by Gayle Buck
“Now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me-” He turned to cross the threshold into the study.
The fist caught him full on the jaw and set him staggering back.
“What the devil!” Viscount Waithe whirled to stare in shocked disbelief at Sir Charles, who was coolly flexing his hand. “Are you mad, Charles?”
Sir Charles did not spare him even a glance. He followed Mr. Hawkins into the study. His narrowed eyes were trained on the gentleman, who was shaking the daze from his head. “Not at all, Percy. Ah, just as I thought.”
With a roar, Mr. Hawkins rushed at Sir Charles. The two connected with a crash of bone and muscle.
The next few minutes were confusing ones. Viscount Waithe looked on with appalled fascination while his two best friends brutally slugged one another without regard to the finer points of the pugilistic sport.
A scream captured his attention, and he glanced around with an irritated frown to discover several servants gathered at the study door. Perceiving clearly his duty, Viscount Waithe pushed them all out and closed and locked the door. He dropped the key into his pocket.
When it was all done, the combatants dropped exhausted into wingback chairs. Viscount Waithe solicitously supplied each with a glass of wine. He grinned as he saw their twin grimaces as the wine burned their cut lips. He replaced the decanter and waited with great interest for the other two gentlemen to speak.
“Thank you, Charles,” said Mr. Hawkins finally. His bloodied mouth twisted as he gingerly examined a bruised cheekbone with cautious fingertips. “I think.”
“Not at all, dear fellow.” Sir Charles grimaced down at his torn and bloodied self. “I do detest exertion of this sort.”
“Your sartorial splendor is no more,” Mr. Hawkins observed.
“I don’t know when I have seen a better turnout,” said Viscount Waithe, settling himself on the corner of the desk and swinging his booted foot.
There came a hesitant knocking on the study door. The butler’s voice was plainly recognizable. “Sir? Do you care for anything?”
Raising his voice slightly, Mr. Hawkins said succinctly, “Go away.”
“Very good, sir.” The disembodied voice conveyed disapproval.
Inside the study, the gentlemen laughed. Viscount Waithe withdrew the key from his pocket and held it aloft. “Shall I unlock the door?”
“As you wish, Percy.”
“I shan’t, then. I don’t fancy a lot of curious faces popping in with one excuse or another,” Viscount Waithe said, dropping the key back into his pocket. He looked over at his cousin. “I suppose that there is nothing that I can do?”
Mr. Hawkins shook his head, his lips twisting in a humorless smile. “Thank you, Percy. But unless you might somehow call back Miss Dower’s declaration of yesterday evening, I do not think that there is anything to the purpose.”
“Damnation! Why did that court card ever come to Bath?” muttered Viscount Waithe with a scowl, staring at his toe.
“It is certainly odd that his lordship should suddenly take it into his head to journey to Bath, and especially during the Season,” Sir Charles agreed. “Lord Hughes is a gentleman given over to the pursuit of his own pleasure, and he is known rarely to leave London.”
“What is odd in that? We came down to Bath,” Viscount Waithe pointed out.
“But we came down for the fisticuffs and then remained because our friend showed us such excellent entertainment,” said Sir Charles. “I hardly think that the cases could be said to be the same.”
Mr. Hawkins had been listening to the idle argument with a gathering thoughtful attention. “You have the right of it, Charles. Lord Hughes had a specific goal in mind when he made this pilgrimage, and there is something that yet holds him here.”
“Perhaps it is Lady Pomerancy?” Viscount Waithe suggested tentatively. Before his companions could remark on it, he himself rejected the notion. “I cannot believe that is true, for they do not seem to like one another above half, do they? In point of fact, I would lay odds that Lady Pomerancy would be delighted to hear of his lordship’s shaking the dust of Bath from his feet.”
“No one with sense would accept that wager,” said Mr. Hawkins humorously.
Viscount Waithe and Sir Charles laughed.
Viscount Waithe shook his head, still grinning, and said, “Lord, did you chance to see her ladyship’s face when Lord Hughes acknowledged that he was betrothed to Miss Dower? She started to say something, then snapped shut her mouth. I feared she would have apoplexy on the spot.”
