“May I be so bold as to caution you against drinking too quickly?” Lady Winter said. Beth took a small sip of wine rather than the huge gulp she had intended, and turned to meet the concerned gaze of the lady and her husband. Charlotte hovered in the background.
“I see you are nervous, my dear child, as indeed was I when I was newly married to the inestimable Lord Winter.” The inestimable Lord Winter smiled smugly as his wife continued. “It is the most exciting time for any young woman, when she has found her perfect partner and is about to embark on a lifetime of bliss. But it is also a time when it is too easy to become intoxicated by imbibing too much in an attempt to allay one’s nerves.” Lady Winter glared at Beth’s glass as though it contained a demon, and Beth resolutely took another sip, to let the lady know that although she would take the advice on board, she was not about to relinquish her drink altogether.
“Lord Winter and I would like to take this opportunity to wish you the greatest of happiness in your marriage.” She forbore from saying that she felt Beth would need more than good wishes if she were to make a success of this union. “Will you be joining us for the dancing when the music has ended?” The poor girl looked exhausted, although Lady Winter was too well bred to comment on this.
“I would rather not, unless my husband wishes it,” replied Beth submissively. “I must confess to being a little weary. We are to spend tonight at his house, where we will stay for a few days until we sail for France.”
“An excellent plan! It will give you the opportunity to become better acquainted in a tranquil environment before the distractions of the voyage take your attention from each other a little. Lord Winter and I did exactly the same thing, and it formed a solid foundation for the happy life we have since enjoyed together.”
Beth wondered vaguely if she would have been expected to call her husband ‘Sir Anthony’ in public for the next twenty years. It was irrelevant now, in any case.
“Yes, I think that is my husband’s intention.” She took another sip of wine and attempted to move away, intending to find Caroline and Edwin. It had struck her suddenly that if she were to leave London tomorrow, she would be unlikely to see them for a long time, if ever, depending on the view they took of her desertion of Sir Anthony. The realisation came like a blow to her, and she felt a need to at least exchange a few words with them, even if she could not divulge her plans.
“Of course,” fluttered Charlotte, moving forward to unintentionally block Beth’s escape route. “Sir Anthony is the most delightful man. He reminds me greatly of my own dear Frederick…oh, I am sorry…” Her voice faltered, and she raised a scrap of lace to her eyes, swaying slightly as she remembered the lost bliss of her own short marriage.
Beth was aware of a sudden commotion around her husband, who was now standing by the open door, taking a little fresh air and making desultory conversation with Thomas Fortesque, father of the beautiful Lydia.
“Oh, you clumsy fool!” Sir Anthony’s voice shrilled petulantly, and she looked across, as did several other people in the vicinity. She saw that the remark had been addressed to an unfortunate servant, who had managed somehow to spill claret over Sir Anthony’s hand whilst attempting to serve him. The poor man blushed scarlet and attempted ineffectually to mop at the stain with a napkin.
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, man! My glove is ruined, quite ruined!”
Beth raised her eyes to heaven and turned her attention back to Charlotte, who had gone quite pale, and was being assisted to a seat by Lord Winter. She realised that she couldn’t walk away from Charlotte without the poor woman thinking she had mortally offended her cousin, and as she had no desire to return to her husband’s side to listen to him bewail the catastrophic ruination of a glove, she stayed where she was, waving her fan over the unhappy widow and listening with half an ear to the commotion.
Lord Edward had now joined Sir Anthony.
“Would you like me to dismiss the fool, sir?” he asked coldly. The waiter’s complexion changed from scarlet to white in an instant, and Beth raised her head. She would intervene if necessary; she would not have a man’s life ruined over a trivial accident.
“No, no, of course not! You over react, my lord,” said Sir Anthony, apparently failing to see the irony in his comment. “It was an accident. I dare say I am partly to blame. But even so…if you would be so good as to fetch me another pair of gloves from my room, I daresay we can forget the incident.” The servant disappeared as if shot from a cannon, leaving Sir Anthony holding his hand away from his body to stop the stain contaminating the rest of his outfit, and regarding his stained glove with a despairing eye. Beth wondered vaguely why he didn’t remove the glove and throw it away, but then Charlotte started to revive and she was too busy assuring the woman that she was not at all offended by her cousin’s swoon and that she did indeed hope to have such a happy relationship with Sir Anthony as Charlotte had had with dear Frederick.
By the time she looked up again many of the company had retaken their seats in anticipation of the music continuing, although her husband still waited by the door, presumably for the servant to return, Beth assumed. She supposed she should go over and show some concern for his distress. She was newly married, and would be expected to have some feelings for the over-dramatic idiot. And the less resentment she showed of his cavalier attitude towards her, the easier it would probably be to leave his house without arousing suspicion in the morning. She would search out Edwin and Caroline once the music had finished.
She moved towards him just as the servant appeared and handed Sir Anthony a fresh pair of gloves. Now he removed the stained glove and wiped at his right hand to remove any trace of liquid which had soaked through, before putting on the fresh one. She had expected his hands to be white and soft, but they were not. Beth looked at the strong brown hand of her husband, seen for the first time, mesmerised by the scar that snaked across the back of it from the wrist to his fingers. It bisected the knuckles of the middle and index fingers, and was disturbingly familiar.
