Cathryn answered firmly. “No. She’s in the music room.”
Rune paused. “Does she need to know?”
Julian laughed again, and Cathryn shot both men a hard look as she said, “Of course you must tell her.”
“The eye tells half the story in any case,” Julian added with a grin.
“I know, I know. I’m only kidding, Cathryn.” He continued on his course. “I only hope she has a sense of humor about the incident.”
Cathryn turned on Julian and he scrambled to read her expression. Not rage—that was good. Nor amusement—pity that. “Do you regret my interrupting you and Fiona?”
“No, love, no.” Jealousy. Well, that was all right, and to be expected.
“Would you have told me about your encounter if I hadn’t?”
He rose slowly to pour them drinks, eager to end the discussion. “Of course, love, every detail.”
She came to stand beside him. “You haven’t yet told me every detail, and I’m not certain I want the precise images in my memory, so I am absolving you of all blame.”
Relief washed over him. He had carried a bit of guilt over enjoying Fiona in her thin nightgown.
“You were drugged and she was socked.” She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Just be certain it never happens again.”
Easy forgiveness and no more questions. Cathryn might well be the perfect woman.
Chapter Fifteen
Giles dropped a six-inch stack of newspapers onto the cherry table and nodded to Cathryn. “It was wise to send your own account, Lady Sibley, and to provide sketches of Hedges. Every paper in London has the story in the first three pages, and you’ve made the cover of the Morning Post.”
Cathryn reached for the top journal and smiled at Julian. “It was Lord Ahlquist’s concept, Giles. I believe he’s quite frustrated over Hedges’ disappearance.”
“You wrote every word, love, and your sketches were eerily accurate.” He held up the London Times to show a large drawing of Hedges’ gaunt face with symmetrical welts. “Page two, and only to prevent the scaring of children, I wager.”
She scanned her paper with a sense of deep satisfaction. “If he’s in London, we should know by nightfall.” She glanced at the mantle clock. “Oh, dear, I nearly forgot Master Aubrey’s lessons.” She rose to pull for her maid as she spoke to Giles. “Please arrange for a carriage at nine-thirty.”
“I’m still the man of the house. I’ll be joining Lady Sibley—”
“No, you won’t!” She headed for her dressing room. “Dr. Loudon and Fiona would both scold me terribly if I let you leave the house today. I shall bring a contingent of footmen, but you must rest if we are going to Gorham House in two days.”
She looked over her shoulder and saw him appeal to his valet for support. Giles shook his head. “I concur with her ladyship, my lord. You have correspondence to keep you occupied.” Julian’s glum expression tugged at her and she nearly returned to his side.
Giles tidied Julian’s desk. “And the Duke of Clarendon has requested a brief audience at four.”
She whirled around. “Clarendon? Here?” Thus far, the duke had denied all involvement in Julian’s attack and even sent a fruit basket of majestic proportions. A rush of dread and exhilaration surged through her, and she saw the emotions mirrored in Julian’s face. “I’ll be back by noontime and we can discuss our strategies. I’ll be in the fighting spirit by then.”
Julian’s quiet laugh reassured her, and she hurried off to dress.
An hour later, Cathryn was mired in London traffic. Poking her head out the window as the carriage crept ahead, she saw a colorful queue of ladies assembled on the sidewalk. An Ahlquist footman hung on the side of the coach, and she asked him to inquire as to the cause of the mannerly mob.
“Master Aubrey’s defense class, my lady,” he said as he resumed his post. Her jaw dropped in disbelief. “We’re still a half mile away, milady. I think you’ll miss a ten o’clock appointment in this jam.”
Her entire body prickled with exhilaration. This must be due to my articles in the press. I’ve done this.
“I believe I have time if I walk.” She secured her reticule and tightened her bonnet strings, relieved Julian had stayed home. She never would have suggested such a trek to him in his condition. “You and James may accompany me.”
“Yes, milady,” he said with a grin as he opened the carriage door. “James, come straight away. Lady Sibley plans to walk.”
