“It would be my honor, Miss Aldridge.” With that, Crowden rode through the gate and out into the London traffic; she and Bran sat in silence, watching him go before turning back to where Worthing and Ella rode.
“Do not speak to me!” Velvet warned as Bran came along side her.
He realized he should apologize for his odd behavior, but for the life of him, Bran had enjoyed sending Crowden away–for once, he held the upper hand. He simply let his mount fall into an easy walk and tried to ignore Velvet’s ire. They rode in silence for a few minutes. “Velvet,” his voice was soft, caressing the air around her. “You are too precious to me; I must protect you.”
She stopped suddenly, sending his horse several steps ahead of hers, forcing him to circle back to where she sat. “That is just it, Bran. I do not need your protection: I never did–not from you and not from Ella. I am not a porcelain doll to cherish and to place upon a shelf and never touch.” Velvet kicked the horse’s flanks and galloped away.
Dutifully, Bran followed, his focus purely on Velvet’s retreating form, so when the shot rang out his body visually recoiled by instinct; yet, he did not pause for even a second. He kicked his horse harder, lunging forward, needing to protect her. However, Velvet pulled up–the noise of second round of fire creating an explosion of birds from the tree line and a complete halt to all the park’s activity as everyone turned to see what had happened.
“Are you safe?” Bran demanded as he reined in his horse beside her.
“Yes,” she barked, but her gaze fell not on him; it watched an animal buck and twist, trying to throw its owner. “Look!” Velvet’s arm snapped up in a straight-arm salute, directing Bran’s attention to the crisis unfolding a hectometer away.
“Ella!” he screamed and was in motion immediately.
The scene played out in slow motion as he raced towards her. He observed Kerrington’s fall from his horse, and his evident injury, and then he saw his best friend scramble to his feet, trying to reach Ella, whose horse bucked and turned, determined to dislodge her from its back. Kerrington mounted in one swift movement, preparing to give chase. Along the periphery of his own vision, Bran glimpsed a man running towards the far side of the park, and as Bran closed in on Ella, he knew that when the viscount veered off, it was the culprit Kerrington chased, leaving Ella to Bran’s care. Ella’s horse charged at him at a full gallop.
Velvet raced after Bran, trying to reach Ella before her cousin lost her balance and landed broken on the ground. She wondered how something so chaotic could happen in London. The shot initially caused her to cringe, remembering the sting and the blood from her own close call, but she knew that she had to protect Ella and had to respond to Bran’s pure panic. She leaned sideways across the mare’s neck, clutching the horse’s mane as much as the reins.
Bran raced towards his sister, self-recrimination riding on his shoulder, telling him if something happened to Ella it was his fault. He saw Worthing abandon Eleanor to him as the viscount chased what Bran supposed to be the perpetrator. Rocking back and forth in the saddle, Ella fought for command over the mare. A woman of less horse experience would be lying broken upon the ground by now. He prayed to be in time–to be able to save his sister. Yet, less than a street length from her, with momentary relief, Bran observed another rider reaching for Ella’s reins, forcing her mare to a stand still. Coming closer, Bran hit the ground running, not even waiting for his horse to come to a complete stop. In one fell swoop, he pulled her from the saddle, lifting Ella to him, feeling her safely pressed in his embrace. “Ella, oh, Ella,” he cooed as he kissed the side of her head, shoving her hat away where he might see her face. “Oh, God, Ella!” Bran clutched her to him again. Heart racing, he looked over her shoulder at her rescuer, dismounting from his own horse.
Reaching the scene, at last, Velvet unceremoniously slid from her horse and raced to her cousins. Bran simply opened his arms and took her into his care. Breathing erratically, they simply clung to each other–needing no one else. Bran kissed first Ella’s temple and then Velvet’s forehead, feeling the relief of knowing they were safely in his arms. Although they hung back, a crowd gathered, observing the unusual activities. As they were new in town, no one knew the gentleman or the two ladies who occupied his embrace.
“Are you well, Miss?” the stranger stood with beaver in hand before them.