Sir Anthony pulled on the new gloves and then looked round, suddenly aware of her proximity. Her brow was furrowed in puzzlement and she was still staring at his hands. He looked down himself, wondering what was engaging her attention, and in doing so he missed the sudden look of comprehension that crossed her features as she remembered where she had seen the scar before. All the emotional turmoil of the day was transformed immediately into an incandescent uncontrollable rage, and whilst he was still examining his hands, she crossed the space between them and hit him in the face with her closed fist, putting all her force into the blow.
“You bastard!” she cried, causing half the room to look in her direction. There was a sickening wet crunch and blood exploded from Sir Anthony’s nose.
Even as the blow landed, Beth’s common sense was telling her that she had made a mistake. Unlikely as it was that two such different men would have exactly the same scar, that had to be the case. It was impossible that her dandified husband could also be the Scotsman who had threatened her with a knife in a back-alley room in Manchester. Behind her in the room, several people started to get to their feet. She opened her mouth to apologise, half expecting him to faint at her feet.
That was undoubtedly what the court fop would do, but in this circumstance he dared not react as Sir Anthony would. She knew, and how she knew he had no idea, but if he did not shut her up now, his life would be worth nothing. Thanking God that he was by the door, he staggered towards her as though about to collapse, then, seizing her arm in a grip so tight that any incriminating words she had been about to utter became a cry of pain instead, he swung her out into the hall. Before she could react he pushed her back against the wall, pinning her against it with his weight.
“I am sorry, my love,” he murmured, then brought the heel of his hand up sharply under her jaw. The wall behind her stopped her neck from snapping back and being broken by the force of his blow, and added to the concussive effect. She became instantly limp,
and he stood back a little to allow her to slide down the wall, before slumping against it himself, his handkerchief pressed to his nose.
Several people now appeared in the hall, curious as to what had transpired.
“Oh, oh, what can I say? I am so ashamed!” Sir Anthony cried out in a voice somewhat muffled by linen. Someone produced a chair for him to sit on, and he sank down gratefully, whilst several women bent over the prostrate form of his wife. One of them produced a smelling-bottle, and he prayed he had hit her hard enough for it to have no effect in rousing her.
“What on earth happened, sir?” Lord Edward spluttered, clearly upset that such an undignified scene had taken place in his house, while secretly enjoying the diversion. Alone of the company, he was not enjoying the musical performance.
“I have not the faintest notion,” Sir Anthony whined. “I was waiting for the servant to bring my gloves, as you know, when a most attractive maid passed by. I merely waved and smiled at her. I had no idea my wife was in the immediate vicinity, or that she would react in such an extreme manner. I do believe she has broken my nose!” He did indeed believe she had; the pain was intense, and the blood soaking into the fine linen showed no signs of abating.
“What did you do to her?” Richard asked admiringly. His voice showed no concern for his sister. Clearly he was amazed that this dandy would have the courage to hit her back, although it seemed that was what he had done.
“I, sir!” Sir Anthony screeched indignantly, wincing as the pain knifed through his ruined nose. “I did nothing. She merely looked at the blood and fainted. I must confess, I feel a little faint myself.” Richard’s expression changed from admiration to contempt. It seemed that after all, this effeminate rag was still in danger of allowing Elizabeth to bully him into an early grave. It was pitiful. That it was unlikely his hoyden of a sister would faint at the sight of blood did not cross his mind.
“Maybe you should send for a doctor, Lord Edward,” suggested Lady Winter, looking up from her unsuccessful attempts to revive Beth. “I did warn her earlier against imbibing too much alcohol, afraid that she would become embarrassingly drunk.”
“No, no, I would not hear of it. I am so ashamed. We have quite ruined your evening, and all because of a careless gesture on my part. I am sure my wife will be mortified if she awakes to discover what a scene she has caused by her jealousy and intoxication. No, no, my carriage is ready. We must leave immediately.”
There were many cries of protest at this, but Sir Anthony was adamant. His wife would come to herself far better in a quiet environment, and would be more likely to accept his profound apologies for his thoughtless flirting if she were not reminded of her actions by being surrounded by well-meaning people who would only unintentionally add to her humiliation.
“If we leave now, I am sure I can persuade her that nobody noticed the scene she caused, and that we left quietly, with your permission of course, Lord Edward? That will ensure that she is not too embarrassed to enter into your company when we return from our sojourn overseas.”
Lord Edward couldn’t wait to get rid of the annoying couple. With a bit of luck their departure would signal the break-up of the party and he could head off to his club all the quicker. Even the ladies realised the wisdom of this suggestion, although they were a little concerned at Beth’s continued lifelessness.
Sir Anthony promised to send for a doctor the moment they reached his house, which was only a short distance away, and within moments the coach driver had scooped up the still senseless Lady Peters and spirited her away.
Lord Edward accompanied Sir Anthony to the door, offering him a new handkerchief to replace the blood-soaked one he now held. He could not resist offering a last piece of advice.
“This is what comes, sir, of marrying beneath yourself.” Sir Anthony looked up, and Lord Edward held up a hand.