Hearing the celebrated name, several women on the sidewalk spread word of her arrival, and the band of patient ladies burst into polite applause as she reached their midst. “It’s Lady Sibley,” soon echoed in whispers and shouts throughout the crowd.
Cathryn walked towards the studio, shaking hands with each woman who reached out to her. She began to weep with joy as women of all ages, sizes and stations serenaded her with accolades.
“Well done.”
“You’ll soon defeat the fiend.”
“Most heroic.”
“God bless you for telling your story.”
She responded to the uplifting mantra with her own constant stream of encouragement and gratitude, propelled to move swiftly by the incoming tide at her rear and the two brawny footmen who urged her towards her goal. A wave of determined females swept the sidewalk clean of passersby, who were forced to cross the street to go upstream.
“Sibley, Sibley, Sibley,” rose the quiet chant, filling her soul with gladness. Single flowers, small bouquets, notes and curios were pressed into her hands, in such quantity that she passed armfuls to her increasingly dazzled attendants. The weather was unseasonably warm, and her head began to swim from the exertion.
By the time she reached the stairs to the studio, the street itself seemed to be applauding her, as news of her notoriety spread and traffic halted. She was breathing heavily when she climbed up the last step to Fiona’s double townhouse. When she turned, she saw an ocean of bobbing heads and beaming faces—all esteeming her.
She handed off the last of her gifts and sank into a deep curtsy. For a long moment, she allowed herself to savor the crowd’s adulation with her eyes closed. Glorious sensations of pride and accomplishment, quite new and rather awe-inspiring, flowed through her and caused her breath to quicken even more. All this for defending herself, and for having the added courage to share her story.
When she rose to face the thickening throng, she waved and a new burst of applause followed her small action. “Thank you,” she cried as she entered the open door to Fiona’s studio. Women congregated in the entrance hall reached out to her, and she shook hands all the way to the head of the line, barely able to catch her wind.
Fiona’s attendants took Cathryn’s cloak and bonnet as they ushered her into the studio, which was packed to capacity at five minutes to the hour. Master Aubrey stood near the door on a small platform that elevated her above the heads of the overwhelmingly female crowd. As she spied Cathryn, she clapped her hands three times. When the uneducated mob failed to come to immediate attention, she put two fingers to her mouth and issued a piercing whistle that caused many of the ladies to cover their ears and shriek in fright.
A hush descended like a soft breaking wave as nerves calmed and eyes turned to the slight blonde beauty in black.
“Lady Sibley has arrived,” Fiona stated, as if that was all that needed saying. The room erupted into applause for a full minute.
Those closest to her reached out to shake Cathryn’s hand, and her arm was numb by the time the din died. The scent of lavender, gardenia and roses was nearly as overpowering as her swell of pride.
Three cracking claps from the Master and the majority of the room stilled, while a few dunderheads needed nudging from their neighbors. “Come to order,” Fiona said in a commanding tone, and the crowd went silent.
“Everyone find a partner.” She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as if there were room to accommodate a defense class in such a tight space. “Quietly.”
Cathryn could scarcely believe the woman intended to continue. She reached Fiona’s side and smiled up at her on her pedestal. “The queue goes to Kensington Parkway, at the least.”
Master Aubrey nodded decisively and she called out to her footman. “Tell the queued ladies to partner up quietly and wait for instructions, then send staff to stand at the street corners. Keep the ladies out of the street.”
“What do you mean to do?” Cathryn asked in amazement.
“Conduct a class, of course.” Her determined look said failure was not an option. “The troops have assembled. I can’t send them home without some inspiration.”
A footman helped Cathryn up onto the platform beside the instructor. A hundred eager faces bunched around, and the master cleared her throat before speaking slowly in a loud voice. “We shall learn three maneuvers today.” She spoke to her footman by the door. “Tell the queue to pass each bit of information along. ‘We shall learn three maneuvers. Pass it on.’” She held up three fingers in a clear gesture, and he followed her lead.
