Ramsey was about to ask how, but Westhouse reared back to punch him. Ramsey dodged the blow, but only nearly. Holding up his hands, he waited for the second attempt. He blocked the majority of the blow but it grazed his lip, and he tasted the salty flavor of blood. Watching his opponent, he waited for another blow, but Westhouse just stepped back. “That should be enough.”
Ramsey was curious at his quick retreat and was immediately on edge.
“For?”
“To implicate you when they see my eye. They’ll know it was you, it was me . . . it was her.”
Ramsey saw red at the mention of Grace in the middle of their personal drama. “Why her?”
Westhouse continued like he hadn’t heard the question.” And with your reputation versus mine . . . I must say, the ton will certainly look on me with more favor and assume that I was protecting her honor from the likes of you . . .”
“She’ll be ruined.”
Westhouse chuckled. “I’m quite certain that she’s ruined already, but yes, it will create enough scandal that no one will want her. A pity that, but quite helpful.”
Ramsey frowned. “Why does it matter? What use is she to you? Clearly you don’t have an interest in her—”
“No. But you do,” Westhouse answered simply, as if it were obvious.
Ramsey waited, hoping he’d continue. In his experience, people only needed a little silence to be tempted to fill it, and they start talking, or in this case, continue speaking.
And he rather thought that Westhouse wanted him to know, wanted to use it in some fashion to make him suffer more.
“She was a venue to you, at first. Your friends are so bloody protective, it’s quite frustrating, but she was an easy pathway to gain your attention. It was an added delight to discover you were interested in the chit. I must say I wasn’t expecting that boon.”
“So she was a—”
“Means to an end, but delightful in conversation, I have to admit. She must be a hellion in bed though,” he said with some insinuation.
Ramsey delivered another blow to Westhouse’s midsection, but this time he didn’t stop. When Westhouse bent over form the blow, Ramsey lifted his knee to collide with his head, rendering him a bloody nose that spewed red over his white shirt, and splashed onto Ramsey’s. Westhouse spat blood, then roared, charging Ramsey, who was waiting with anticipation for the fight.
“Good Lord.” Lucas charged into the middle of the battle and held back Westhouse, while Heathcliff stood between the two men, acting like a buffer.
“What in the hell?” Lucas asked, or rather demanded.
As if unable to resist one final blow, Westhouse spat blood to the side and then met Ramsey’s gaze with a hateful gaze. He then shifted his gaze to Heathcliff, and grinned. “I suspect you don’t know, but you might want to restrain your friend rather than me. I’m merely trying to save your ward’s honor from that rakehell.”
The blood drained from Ramsey’s face. No. Not like this. This wasn’t how he was going to tell his friend.
Heathcliff swore and moved to deliver a blow to Westhouse, but Ramsey said one word. “Stop.”
Westhouse’s expression was one of triumph.
Ramsey touched Heathcliff on the shoulder, waiting for him to turn. “I was going to ask you tonight . . .”
Lucas swore under his breath. “Is now really the time, Ramsey?” he asked, then growled.
Heathcliff held up a hand. “Did you compromise her?”
Ramsey opened his mouth, his damn honor and honesty being rather obnoxiously insistent on the truth, “not entirely.”
“Damn it,” Heathcliff swore, his expression full of frustration and something much more painful: disappointment.
“I love her.” Ramsey added quickly. “And I wish to marry her, should you give me your permission.”
Lucas whistled.
Westhouse gave a snort of derision.
Heathcliff paused.
“Please,” Ramsey remarked, his heart in his words as he humbled himself, bloody, broken and utterly a disaster waiting to happen, before his greatest friend, asking, quite frankly, for the world.
“How?”
Ramsey swallowed, not certain he felt comfortable going into all the details of how he had “not entirely” compromised Grace.
“No, bloody hell, not that. How do you know you love her? I swore to my wife that I’d not let Grace go to someone who merely felt she was a prize, or, in your case, some misbegotten sensation of guilt.”
