by Darcy Burke
She nodded and rubbed her forehead. All the men in her life were tiresome.
Quince had never set foot in Blaise Bittlesworth's house before but somehow the staff seemed to be very much aware of who he was. Even though he had walked up the street alone, looking easily the most disreputable he ever had in his life, the butler had bowed him in with murmurs of "your grace" and he had been installed in what was a really quite lovely parlor on the second floor.
When he heard the door open he considered rudely remaining in his seat but what he saw made him shoot to his feet with alacrity. For a brief moment he thought it was Sabrina and his heart started pounding painfully in his chest. The petite, dark-haired woman glided toward him and curtsied.
"Your grace," she said with a slight accent he couldn't place. She was even smaller than Sabrina, like a lovely little doll.
He bowed over her hand. "Lady Bittlesworth."
She settled onto a silk loveseat and he sat in the chair opposite her. He couldn't stop staring. She looked so much like Sabrina that it hurt. So much that he thought he might already love her, too.
She smiled at him as though the hour and his appearance didn't make the situation awkward. "We are pleased to receive you, your grace. I have asked for tea to be brought in and hope that is acceptable to you?"
Surely tea would help to clear the fogginess of his brain after the four glasses of wine he had drunk with Gideon. "Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Bittlesworth."
Just then the staff brought in the tea tray and arranged it on the low table in front of the viscountess.
"How do you take your tea, your grace?"
"Two lumps, please."
She prepared his tea with a delicacy and grace he couldn't imagine Sabrina using. He wondered at the relationship between mother and daughter. Sabre had never mentioned anything about her. Once he had tea and two lemon biscuits he realized the evening wasn't at all going in the direction that he had imagined it would.
"I was hoping to speak to the viscount."
She almost arched a brow, but didn't quite. As though she were controlling her reaction. "I'm afraid he is at his club for supper. As usual."
"Ah."
With another smile she said, "Are you here to ask him for Sabrina's hand?"
The shock of the question made him swallow his tea the wrong way and he started a coughing fit. The viscountess fluttered over him. "Your grace, are you all right?"
He held a hand up to ward her off and nodded as he worked to control his breathing.
"My apologies, your grace. I just thought... I mean a young man such as yourself..."
"You have nothing to apologize for, Lady Bittlesworth."
She resumed her seat again, taking her teacup in hand. Her hair was as dark as Sabrina's but her eyes were a lighter blue, like aquamarines. He realized he was staring again and struggled to find something to say. "Your husband was a friend of my father's and I found some documents that he should find interesting." Might as well plant the seed however he could.
The door opened again and the butler announced. "Mr. Bittlesworth."
Robert strolled into the room as though it were an appointed visit. Lady Bittlesworth rose to greet him and Quince rose as well to accommodate the lady.
"Robert!" she said happily, holding out her hands to him.
"Maman," he said, kissing her hand and escorting her back to her seat. Nodding briefly at Quince he said, "Telford."
There it was again, that familiarity that might be insult. "Robert," he responded coolly. Two could certainly play this game.
Robert took the chair next to Quince, which had him sitting so close the two were almost touching. Lady Bittlesworth set to making her stepson a cup of tea, obviously acquainted with his tastes. Settled with his refreshments Robert asked, "So what brings you to visit our maman?"
There was an edge to his voice. Subtle, but clear. Quince was trespassing in an area that Robert called his own.
The lady replied for him. "I'm delighted to receive a visit from his grace."
"Had I known of your beauty and charm," Quince said to her, "I would have visited far earlier."
She smiled prettily at him but Quince was fairly sure that Robert would have growled if he had thought it socially acceptable. They passed a half hour in somewhat convivial company. It was to Lady Bittlesworth's credit that she kept the conversation lively. At last Quince surrendered on the point of waiting for the viscount to appear and made his farewells to the lady.
"I'll walk you out," Robert offered. Quince knew it was more threat than hospitality. His assumption was borne out in the first shadowed length of hallway when Robert pushed him against the wall. "What are you thinking, coming here?" the younger man hissed.
"Let go of me or we shall come to blows."
Robert obviously didn't believe him because he continued to push the duke against the wall. And didn't protect himself against the first undercut punch. The two fell to brawling as though they were in a tavern instead of a Mayfair townhome.
"Robert!" Lady Bittlesworth's outraged voice split them apart faster than a douse of cold water. She walked up to her stepson. "That is outside of enough." She surveyed him in the dim light. "You may go home now. Tell Sabrina that I shall see her tomorrow."
"She may not receive you."
Now Lady Bittlesworth did arch a graceful brow. "Tell her I shall see her tomorrow." Although covered over with a great deal more grace and charm in Lady Bittlesworth, it was clear that a good portion of Sabre's steel in fact came from her mother.
"Yes, maman." He slid his gaze to Quince. "I must give the duke a ride home as he arrived without a carriage."
"Then wait outside."
"Yes, maman."
Once Robert proceeded down the steps Lady Bittlesworth said, "I must apologize for my son, your grace."
"Think nothing of it. That fight has been brewing for six years at least. My only regret is that you had to see it."