Bran finally opened his eyes to assess the situation. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, he lowered his head to where he could speak to Ella only. He whispered, “May I release you to Velvet’s care so I might deal with your rescuer?”
Ella nodded her assent, and Bran loosened his hold on both women. He made purposeful eye contact with Velvet, silently instructing her to protect his sister, and then he stepped away from them, first slipping his handkerchief into Velvet’s hand. Walking towards the stranger, Bran took control of the situation. He needed to handle Ella’s rescuer and then disperse the gathering crowd. He wanted no more scandal associated with his family name. “My sister and I owe you our eternal gratitude, Sir.” Out of his eye’s corner, he saw Velvet assisting Ella in repairing her appearance as he bowed to the gentleman.
The man returned the bow. “My reward is your sister’s safety.”
“I am Thornhill.”
“Thornhill?” The stranger stood agape. “The Duke of Thornhill?”
Bran’s eyebrow rose in awareness. “I fear you have me at a disadvantage, Sir.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace. I am Levering. I did not realize you had assumed your father’s position. My parents were great friends of the former duke.”
“Sir Louis?” Velvet heard the familiar voice and turned to her cousin. “Lady Eleanor and I did not know you were in London. Look, Ella, your rescuer is Louis Levering. How many years has it been since we last saw you?” She gave him the obligatory curtsy.
“Before my Grand Tour, Miss Aldridge, nearly six years ago.”
Bran noticed immediately how his sister’s body stiffened when Velvet announced Levering as her rescuer. Instead of being relieved first by surviving the incident and secondly to know her savior, Ella physically fought for emotional control. Bran recognized how fear gripped her, and he took a protective step towards her. Ella turned, a forced smile on her lips. “Sir Louis, how do I express my appreciation? You came at just the right moment, and to consider the irony of our former acquaintance.”
“I am certain His Grace would have done as well. Your brother was only seconds behind.” The man’s face showed nothing but concern for Eleanor’s safety, but Bran heard the insinuation hidden in his tone. Something was not right; he did not even know this man, but Levering delivered a back door insult.
Needing to assess the true situation, Bran plastered on his own fake smile and said, “You must permit us, Levering, to offer you our hospitality at Briar House. As you are already familiar with my family, it will be a homecoming of sort.”
Before Levering could accept, Worthing rode up. Dusty and bleeding from behind his ear, he slipped from the saddle and caught Ella up in his arms, a pronounced break with propriety. “Thank God, His Grace reached you in time.” Levering’s obvious frown spoke volumes to an interested third party, namely Brantley Fowler.
Ella judiciously backed out of Kerrington’s embrace, but she remained close to him. Bran realized how she sought Worthing’s protection. He needed to find out why Eleanor feared Sir Louis Levering. Instinctively, he knew it had something to do with their late father, and the thought of how Ella could have suffered at the Duke’s hands enflamed him.
Ella, seeing the trickle of blood coming from Worthing’s wound stifled a gasp before pressing her handkerchief to his head. “Actually,” she told Kerrington, a flush of color covering her countenance, “Sir Louis reached me before Brantley.”
Turning decidedly, Kerrington offered the man a painful bow. “As I am certain His Grace has done, I offer my thanks for Lady Eleanor’s protection.”
“Sir Louis is one of our ne
ighbors’ sons,” Velvet explained, totally oblivious to the drama playing out before her. “The Leverings assumed possession of the Huntingborne Abbey several years ago. I believe it has been a little over two years since you inherited with your dear father’s passing. Is that not correct, Sir?”
“I could not have said it better, Miss Aldridge. You are a purveyor of the latest news in our little section of the world.” Again, the man’s tone said nothing, but his words came close to impertinence, and both Bran and Worthing reacted to the implied insult with a shift in their own bearings.
“Viscount Worthing,” Bran purposely used his best friend’s second title as an earl’s son, “may I present Sir Louis Levering. Levering, the Honorable Lord Worthing.”