Mr. Hawkins’s gaze sharpened. “What did my grandmother say?”
Viscount Waithe shook his head. “I did not quite catch it. It did not make a bit of sense. It sounded as though she said she should have known that he could not be trusted.”
Mr. Hawkins was silent for a long moment. When he looked up again to meet his friends’ eyes, he managed to smile. “It appears that I should speak with Lady Pomerancy. She might be able to enlighten me on certain points.”
“I do not believe that her ladyship would work in any way to your harm, Peter,” Viscount Waithe said.
“Perhaps not. However, she would go to great lengths to establish what she perceived to be best for me.” Mr. Hawkins sighed, running his hand gingerly over his battered face. “It has all grown so complicated. I don’t know what to think about any of it anymore. I thought I was going about it the right way to win Miss Dower’s affections. Throughout I have acted to the best of my honor. Instead of winning my lady, I have lost her to Lord Hughes, who is a libertine and a patently selfish character.”
“Females are odd creatures at best,” commented Sir Charles. “One only has to look at how they place such emphasis upon expressions of affection to realize it. I imagine that Lord Hughes played upon Miss Dower’s romantic sensibilities in just such a fashion.”
“A lady as unsophisticated and unspoiled as Miss Dower could not hope to prove a match for one of his lordship’s wide experience in the art of seduction,” Viscount Waithe agreed with melancholy.
“What you are telling me, Percy, is that I could not prove a match for Lord Hughes and his tactics,” said Mr. Hawkins slowly.
Viscount Waithe looked taken aback, and said hastily, “I never meant any such thing, Peter. Why, you are a fair dab with the ladies yourself. Always popular. Anyone could tell you so.”
Mr. Hawkins threw up his hand. “Never mind, Percy. I know you meant nothing of insult by it. It is a valid observation, however. Certainly you have set in motion an original train of thought.” He stood up, setting aside his wineglass. “The key, Percy. You both have come for breakfast and I have been a negligent host. However, I should like to clean myself up after that little bout before I join you at table.”
“And I,” said Sir Charles, rising indolently to his feet. He grimaced down at himself. “My man will fall to weeping when he lays eyes on this coat. It was quite his favorite.”
Viscount Waithe unlocked the door, chuckling while he did so. “He may give notice on the instant.”
“I trust not. One cannot hope to put up a decent appearance without the ministrations of a talented valet. I suppose I shall be forced to bribe him to stay,” said Sir Charles. He considered a moment and sighed. “Undoubtedly I shall have to bribe him. What a deuced nuisance.”
The gentlemen left the study, Mr. Hawkins and the viscount laughing.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The assembly was much like any other that Evelyn had attended in Bath. The company was agreeable and willing to entertain and be entertained. The ladies were gowned elegantly and the gentlemen appeared sophisticated in well-tailored evening coats and breeches.
Evelyn herself laughed and talked and danced, as had always been her wont. Despite her apparent spirits, her heart was heavy. She had not slept well for several nights, tossing and turning on her pillows as over and over her tired mind grappled with the horrid coil that she had inexplicably gotten herself tangled up in. She could scarcely believe t
hat she had entered into a betrothal with Lord Hughes.
When she had risen, her eyes had felt grainy from lack of rest and tears. She had endured each day as well as she could, and though she was aware that she had been to several functions, none now stood out in her memory. She had listlessly begged off receiving callers, and her mother had not pressed her.
Evelyn closed her burning eyes momentarily against the brilliance of me numerous lighted candelabras. When she opened them, she saw Peter Hawkins enter the ballroom. She had been waiting for sight of him, and her heart gave a painful leap at his appearance. His leonine blond head was bent courteously to the shorter gentleman who had claimed his attention. Mr. Hawkins’s lean virility was set off to distinction by his dark evening clothes, bringing a fluttering pulse to Evelyn’s throat.
She waited hopefully for him to come over to speak to her, even not knowing what she might say to him. As the evening wore on and he did not make an attempt to greet her, hope withered and died in her breast. He despised her, she thought numbly. It was a further blow to her state of mind.
