up with her and she’d be lost, or Eddie would come back from the dead. If that happened, she had a chance for happiness, but her brother had always planned that she would make a brilliant match, just as her parents had hoped for her. Eddie had promised their dying father he would uphold his wishes and see Violette marry as befitted her station. She knew well enough that the handsome and charismatic Mr Russell would not meet his expectations. No matter that she thought he could make her happy.
“Oh, Violette,” Celeste murmured, taking her hand and Violette prayed she wouldn’t be kind, as then she’d cry for sure. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t understand.”
Violette felt the tears fall and hauled in a breath, trying hard to steady herself as she gave Celeste a broken smile.
“You love ‘im?” Celeste asked her, her eyes full of sympathy and understanding.
Violette shrugged, a defeated, hopeless gesture. “I ... I don’t know,” she stammered, wiping her face with the back of one hand. “But I could. I know that I could, so very easily.”
***
Charlie shuffled from foot to foot, nerves keeping him moving as the crowd milled around them. The last bout had just finished and there was one more before the Gentleman Gravedigger was due to take to the ring.
The marquess was here somewhere, and Charlie’s keen eyes scanned the darkness. The Earl of Falmouth stood at his back, though no one would take him for a peer if they saw him now. Dressed in cheap, coarse cloth and with a grubby neckerchief tied at a jaunty angle, he looked every bit as disreputable as the band of cut-throats that had assembled around the fellow - ready to do his bidding. Charlie had no idea who, or indeed what, the Earl truly was, but he was quite happy not to get in the fellow’s way, thank you very much.
“You see him yet?” Falmouth asked, his voice low.
Charlie shook his head. “Nah,” he said, turning in a half circle. “Wait ...”
Using the Earl’s heavy shoulder as leverage, he hauled himself up onto a wall that separated a private yard from the large space everyone had gathered around to watch the fight. Now that he had a better vantage point, he looked over the crowd and found once more the familiar, rugged face that had caught his attention. “There!” Charlie hissed to Falmouth, whose sharp grey eyes followed his gaze.
“Big fellow, dirty brown hair, and shoulders like an ox?” Alex queried, to which Charlie gave a snort of amusement.
“That’s the fellow.”
“Got him,” Alex nodded. “Mousy.” He jerked his head towards the giant beside him, who returned a gleeful grin and began to move forward. Fanning out across the crowd, Alex, Charlie, and three of his men followed Mousy, who in turn gave the nod to others who had been stationed around the previously open space.
Charlie craned his neck up and cursed the fact he seemed to be a good foot shorter than everyone else around him. They were moving away from the fight, which had just begun, as the crowd began to roar and shout, either abuse or encouragement, though the two sounded remarkably similar.
At the edge, close to the corner of St Martin’s street, the marquess had started stripping off his jacket, ready for his bout. Casting his eyes about and feeling the same prickle of anxiety that had saved his skin a time or two in France, Charlie noticed three big men moving out of the shadows towards Eddie, each one with a heavy cosh in hand.
Reaching out he grasped Falmouth’s arm and pointed.
“Mousy!” Falmouth called. “Starboard, enemy sighted.”
It was clear to Charlie that Mousy needed no encouragement as he took to his heels with surprising speed for a man of his size and girth, barging through the crowd like an enraged elephant. With a roar of what sounded to Charlie’s ringing eardrums suspiciously like glee, Mousy felled the first fellow with a mighty blow that dropped him like sapling beneath an axe, and took on the other two with aplomb.
“Well, blimey,” Charlie said, scratching his head and watching the three men exchanging blows and curses. “Shall we go ‘ome, then?” he said, feeling a trifle superfluous.
“Not just yet, my friend,” Falmouth said with a grin as other dark shapes detached themselves from the shadows. Gabriel Greyston clearly wasn’t taking any chances that the seventh Earl should turn up like the proverbial bad penny for a third time.
Charlie gave a crow of delight and leapt forward, throwing himself upon a fellow who had decided to give the marquess a blow on the back of the head before he’d even realised he was in danger.