As the group in the studio became aware of the unusual tactic, an excited buzz rose and Cathryn laughed aloud. The newspapers were going to have a front-page story for the evening editions. Fiona repeated her command, and the footman passed it on to reinforce the first.
“Practice each maneuver slowly. Pass it on.” The Master was in her element as she conducted two classes at once. The one before her, and the ribbon of women congregated outside her door and far beyond, hungry to learn how to defend themselves.
“First maneuver, nice and slow.” Each sentence was relayed out the door twice and could be heard echoing down the hallway and out into the street. “Be my partner, Sibley. You grab first,” she said in a quieter voice.
Cathryn nodded and readied herself to act in the tight space.
“Grabbed from behind, heel on arch.” Fiona punctuated her loud clipped statement with a stomp of her foot, as Cathryn exaggeratedly placed her arms slowly around her and the two women pantomimed the move.
That particular motion had loosened Hedges’ hold and given her freedom to twist away. She’d written about it in her article, and many of the women were familiar with the simple steps. A chorus of “grabbed from behind, heel on arch” resounded down the hallway and out the door.
The assembled women hesitated for a moment, but they soon rose to the occasion and began to grab and stomp. A few loud groans and Fiona clapped her hands. “No pain today. Pass it on.”
Using her innovative technique, Fiona taught “elbow to gut, throw your weight” and “knee to groin, step aside”. In thirty minutes, the group was visibly inspired and she promised “More classes soon, look in the press, thank you for coming.”
“I’m not sure the papers will print my schedule once they hear which moves I taught today, but I don’t believe the classes need any advertising at all.”
“You plan to run the classes yourself?” Cathryn asked as they were helped off the platforms.
“I shall organize the effort, and someone else will become rich teaching women to protect themselves.” Fiona accepted a long black cashmere cloak and fastened the frog at the neck. “You, perhaps?”
Cathryn straightened her own cloak. The thought appealed to her. “A defense academy for women?”
“In warehouses all over London. Payments by need.”
“I’ll consider the concept, of course.” Cathryn put on a bonnet that covered her simple chignon, but Fiona left her hair in a long braid down her back and her head bare.
“Come, I want to walk the queue with you.” Fiona headed for the door. “I want to see this audacious outpouring of hope for myself.”
“Ten thousand women,” Cathryn read aloud to Julian from the afternoon papers as he rested in a wingchair in his oak-paneled study. “A veritable army of unarmed females, desperate for a ray of hope, queued not for the latest fashion accessory or to view the queen’s jewels, but to receive an education in survival. Lady Cathryn Sibley and Mrs. Fiona Aubrey were angels of mercy to a feminine multitude ravenous to learn to protect themselves against the evils of our rapidly expanding metropolis.”
“I wish you were Lady Ahlquist already, love, so I could share your glory,” he said as he covered his mouth and yawned. “I’m not certain I like being under your protection.”
“I’m under your roof, and your name appears nearly as often as mine: ‘a leader of London’s intellectual elite’, ‘noted philanthropist’, ‘the ton’s most favored bachelor’,” she noted with pride. She continued reading where she’d left off. “No stranger sight has been seen on the streets of our fair city than a stretch twenty blocks long of desperate women wrestling one another in leisurely movements, utterly perplexing the innocent bystander. As if a signal had come from above, the wave of females would then change places and practice their new skills in a unique manner, at once enthusiastic and cautious. It was a symptom of the future, where women will demand rights, but then pay only halfhearted attention to the responsibilities inherent in their newfound authority. Beware ladies, you may get what you wish for, and what would you do then?” Cathryn pursed her lips as she finished reading and she glanced up at Julian to gauge his reaction. His eyes were closed, but that didn’t prevent her from unleashing her thoughts on the reporter’s words. “Of all the arrogant, pompous, blinkered—”
“The Duke of Clarendon,” announced Millman loudly as he opened the door. Julian jolted upright in his seat, disoriented. Cathryn blamed the laudanum.