“I do not mean you, sir. Elizabeth is after all, my cousin, and is well-born enough. But her father married beneath him, a seamstress,” this last word was delivered in scathing tones, “and a Scot, at that. You will have to be firm if you are to curb the bad blood she has inherited from her mother. I advise you of this as a friend. She must be chastised for her drunken behaviour this evening. What man does not eye a pretty wench, eh?” Lord Edward winked conspiratorially.
Sir Anthony eyed him with an expression of utter disgust, which Lord Edward would have recognised had not the former’s face been almost completely obscured by red-stained linen.
“I think I may own that I was also in the wrong to behave so inconsiderately so soon after my wedding. I will deal with my wife according to my fashion, my lord,” he replied curtly.
Lord Edward watched the carriage clatter out of the drive with satisfaction and scorn. It would be a long time before they were invited back into his house, whatever his sisters might say. His cousin would be an unbearable shrew and her husband a doormat within weeks. Not at all an example to show to the females of his household, who knew their place.
* * *
Beth recovered consciousness in the coach, roused by the bumping of the wheels along the uneven road. Her head ached terribly, and her mouth was dry. When she tried to moisten her lips with her tongue, a dart of pain shot through her jaw. She lay still for a while until she felt less disorientated, taking stock of the situation.
She was half lying on the bench seat, her head on her husband’s lap. His arm lay across her chest lightly, stopping her from moving too much as the carriage bounced its way along. She opened her eyes slightly and looked up at him. He was sitting upright by the window, a cloth still pressed to his nose. Even in the dim light of the coach’s lantern she could see the dark stain on the front of his yellow waistcoat, and remembered what she had done. Feeling a little better, she tried to sit up, but his arm tightened, holding her in place. He dipped his head to look down at her, and his eyes were dark slits in the pallor of his face. She opened her mouth, and he laid a finger warningly on her lips.
“Be quiet,” he said softly. “We will have plenty of time for explanations when we arrive home. I trust my people implicitly, but not the coachman.”
“But what..?” started Beth. The warning finger became a large hand, which covered her mouth, smothering whatever she’d been about to say and sending shards of pain from her bruised jaw shooting up the side of her face.
“If you insist on speaking,” he said, “then I will have to render you unconscious again. I don’t want to do that, but I will if necessary. Do you understand?” The voice was Sir Anthony’s, but the tone was not. It was hard and cold. She froze.
“I said, do you understand?” he repeated softly. She nodded slightly. “Good. And do you promise to remain silent until we reach our lodging? If you do, I in return will promise not to hurt you, and to answer all your questions once we arrive.”
She had no choice in the matter, and they both knew it. She nodded again, and the hand withdrew from her mouth. He lifted her gently into a sitting position, but did not relinquish his hold on her. She leaned back against his chest, having no alternative, and they travelled on in silence.
Was he after all the man who had threatened her in the derelict room, as she had thought at first sight of the scar? It wasn’t possible, surely? The scar was the same, exactly; she would never forget that, it was engraved on her mind as the only means she had of identifying him. She had thought from his careful concealment of his features that night that she must know him, but that this dandified, quintessential courtly Englishman could be the menacing, Gaelic-speaking Scot of the Manchester alleyways was incomprehensible.
Yet whoever the man who was now holding her might be, he was not any version of the Sir Anthony Peters she had seen before. His reaction to her blow and his behaviour now told her that. She shifted experimentally, hoping he would let her move away from him. She found the close contact with him disturbing; she didn’t know him at all, and wanted to put a distance between them so that she could marshal her thoughts in preparation for what
looked like being a very unpleasant confrontation at his house. His arm tightened again warningly; presumably he thought she might try to leap from the carriage if he let her go. She stayed where she was, her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, strong and steady as they travelled through the night.
Unbelievably, she must have fallen asleep. She struggled back to wakefulness as the carriage stopped. The door opened and the coachman appeared to assist her out. For a moment she wondered whether she should declare that she was being kidnapped and throw herself on his mercy, but when she looked in his face she saw the closed, indifferent expression of the servant who will do what he is paid to do, no more and no less, and knew that the chances of him risking his job to aid what he probably thought was an hysterical female were virtually non-existent.
She looked at Sir Anthony, who had also stepped down from the carriage and now took her elbow in a firm grip.
“If you would be so kind as to bring in our luggage,” he said to the man, who turned immediately to do his bidding. Then her husband propelled her firmly away, up the steps of the house, whose door had been opened by a servant, across the hall and into a lamplit sitting room, where he assisted her into a seat and with a firm command to her to stay there, disappeared.
She sat for a moment where he had placed her, before realising with alarm that if he could trust his people, as he had said, she could expect no aid from them, and no one else would hear if she were to call out for help. She stood, suddenly panicked, and looked around frantically for a means of escape. She made a move toward the window, just as Sir Anthony re-entered the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He had a tray in his hands which he placed on the table.
“I thought you might like some refreshment. You did not eat much at dinner,” he said conversationally. “Or would you prefer to go straight to bed? To sleep, I mean,” he added. “I know you’re very tired.”
The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2) Page 5