Eddie spun around and stared at him as Charlie hit the ground and dealt a vicious stinger to the fellow beneath him who yelped in pain. “Tol’ ye, you was in danger, ye great lummox!” he shouted at the stunned marquess, who took one look at the chaos breaking out around him ... and leapt into the fray.
***
Aubrey headed to Blue Cross Street with his head full of everything Dolly had said to him. She was right, of course. He’d spent too much of his life letting things happen to him. He played by the rules, he was polite, and he tried to keep everyone happy as far as he was able. But not everybody was happy. No one could ever keep everyone happy. Not at one and the same time, at any rate. Especially when one’s father went out of his way to be the opposite of happy. Come to think of it, Aubrey couldn’t ever remember when his father had been in a good humour.
It had never occurred to him to wonder before, but could it be ... that his father didn’t particularly like anyone? Well, except for the occasional boxer. Watching a particularly rousing turn up, many of which Aubrey had been dragged to as a lad, was the only thing that seemed to awaken any kind of emotion in the man. The idea that maybe ... maybe it wasn’t just Aubrey that made the man so dour and harsh, but simply part of his nature, was something of a revelation.
Aubrey found himself quickening his pace and feeling rather lighter than he had for some time. Alex ought to be at Blue Cross Street by now, and he intended to be in attendance when the mysterious seventh marquess was finally run to ground.
When Aubrey turned the corner of St Martin’s however, his jaw dropped open at the scene in front of him, as something of a riot had appeared to have broken out.
Wondering where the devil his cousin was, he turned and saw Falmouth trying to fend off two murderous-looking brutes just as one struck him clean in the solar plexus. Not liking the odds, Aubrey ran forward and grabbed hold of the fellow’s friend, who was about to follow up with a swift knee to the head as Falmouth doubled over. Drawing back his right fist he felt the years since he had been forced to spend his days training with his father fall into place. There was a repulsive, if rather gratifying, crunch and a yell of pain as his fist connected with the fellow’s nose, and he crumpled to the ground.
“Aubrey!” Falmouth exclaimed, his grey eyes alight with exhilaration as he watched Aubrey’s prey hit the cobbles. “You have a tremendous right,” he noted with deep approval, before ducking and clouting his own opponent so hard he went staggering back into the crowd.
Aubrey grinned at him and nodded. “The left’s not too shabby either,” he said with a wink.
The next moments became something of a blur of grunts and fists and some downright dirty fighting that wouldn’t have been allowed at Jackson’s but were clearly de rigueur on Blue Cross Street.
Having successfully felled another opponent with some style and only a blackened eye to show for his trouble, Aubrey gave
the fellow whose nose he’d broken a second go and knocked him out cold before stumbling backward and getting pushed away with a yell of outrage.
Turning he met a wild eyed, crazed looking brute of a fellow with dirty brown hair and shoulders that suggested that Aubrey might well have met his match. The look in the brute’s eyes suggested that he was possibly unhinged and certainly out for blood. That being the case, Aubrey braced himself, kept the building at the corner of St Martin’s at his back, and had no compunction whatsoever in side-stepping the raging bull and running him head first into the wall.
“Bleedin’ ‘ell!” came an indignant shout from behind Aubrey as he turned to see Charlie glaring at him with fury. “I thought you was on our side?” he yelled over the chaos.
“I am!” Aubrey replied with surprise, staring at the fellow in annoyance.
“You could ‘ave fooled me!” Charlie replied, pointing at the man who was groaning and clutching his head. “That’s the bloody marquess.”
Aubrey turned in horror and looked down as he realised the fellow was right and he was staring straight at Edward Greyston.
Dark green eyes that were strangely familiar stared back at him, but with such a haunted, hunted look he caught his breath.
“Come now, my lord,” Charlie said, his voice soft like he was gentling a horse. “You must see now, I ain’t pithing no gammon. You really is the Marquess of Winterbourne.”
The fellow stared back at Aubrey, and then at Charlie, his eyes filled with some unnamed terror ... and then took to his heels.
“After him!” Charlie cried.
Aubrey spared a glance around to see Falmouth was still on his feet and on form and joined in the pursuit.
Chapter 12
“Wherein the dead walk again ... or at least lay in bed and complain. A lot.”
Nearly Ruining Mr. Russell Page 10