She tried to dismiss the depression that settled like a gray pall over her and threw herself into the dancing and outrageous flirtations. Her circle of suitors stirred with admiration of her vivaciousness and beauty.
Sir Charles was perhaps not quite as attentive as he had been heretofore, but Evelyn scarcely noticed. She danced with the gentleman and smiled dazzlingly at his whispered compliments, but she hardly heard what he said. When he handed her back into the care of her mother and took his leave, Evelyn felt obliquely relieved.
Viscount Waithe was also in attendance, and Evelyn accepted his invitation to dance with gratitude, certain that with him at least she could relax and not pretend to a light-heartedness that was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain.
However, Viscount Waithe was not the uncritical partner that she had assumed that he would be. He spoke disapprovingly of her betrothal, saying, “That fellow is old enough to be your father, and his reputation is raddled to boot. Whatever possessed you, Evelyn?”
“Percy, please let us not argue,” Evelyn begged. Her head had begun to ache, the pain settling grimly behind her burning eyes.
“Of course we shan’t,” he said stiffly. “It is just that I cannot accept the thought of such an ignoble match for you when Pe—when there are any number of others.”
“Oh, let me be, Percy!”
But Viscount Waithe was intent on pursuing his course and ignored the warning signals in her flashing eyes. He was determined as a friend to bring her to her senses. “Evelyn, you cannot know what a bounder Lord Hughes is. He will make you the devil of a husband, I promise you. My advice to you is to jilt the fellow before it is too late. No one would think the worse of you. Why, everyone knows what his lordship is like and—”
Evelyn drew away, breaking step. “That is quite enough, my lord! I think that I should like to be returned to my chair,” she said coldly.
Viscount Waithe was momentarily taken aback by her glacial rebuff. Then his expression smoothed and he said, excessively polite, “Of course, Miss Dower. I shall be more than happy to do so.” Without any deference to protocol or convention he instantly whisked her back to her seat.
Evelyn sank down on the chair with a smothered sigh. She nodded in response to Viscount Waithe’s rigid bow, but she did not watch as he took himself off. Instead, she closed her eyes for a moment, her hands pressed to her temples.
Mrs. Dower was still seated in her own chair. She had not danced once that evening. She did not acknowledge her daughter’s return, but pleated the folds of her skirt between her fingers.
When Evelyn turned to her, she saw that her mother’s normally placid expression had been replaced by one of unusual strain. “Mama, you do not appear in the best of spirits this evening.”
Evelyn was astonished and hurt by her mother’s instant rebuff.
“Pray do not address me. I am still extremely upset with you, Evelyn, and I do not wish to be here.”
Evelyn felt the tears crowding behind her eyes. Her mother had been very quiet ever since that disastrous evening, but she had not been actively unkind before. Evelyn said unsteadily, “I am sorry, Mama. I did not realize that you were so out of curl. If I had known, I would not have suggested that we come tonight. Why did you not tell me that you would have preferred to remain at home?”
“If you must know, I am only here because you require a chaperon and I know my duty.” Mrs. Dower searched for her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “But I do not have to like it, nor do I intend to do so. How you could be so thoughtless and provoking and—and—” Words appeared to fail her. She turned her shoulder on her daughter.
Evelyn sighed. She was tired and her head was coming to pound abominably. Nothing was right. Unhappiness pervaded her thoughts. She had lost Peter Hawkins, entered unintentionally into a distasteful betrothal, driven away her friends, and made her mother cry.
Evelyn watched the dancing and heard the laughter and congenial buzz of conversation. The stark contrast between the frivolity of the gathering and what she was feeling was nearly unbearable. It was a horrible evening. It was quite the horridest time that she had ever had.
Evelyn refused the next few dances, pleading the headache. The inexorable pounding soon crowded out any desire to put up a sociable front.
Several minutes before, Mrs. Loweling, a friend of Mrs. Dower’s, had seated herself beside Mrs. Dower, and the ladies had entered into conversation. Evelyn quietly broke in to inform her mother that she had decided to go home early. “I have the headache and so I am not in a particularly festive frame of mind,” she said, attempting a smile.