Bran’s purposely let Levering know his “social” place, and he noted Worthing’s amusement at the ploy. They had fought together under the worst of conditions, and Kerrington would need no translation of the unspoken words: I dislike Levering as much as you do, old Friend. However, good breeding on both their parts had allowed Bran to take the high road and had permitted Worthing to return the obligatory bow.
“If you will excuse me, Your Grace, now that we know everyone is safe, I have appointments to which to attend.” Their combined disdain affected Levering–much to Bran’s pleasure.
Bran simply nodded. “Of course, Sir Louis. Thank you again for your efforts.” He came close to saying for your interference.
Boldly, Levering stepped forward and took Velvet’s hand and brought it to his lips for the traditional air kiss, and then he turned his full attention on Ella. Instead of a kiss several inches above her knuckles, Sir Louis brought Ella’s hand to his mouth and held it there for several seconds before releasing it. “Lady Eleanor, may I call in the next few days to assure myself that you did not suffer from this episode?” Bran noted how Kerrington’s hands fisted at his side when the man took Ella’s fingers in his. Bran knew the feeling. He gritted his teeth when the “slimy” Sir Louis touched his Velvet, but the bounder turned his real attention on Eleanor. Bran wanted to jerk him away from Ella and pound him in the ground. It was an irrational reaction after Levering’s recent heroics, but something about Sir Louis brought those responses.
“Of course, Sir Louis.” Ella discreetly withdrew her hand. Both Bran and James watched the interplay carefully.
Looking about him and bidding the group a collective farewell, Levering strode to his horse, mounted, and rode away.
“Let us see you home.” Ella immediately became concerned about Worthing’s arm.
“I will find my own way,” Worthing began, but a collective “No” from the Fowler party told him not to do the gallant thing. Bran leaned in to say, “We must talk. Let my sister tend you. It will help her deal with this.” Worthing nodded and mounted his horse.
Bran prepared to lift Velvet to her saddle. “We will ride with Ella to Worthing Hall. She feels a need to tend to Lord Worthing, and I wish to know exactly what happened.”
“Was it not an accident?” She seemed confused.
Bran caught her slim waist and easily placed her in the saddle. As he positioned the stirrups for her feet, he spoke softly. “It does not appear so.” Velvet started to react, but a direct stare from Bran silenced her immediately. “Ride beside me when we leave the park. I need to know you are safe.”
The stare softened. She saw the anguish of the last few minutes cross his face, and all her earlier anger fled. “Of course, Your Grace.”
Ella stood beside her mare, the horse now lazily nibbling on a nearby bush. She held the reins and patted the animal’s neck, assuring no repeat of a few moments ago. Before he placed her in the sidesaddle, Bran checked the animal’s front hoof. “Worthing says the bullet landed close to your mount’s foot.”
If she did not stand beside him, Ella might not have heard–he spoke so softly. “Is Lord Worthing able to ride?”
Bran smiled at her words. His sister’s attachment to Kerrington grew. “His Lordship probably has more than his fair share of cuts and bruises, but I have seen him in worst shape.” Bran lowered the horse’s leg and turned to lift his sister to the saddle. “Can you handle her?” He indicated the horse. Ella’s frown told him she resented his words, which is what he expected when he spoke them.
“Do you doubt me, Brantley?”
“The man who doubts your ability to ride a horse–to play chess–to run an estate–to survive–that man would be a complete fool. People over the years have called me many names, but ‘fool’ has never been one of them. Doubting Eleanor Fowler? Never!”
Chapter 7
When Kerrington and the Fowlers entered Worthing Hall fifteen minutes later, His Lordship’s staff snapped into a quick response. Ella, used to commanding her own household, demanded bandages and oil of chamomile be brought at once, while Worthing tried to order tea and refreshments. Ultimately, Ella won out, and Bran found it mildly amusing to watch his former “captain” resign himself to her ministrations on his behalf. Cutting away his shirtsleeve, Ella tended the torn flesh of his upper arm and the cut behind his ear, before addressing a bruise along his temple. A little later, once the servants had withdrawn, having finally brought the service for which Kerrington had asked, Bran turned to his friend. “What did you see today?”