“Can we please carry on this conversation later?” Lucas asked, still restraining Lord Westhouse, who wasn’t fighting the restraint, but Lucas didn’t look as if he wished to test his compliance.
Ramsey ignored him. “Because.” He grinned in spite of himself, in spite of the absurd situation he found himself in, in spite of the craziness of the situation and the improbability of it. “Because her mind fascinates me, her laugh heals me, and in her utter imperfection, she’s perfection to me.”
Lucas gave a low chuckle.
Heathcliff blinked.
Westhouse snorted, again. This time Lucas booted him. “Shut up. I’ll deal with you later.”
“Well then, I guess it’s decided. That is, if she’ll have you,” Heathcliff added.
“I will be most persuasive,” Ramsey remarked, then realized just how his words could be interpreted.
Heathcliff arched his brow, looking every inch the disparaging father. No one could fault his affection for his ward.
“Now that this is all settled, how do you suggest we get from the garden to the carriages without making the gossip papers tomorrow morning? Not that I’m against it, but I rather thought we were trying to be respectable for our wives and all,” Lucas remarked dryly.
“No, first I need to know why.” Ramsey turned to Westhouse.
Heathcliff gave a curious glance and turned as well.
“Why, why come after me, why all the effort?” Ramsey asked again.
Westhouse glared. “Because it should have been me. The title, the name, everything should have belonged to me, never to you. I kept my name clear of scandal, your name is a byword for it,” he ground out lowly, his words an epithet.
Ramsey started to ask something, but Lucas shook his head, suggesting him to stop.
“Jealousy gets you nowhere, haven’t you learned that yet, Westhouse?” Lucas remarked. “You hit on one very real truth, however. And that’s regarding your name. So far, there are no black marks against it, which is admirable, though wholly unknown as to how you’ve done it with the terrible temperament you possess.” Lucas sighed as if bored. “However, if we walk into the room, all of us mind you, with you in tow, that good name will be no longer, and you’ll be subject to several weeks of speculation as to why you got such a thrashing. And we’re more than happy to circulate some fresh fodder for the gossipmongers every few days or so. . . .” He let the open threat hang in the air for a moment. “Unless you want to merely walk away.”
Ramsey arched his brow. It was quite lovely, having diabolical friends. They had learned several tricks of the trade, since it was a survival skill in managing Temptations.
There was a long pause, and Ramsey watched the steely resolve in Westhouse’s expression harden a moment before he spoke. “I’ll walk,” Westhouse ground out.
“See that the walk takes you out of London for a while,” Lucas added.
“As if that won’t cause talk—”
“Don’t you have an estate that needs your attention?” Ramsey asked, giving him a way out. It wasn’t necessary, he didn’t deserve any sort of aid, but he gave it, regardless. He was, after all, his half-brother. Good Lord, what a scandal . . . and several other details clicked into place. He pushed them aside for the moment as he awaited Westhouse’s final agreement.
Westhouse met his gaze, then nodded slowly. “Very well.”
“I’ll just escort you to your carriage, make sure you get there safely,” Lucas remarked, slowly releasing him.
Westhouse gave him a disbelieving glare, but didn’t fight it. He dusted off his coat, straightened his shoulders slightly, as if adjusting his dignity, and then left the gardens with Lucas following close behind as they wound around the house, avoiding the ballroom.
“Well, that was interesting.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Ramsey remarked, then proceeded to tell Heathcliff all he had missed.
After he was finished, Heathcliff nodded, then tipped his head. “I guess only one question remains.”
“And which one is that?” Ramsey asked.
Heathcliff grinned, raising a hand to set it on Ramsey’s shoulder approvingly. “When are we having a wedding?”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Grace was quite certain that she was going to thrash them all soundly the moment they finally showed their faces back in the ballroom. As it was, she couldn’t very well run into the fray; it would be not only unnecessary, but she could easily create a larger problem than solve any of the issues at hand. She wasn’t foolish enough to try such a move, but she was dreadfully curious, and that curiosity seemed quite corrosive to her mood.