"Why did you come here today, your grace?"
"I hoped your husband could help me."
She smiled sadly. "Then I can assure you it was a wasted trip."
"You will tell him that I was here, though?"
"If you wish."
"Indeed I do."
She nodded and he bowed over her hand again before taking his leave.
When Quince boarded the carriage Robert was already seated in the far corner.
"This seems a bit cramped for a second round," the duke said, "but I'm game if you are.".
"That would be counterproductive."
Quince frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I'm only here because I promised Sabre I wouldn't let anyone hurt you."
The duke took a moment to digest that information. "How is she?" he asked softly.
Robert huffed out a breath and turned to watch the oil streetlamps they passed. "I don't know," he finally answered. "She's not herself."
"I see. However, I'm glad," Quince paused, finding it painful to say. "I'm glad she has a place with you where she will be safe. I fear that resolving this blackmail will be difficult." He wished that her place were by his side. He wished that he could keep her safe.
Robert turned his attention back to the duke and watched him for a long, silent moment. "I will keep her safe. Whether she cares for it or not."
Quince nodded. "Thank you. That is what is important."
"You mustn't approach my father again. It is counterproductive. And not at all safe."
"Counterproductive?"
"I have found some interesting information. Things I might have told you earlier today if I hadn't wanted to beat you senseless for upsetting my sister."
Quince was quiet. Robert had found some interesting information? Or was finally ready to release some interesting information?
Robert spoke again. "My only consolation is that you seem no better off than she."
Now Quince turned his attention to the window. He didn't want Sabrina to be hurting, but if she was t
hen it meant she at least cared for him a bit. Didn't it?
They spent the rest of the carriage ride in silence. Quince didn't ask after Robert's supposedly interesting information. He didn’t feel he could trust anything the Bittlesworth scion had to say.
Jack poked her husband. "Gideon, wake up."
He grunted and wrapped the pillow around his head.
"No, you've had long enough to sleep it off. Wake up. I think Quince is in trouble."
Gideon sat up suddenly and then gripped his head as though it might fall off. "Oh bloody hell. Quince."
"Yes, Quince. Are you awake?"
Rather than respond he reached over and pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her in a ferocious hug.
"Gideon, you're crushing me."
"Quiet, woman, you're louder than church bells."
She surrendered, simply enjoying his warmth. He had loosened his grip a bit, but still held her quite tightly. She could feel his breath on her neck and it tickled. Oh, how she loved him. If she had tried to dream up her perfect husband she would have guessed completely wrong.
"Giddy?" she said softly while idly tracing patterns on his warm bare arm. "Robert frightened me yesterday."
He pulled back to look at her. "What do you mean he frightened you? When did you see him?"
"I received a note from him that Sabre was upset and could I please come see her."
Gideon stared at her intently as though willing the rest of the story out of her.
"She was quite upset and accused Robert of putting Quince in danger. Later when I asked him why she would say that, he said it was because she was smart." Jack gave an involuntary shiver. "The way he said it, Gideon, it sounded like a warning."
The earl narrowed his eyes. "It sounds like it is time for me to pay Robert Bittlesworth a visit."
"I've known Robert my whole life, Giddy, and he's never unsettled me before. What is going on? Did Quince tell you?"
Gideon put his forehead to hers and sighed. "Quince told me a good number of things last night. For one we will be hosting his sister for a time."
"Quince has a sister?"
"He apparently has a number of siblings I was unaware of. It is not common knowledge and we are not to share it. But she needs our protection."
Jack felt herself frown. "She shall, of course, have it."
Gideon smiled at her staunch support, then scowled before he said, "And for another, Quince is being blackmailed."
Jack gasped.
"That is also not common knowledge and not to be shared."
"But Sabre knows?"
Gideon shrugged. "One assumes?"
"I never should have let her go to him."
"You knew?"
"Of course I knew. Who else would she depend on to cover for her absence here in London?"
"Why didn't you try to stop her?"
"I didn't say I didn't try. But Sabre is notoriously headstrong."
Gideon chuckled. "As are you, my sweet."
"Oh, Sabre makes me look docile by comparison. We should all be happy she didn't set her sights on a prince or she would be running a country in short order."
"She set her cap for him?"
Jack sighed. "Yes. She's probably the only woman in England who would fall in love over someone getting past her guard."
"She fell in love with him at the duel?"
"Not love, perhaps, but she was intrigued. Obsessed. One of the first things she said after we got in the carriage was that she would marry him."
"Quince doesn't want to marry her."
"Good luck to him on that. But why?"
"Her father. I've never know the exact conflict between Quince and the viscount, but it has been enduring."
"Ah. Well, you know what they say. Omnia vincit amor. Love conquers all."
"It has yet to conquer this hangover."
"Oh, my poor husband." She laughed but rubbed his temples. "Why did you drink so much?"
"There were reasons, believe me. But it didn't seem to have the desired effect." He sighed and leaned into her hands. "That feels good. Please don't stop."