Ella did not appear surprised by Bran’s question, but Velvet, all at once, felt the apprehensions of the others. “I...do not understand, Bran,” she stammered.
Bran’s frustration returned. Not being able to control everything in his grasp took its toll on his reserves. “You earlier declared at the top of your lungs that we should stop protecting you, Cousin,” his distress unhidden. “Then use your pretty head for something besides fairy tales. You heard the shots; I saw your body react to it. That was the third time in less than a month; even you must understand this was not a coincidence.” Velvet’s eyes grew in size with his accusation, but she remained silent. Bran turned back to his friend. “Now, Worthing, what happened?
“A man shot at your sister and me from the tree line. I saw him at the last second so I had no way of warning Lady Eleanor.”
“Therefore, you jumped in front of me?” Ella’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“You understand, Lady Eleanor, that I could do nothing less.” Their eyes rested on each other for several raxed seconds before the viscount continued. “When I remounted, I saw His Grace closing on where you fought with the mare so I gave chase to the gunman.”
“From the looks of your clothes, I assume you found him,” Bran observed.
“I managed to wrestle the man to the ground, but an accomplice pulled a gun on me. They escaped in a small black coach with a red stripe across the back where the luggage might be strapped to the carriage.”
Bran filed the information away for later use. “Did you recognize either of them?”
“The accomplice wore a makeshift mask made from his cravat, but he had an unusual shade of eyes–nearly a black brown–his hair a chocolate color–and he spoke only French.”
“And the gunman?” Bran prompted.
“I observed him when I escorted your family to the Royal Academy. I had hoped I was wrong, and his interest in the same exhibits as us was purely coincidental; but that is why I noticed him today. When I noted him at the gallery, I thought swarthy–dark complected, sable hair and eyes.”
“A Baloch?” Bran made the necessary connections.
Worthing considered his response. “Quite likely–at least, in appearance.”
Bran pondered his next assumption. “Then one of us is the target, and through us, our families.”
“If one of us is the target, then why did the gunman simply strike me down? Why not, at least, take me prisoner? And the Frenchman, his accent was more British, and he used only basic French.”
“None of it makes any sense.” Bran strode to the window and glanced outside, looking for another possibility.
Ella ventured, “Maybe we should return to Thorn Hall until everyth
ing is safe.”
“Attacks came at Thorn Hall also,” Bran reasoned.
“What if someone is hurt next time?” Velvet now understood some of what had occurred.
Bran assured them, “We have contacts working on this, and we have some ideas.”
“Who are we exactly?” Ella required.
Bran caught Worthing’s eye before continuing. “The men with whom I served during my private service: Lord Worthing, of course: the Marquis; Carter Lowery, second son of Baron Blakehell; Baron Swenton; Marcus Wellston, third son of the Earl of Berwick; and Viscount Lexford. All have been alerted to the possibility that someone seeks revenge for our previous life.”
“But why now?” Ella’s quick mind had already accepted her brother’s assumptions and had moved on to the matter’s crux. Velvet, on the other hand, appeared more confused than ever. Her mouth twisted in a tight line. “It has been five years since your service.”
Kerrington answered, “We are coming into our estates or, as with Lowery, our positions in government. Our names and wealth are more well known.”
“So no matter what–all seven of you could be targets?” Ella surmised.
“Exactly, my Lady,” Worthing summarized.
Her words and Worthing’s answer sent a shiver down Velvet’s back. This was no game; it was serious. She knew little of Bran’s former life other than he was some sort of mercenary. Ella, obviously, knew more than she had ever shared with Velvet. They would have a private talk later. Impulsively, Velvet moved up beside Bran and slipped her hand into his. With relief, she felt him squeeze it.
Bran knew any other information would have to wait until he and the viscount could speak privately. “I shall escort my family home, Worthing. We have experienced enough excitement for one day.”
“Thank you, Lord Worthing,” Ella joined him as they prepared to leave.
Realm 02 - A Touch of Velvet Page 12