“Duke,” she said with a deep curtsy, unable to help joking with herself. “We were just discussing you, perhaps you overheard?”
“No, Lady Sibley, I’m afraid I missed your comments.” He bowed slightly and took her proffered hand, granting her a light squeeze of her fingertips. “You’re looking extraordinarily fit. I trust you’ve been well since Geoffrey’s untimely passing.”
“Yes, sir, very well, thank you. Except for the unfortunate events of the past few days with Baron Hedges.”
Julian had come to stand beside her, and he bowed to the duke. “Duke. I didn’t realize you two were so well acquainted.”
“The duke and my husband attended Oxford together, and his estate is only an hour from the Sibley and Bradford properties.” She granted the duke a smile in spite of her reservations. He was a slight man who forwarded good causes, even if he was horribly arrogant. She preferred to think another member of the royal family was involved in Julian’s attack.
“Ahlquist,” he said as he extended his hand. “I’m terribly distressed over the misunderstanding with your attackers. As I told your agents, I was not involved in any capacity.”
“Of course not. Assaulting a peer is a capital offense, and there is no proof of your attachment.” Julian’s frustration peeked through his cordial tone. “We have fought on the same side of many bills in Parliament—I would hate to think we could not continue to be allies.”
“Your sponsorship of Hedges’ scholarship made your name the first that came to mind, sir. Perhaps the ruffians worked for a man named Duke,” Cathryn said as she gestured to a chair near the fire and waited for the duke to approach. “Or they may have fabricated that story to cover Hedges’ complicity.”
“Yes, that was my conclusion. The scoundrel attacked my character just as he attacked both of you.” Instead of sitting, the man who was fifteenth in line to the British throne wandered around the room with a curious eye. Cathryn watched him carefully, remembering similar agitated behavior in her past encounters, although it had been some years. This time, he appeared to be looking for something.
“Please take your seats. I regret that I am more comfortable standing, but it is my lot in life.”
Cathryn assumed he had some medical issue that prevented him from sitting, but her legs ached and she could see the fatigue in Julian’s drawn face, so she sat on a settee facing the restless nobleman and glanced at the seat beside her to encourage Julian to join her.
The duke stopped by Julia
n’s desk and picked up a slim volume of Oriental poetry. “I fail to see the allure of Asia. Went to India once, hated every sweltering moment.”
Cathryn didn’t know how to respond, and Julian remained silent until the duke reached for a vellum journal.
“Was there something else, sir?”
The duke glanced up, but he continued to handle the private papers as if he had every right. “Hedges said you were working on the Digenis Acritas.”
“Yes,” Julian responded slowly as he rose to his feet and made his way to the duke’s side.
Clarendon skimmed the journal. “What’s this rubbish?” He set it down and moved on.
“Another project I’m working on. Clarendon,” he said flatly as he positioned himself in the man’s line of sight. “How may I assist you?”
“Have you completed your work on the translation?”
“Yes.” He didn’t hesitate, and his confident tone impressed Cathryn.
“I’ll pay a thousand pounds if you suppress it.”
“My purses are full.”
“You plan to publish it, then?” He glanced around as if expecting the manuscript to appear before him.
“That is generally the purpose of such a translation.” Julian slid the journal to the far side of his desk.
“What do you want for the master copy?” The duke had moved on to the bookcase. “Is it here?”
“I had thought to offer to defer publication of my work on the Digenis Acritas…”
Clarendon’s neck twisted to gawk at Julian. “Your reason?”
“Hedges had a contract with Lady Sibley. My interest in her surpasses my intellectual pursuits.”
Clarendon looked at her with new awareness, his gray eyes lingering on her chest. “Yes, I heard you were intent on her.”
A frisson of fear coursed through her at his possessive gaze. He looked ready to spirit her away.
“I’m searching for a new duchess.” He straightened as if to display himself to best advantage. “Have you a sister?”
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