Not that Samantha was faring any better.
“And you’re quite certain you sent them in the right direction?” Samantha watched the entrance to the ballroom from the direction of the Garden with a trained focus.
“Yes.” Grace bit out the word. Her patience was spent, but Samantha had asked that same question several times before. She wanted to remind her that she wasn’t about to change her mind about the answer.
“We should not go after them,” Samantha remarked, though the words had the slight lilt of a question.
“No,” Grace replied, resolved yet utterly irritated in it.
“No. They are used to this type of thing, I imagine.” Samantha sighed. “Wretched to be aware of it though. This has taught me a dear love for ignorance.” She arched a chestnut brow and gave a rueful grin to Grace.
“Of that I am in complete agreement,” Grace replied, nodding with emphasis.
“Pardon, my lady?” A footman addressed Samantha with a soft mummer.
Grace turned to fully face the man, waiting while he spoke in hushed tones to Samantha.
Unable to hear the words, Grace watched Samantha’s expression. At first, her brows were furrowed as she focused on the words, then her eyes lighted with understanding as she gave a kind nod, and then turned to Grace.
“We are requested at the front where our carriage has been summoned. The viscount has fallen ill and needs to return home.” She arched a brow, just enough for Grace to note her inflection, and then thanked the footman before they departed.
Grace resisted the urge to scoff at such a falsehood. Ill. The viscount was a paragon of health, yet it was as good a reason as any to avoid the ballroom and head back home.
She and Samantha walked as quickly as was polite. Grace’s heart was pounding with anticipation; at least now she’d finally know what happened after she fled the scene. Just as the footman had said, the Kilpatrick carriage was waiting at the bottom of the steps, a footman holding the door open for the ladies.
Samantha stepped up first, taking a seat beside her husband. Grace grasped the hand of the footman and stepped up, ducking slightly as she entered into the dark carriage. She turned to the side opposite Samantha, but gasped when she noted that the bench seat was not vacant, but was occupied by no one other than Lord Sterling.
She inhaled softly, but recovered and took the seat beside him. Upon inspection, she noted the darker shadow under one eye, along with what seemed to be dried blood just below the corner of his mouth. “Does he look worse?” Grace asked, not thinking about her words.
Ramsey chuckled, the sound deep and surprised.
“Well, does he?” she asked, after he didn’t readily respond. Bother with being polite, she wanted to know!
“Yes, he does, Miss Grace.”
“Good. Though, now that I think of it, I’d hardly expect you to say anything else, pride and all,” she mused.
“You may also ask your guardian’s opinion of the matter if my word is not enough to satisfy your inquiry.” He nodded toward the viscount.
Grace turned to him, noting the way he pinched his lips as if suppressing a smile.
“Ramsey has but one black eye, Westhouse has two.”
“Amongst other things,” Ramsey added, as if making certain there could be no confusion on who came out the victor.
“I see. Good,” Grace replied.
“Will you finally tell us what happened? We’ve been out of our minds with worry!” Samantha directed her question to her husband, her hand resting upon his arm and clutching it slightly, giving her words emphasis.
“It’s a rather long story.”
Grace sighed in exasperation. “Of course it is. And I’m sure that this is not the place to speak of it, etc. Forgive my frankness—”
Ramsey snickered softly.
She turned an aggravated glance in his direction, then continued, “But what part of tonight has been proper, may I ask? And why must we suddenly be concerned about propriety now? Give me one good reason.”
Samantha turned to her husband, her expression expectant.
“Because the secrets aren’t mine to tell,” the viscount replied.
“They are mine,” Ramsey remarked. “And while Miss Grace has an excellent point”—he smiled at her, as if giving proper credit, and she lifted her chin a touch higher—“this is truly something that should be discussed in private. But, before you begin to petition the resolution, you will be happy to know that since I have no plans to leave Kilpatrick House before all is settled, your curiosity will not have long to wait.”