TWENTY-NINE
Quince tried thrice more to intercept the viscount: once at Parliament and twice at White’s. He finally heard that Bittlesworth had withdrawn to the country. It was hard to determine whether the seed he had planted had already taken root and caused Bittlesworth to withdraw from his regular routine, or if the viscount was simply continuing on with whatever plans he already had. Left without any further options for influencing his supposed blackmailers, Quince completed his parliamentary work and left for the country himself. Belle Fleur, of course, as it was convenient to London. His seat in Northampton was two full days away and he didn't feel that being so far from London would be wise.
Shortly after arriving at the estate he received a letter from Gideon that seemed primarily about their shared investments but cleverly mentioned a fruitless conversation with a mutual friend and the happy arrival of Jack's guest. Robert wasn't being helpful and Quince’s sister was safe.
Meanwhile, he missed Sabre every day. He mooned about in the Rose Room for much of the first day he was home, and then requested that all of her items be moved to the duchess's suite. Except for the shawl she had been wearing when she arrived, which he kept in his own room. It still smelled lightly of her scent. When he awoke each morning he looked for her before remembering she was gone. At night he would lie on the balcony staring at the stars and wish she was with him. If this was love, it was damned inconvenient.
He was beginning not to care much at all about the blackmailer. His sister was safe with Gideon. As for his mother, it was most likely the secret of her additional children the blackmailer was hoping to use, and that was something that would become public in accordance to his own plans. Whatever role Robert had in the affair was unfortunate, but he found he simply couldn't care about it anymore. His lassitude was such that he had to force himself to prepare for the trip back to London for the Harrington ball. The ball where he had invited the blackmailer to make further contact. As the news of his brother's existence was already being fed to the papers this week, the threat of the letters didn't seem as great. Without a great deal of enthusiasm, he was packed and prepared for the trip to London two days before the ball was to occur.
"Miss Bittlesworth, may I present Miss Frederick. Miss Frederick, my good friend Miss Bittlesworth."
Sabre looked at the young girl curtsying to her and felt longing pierce through her. The child looked so much like Quince it was hard not to leave off from curtsying and simply hug her. She must be frightened. Confused. But she had enough of her brother's backbone to look reserved instead.
"It is good to meet you, Miss Bittlesworth."
Really, any moment now she would hug the girl and be done with it. Oh, sweet Lord, was she not going to be able to say anything without being choked up? This would never do. She took a deep breath before saying, "And you, Miss Frederick."
Jack was looking back and forth between them and said, "Miss Frederick, Sabre, rather, Miss Bittlesworth and I will be doing some shopping this morning so Emmy will be your companion for today. You will, of course, both stay inside?” Jack looked at the girls until they both nodded agreement. “Perhaps you two would like for us to bring you some ribbons?"
Emmy's eyes lit up. "Oh, yes, my lady. Green, if you please."
"What color do you prefer?" Jack asked the girl.
The young 'Miss Frederick' seemed to consider it as a very serious question.
"Celestial blue," Sabre announced. She stepped forward to tip the girl's chin. "To bring out those lovely eyes."
That succeeded in making the girl smile. "If you're sure."
Jack laughed. "Sabre is always sure."
Sabre felt her lip quiver. No, she was not always sure. Right now she was hardly sure of anything. She had thought that washing her hands of Quince's plans would lead to an eventual lessening of her concern for him. Nothing could be further than
the truth. She missed him constantly, as though a splinter had buried deep into her heart and was festering. Leaving him was supposed to lessen her concerns, not increase them! Would she never be free of him? Would she never stop missing him? Worrying about him? It had been the better part of a fortnight and she still felt hollow, bereft. Perhaps she could convince Jack to visit Floris, the perfumery. Surely they would have some lemongrass scent on hand that she could purchase. But would that only prolong the agony? No, she wasn't sure of anything anymore.
The morning was clear and warm, as good a day for travel as one could hope. Quince's staff had fussed over him a bit. He had not only had a good breakfast before he left, but a basket of treats tucked under the carriage seat. His driver and footman were up top, while three outriders were arrayed around the carriage. Hopefully in two hours he would be at his London townhouse. Within twenty minutes he had started to doze when he heard rapid hoof beats riding off to the west. A moment after that the carriage rattled onto the short bridge that spanned a creek. He was drowsy and slightly irritated by being awakened.
A loud explosion rocked the carriage violently. He heard splintering wood and a horse screaming. His conveyance surged forward, and then tipped over as more explosions erupted. He tried to brace himself but was flung forcibly against the opposite seat as the carriage crashed on its side and he was unable to keep himself from falling backwards through the air. He heard glass breaking, men shouting, and suddenly all was darkness.
"Your grace? Your grace?" He felt someone shaking his arm and wondered who had decided to invade his bedroom this time. Then he noticed the noise. Men shouting, horses stomping. A shot rang out close by and he sat up abruptly. His footman, Averton he thought, backed away quickly. Light streamed in above him where the door to the carriage was open. There was a stabbing pain in his head and he felt so horrible he thought he might cast up his accounts.
"Who is shooting at us?" the duke demanded.
Averton glanced toward the front of the carriage. "They had to put down the second carriage horse. Can you stand, your grace?"