“You do appear pulled, Miss Dower,” said Mrs. Loweling, sympathetically regarding her overly pale countenance.
“Of course, Evelyn. I shall accompany you at once,” said Mrs. Dower coolly.
Evelyn stopped her mother from rising. She did not think that she could stand the cold civility with which her mother was treating her. “Oh, you must not cut short your own enjoyment on my behalf, Mama. There is no need, for I mean to go straight off to bed. I shall send the carriage back for you.”
“If you are certain, dear,” said Mrs. Dower.
Evelyn assured her that she was, and her mother acquiesced. Mrs. Dower turned back to Mrs. Loweling to pick up the thread of their conversation. Evelyn wavered, feeling curiously bereft. Then, swiftly, she turned away. She did not see that Mrs. Dower’s eyes followed her.
Evelyn sought out her hostess to make her brief apologies and then left the ballroom. Outside, the night air felt wonderful on Evelyn’s heated brow, and she paused a moment before going to summon the carriage.
Suddenly a woolen cover was thrown over her head. She gave a choked cry, but was quickly silenced when a rough hand clamped over her face, pressing the cloth suffocatingly close over her nose and mouth. She was lifted off the ground, her mouth covered and her arms held pinned to her sides, and carried helplessly to an unknown destination.
Evelyn was tossed unceremoniously into a carriage onto the seat. The door was slammed. The carriage jerked forward as the horses were whipped up, and Evelyn tumbled onto the floor.
Evelyn tore off the blinding woolen hood. She scrambled over to the door and tried to open it, but it was latched from the outside and would not budge despite her frantic attempts. She banged on the door, screaming for someone to release her. But it was all futile. Next she tried the windows, but they, too, had been fixed not to open from the inside.
Evelyn curled up tightly on the seat in one corner. Unheeded tears coursed down her cheeks. She was stunned and terrified. She could scarcely believe it was all real, that there had not been some ghastly mistake, or that she would not waken safely in her own bed from a very bad dream.
But she did not waken. The terrible nightmare went on and on, the din of hooves and wheels the only accompaniment to her anguished thoughts. As time passed, she knew with despair that she was being carried
away from Bath, away from her mother and her home.
Once, then twice, the carriage slowed. Each time, Evelyn sat up straighter, stiffening with fear as she expected one of the doors to be wrenched open. But both occasions were false alarms, which left her already stretched nerves quite shattered.
Evelyn bitterly regretted now having so emphatically rejected Mr. Hawkins’s self-appointed protection. If only! If only! Her thoughts chanted in rhythm with the carriage wheels. But Mr. Hawkins would not come to her rescue. She had pushed him away and he no longer even liked her. Somehow that was worse than all the rest. She fell over onto her face on the seat and wept.
Evelyn did not know how long it was before she felt the carriage come to a stop. She sat up, hastily wiping her eyes and cheeks. She would not give her abductor the satisfaction of seeing her in tears.
When the door was opened, she was sitting composedly on the seat. Not a word was spoken but a gloved hand was held out to her in command.
Evelyn rose. Disdaining to accept the proffered help from the carriage, she ducked out and stepped down to the ground. She had a fleeting impression of moonlight and that the shadow of a building was before her. Then another hood came down over her head. She cried out, her hands rising to thrust off the terrifying blindness, but her wrists were caught in a hard grip and she was flung over a wide shoulder.
She kicked and struggled, but to no avail. In the darkness of her cloth prison she heard a door open, low voices, the swift thud of her captor’s boots as she was carried into the building.
Another door was opened.
Suddenly she was dropped onto something yielding. Stunned, she heard her carrier step away, the sharp closing of a door. Evelyn sat up and ripped off the hood. She looked about her wildly.
Her surroundings were sinisterly familiar, which but made her situation all the more fearful. She was sitting on a silk-covered settee in a tastefully furnished private parlor. A fire was lit on the hearth and cast somber shadows over expensively papered walls. Walls that were discordantly bare of pictures or mirrors or other decoration.