Grace sighed, but gave a nod. It was acceptable, but just barely. Yet some part of his words carried a further interest. What else needed to be settled? What exactly had transpired? Was Westhouse blackmailing them? Were they blackmailing Westhouse? Good lord, never had she imagined such intrigue till she came to London.
Granted, she was also in the company of two of the three most notorious men in London, owners of the most notorious and secretive club in London, which certainly contributed to the situation.
She turned to the viscount, but he wasn’t watching her, or Samantha; he was giving a very level gaze to Ramsey, conveying some intense meaning.
Her head hurt.
She blew out a rather unladylike sigh.
“Soon enough,” Ramsey remarked softly, only for her to hear. It was intimate, it was private, and her tension fled and a new sort of anticipation flooded in.
And then she remembered.
He saved her.
She turned to him. “I don’t believe I ever said thank you, my lord,” she remarked softly.
His lips parted to say something, but he simply shook his head, leaving her to interpret the meaning.
Thankfully it was a short trip to Kilpatrick House, and after they arrived, it was decided that Ramsey be given some time to refresh himself and tend to his wounds.
Grace changed from her evening gown into a more comfortable day dress. She had the feeling it was going to be a rather long conversation and she wanted to be comfortable, or at least more comfortable than if she hadn’t changed.
In less than half an hour, they all reconvened in the parlor, with tea and biscuits awaiting their leisure. Mrs. Marilla had closed the door with a soft click once they all arrived, and finally, they were in the privacy needed to divulge all the information Grace desperately wished to know.
The silence was thick, and though it only lasted perhaps a few seconds, to Grace it seemed to stretch for hours. Finally, the viscount cleared his throat and began. “I’m sure that you are all aware than Lord Westhouse forcibly led Miss Grace from the ballroom this evening.”
Samantha gave a sharp nod. She was seated beside her husband, and Grace was opposite them in a wingback chair. Samantha’s gaze flickered to Grace, her expression tender and concerned.
The viscount continued, “Once Ramsey noted that Grace was missing, we all searched for you.” He directed these words to Grace, and then took a breath. “Ramsey took the gardens, where he found you with Lord Westhouse. Now, that should be an ample platform for the rest of the story.” He nodded to Ramsey, who gave an agreeing nod.
“Now then, after you quite cleverly escaped—”
Grace interrupted, “You did do an excellent job of distracting him. Are you really his half-brother?” On the edge of her seat, she eagerly listened to Ramsey as he started his answer with a curt nod.
“Indeed. Which led to some further understandings that have quite colored what I knew as a child.”
“Good Lord,” Samantha murmured.
Ramsey twisted his lips, as if uncertain where exactly to begin. “Suffice to say that there is quite the history of jealousy and dishonesty, but I must lay the blame for most of it at my father’s feet. It seems they carried quite a close confederacy as Westhouse grew, more so than my father’s interest in me. As such, I must say it was very much like speaking to my father, when I was speaking with Westhouse. Not something I’d like to repeat, ever. I can’t imagine how I didn’t see it, there are so many similarities, it’s rather absurd. Regardless, in the end his downfall was the same as my father’s, his bloody pride. And after Lucas and Heathcliff asserted themselves in the situation, Westhouse was forced to walk away slowly, or be exposed to ruin. It was an easy choice for him to make since he loves his reputation and honor nearly as much as our father did.”
Ramsey took a deep, slow breath and then took a seat to the left of Grace. He had been pacing about while speaking, his words as restless as his feet. Now, with the story told, it seemed he had lost the restless edge to his manners.
Grace thought over his words, comparing them with what she had experienced with Lord Westhouse. In the most basic ways, they didn’t look related, but there was something in the eyes, in the posture, that was familiar. It wasn’t of any consequence, but it was interesting.
The Temptation of Grace Page 20