His cousin hesitated. “Yes,” he said. “I must confess I do, Harry. Though you must know that I really did not want—”
“I do know,” Harry said. “You need not be apologetic about being happy. I am a happy man too.”
“You did not look happy a moment ago,” Alexander said.
“The natural expression of my face in repose,” Harry said with a grin.
Ah, they were about to be disturbed. Someone had come up the drive—two people, actually, two men—and paused to look at the crowd gathered on the lawn. They were not any of the neighbors. They were strangers, in fact. Harry hoped they would proceed to the main doors so that Brown could deal with whatever their business was.
They were not proceeding to the door, however. They were striding across the grass, two men on some important mission and apparently unembarrassed at intruding upon a private event.
Most of the children were still roaring about the grass and among the trees, intent upon their noisy games. Almost everyone else turned to watch the men. The taller of the two, who walked slightly ahead of the other, stopped when he was close enough to be heard—most conversation had died away anyway.
“Which one of you is Westcott?” he asked.
“A large number of us are,” Harry said, stepping forward with a smile on his face. “Which Westcott were you looking for in particular?”
“Major Harry Westcott,” the man said.
“That would be me,” Harry said, taking another step toward his visitor. “What may I—”
His visitor had taken more than one step toward him. He put an abrupt end to the sentence with a fist that collided with Harry’s chin and mouth with such force that Harry, taken completely by surprise, found himself measuring his length on the grass, gazing up at stars in the middle of the afternoon.
He became fuzzily aware of uproar. Voices, both male and female, all talking at once. A few screams. A demand to be let go. A command to stop struggling before an arm got broken. A contemptuous demand to get up and fight like a man. That one got Harry’s attention. Since he was probably the only one down, the invitation to get up was probably being directed at him.
No teeth—Harry did a quick check with his tongue— appeared to be missing or broken. His chin felt as if it might have been punched all the way through to the back of his head, but when he moved his jaw the chin seemed still to be attached to it. He shook his head—big mistake— and sat up. He shook his head more gently at the hand that was being offered him—Boris’s—and got to his feet.
Everyone was standing, including the elderly ladies. The children had abandoned their games for the greater excitement of seeing what was about to happen. The first man had Alexander’s hand clamped on his shoulder. The second man had his arms behind him, held there by Gil. Both men were frowning ferociously and breathing fire and brimstone—or so it seemed to Harry’s still-fuzzy brain.
“Fight, you coward,” the first man said from between his teeth. “Put your fists up, or are you going to hide behind all the skirts here and allow othermento protect you?”
Harry had a horrid premonition. And good God, yes. This wasjusthow he would expect them to behave.
“I amnotgoing to fight either one of you,” he said. “Alex, you can step aside. Gil, you would probably be sorry if you really did break his arm. Let go, there’s a good fellow. Is either one of you by any chance a Winterbourne? Or both of you?”
“You will name your time and place, Westcott,” man number one said curtly. “Your weapons too if you wish. And youwillfight or be exposed to the world as a debaucher and a coward. I am James Winterbourne.”
“Oh, I say,” Uncle Thomas said above the swell of sound that succeeded Winterbourne’s words.
Harry held up a staying hand. “Have you spoken with your sister?” he asked.
“My sister’s name will not pass your lips,” Winterbourne said. “We will take care of her from this moment on, you may be assured. She will come home, where she belongs, and where we can keep her safe from the likes of you.”
“Well,” Harry said. “She may have something to say about that, you know. And if you havenothad a word with her, perhaps you ought. In fact, maybe the three of us should. This is your brother, I assume?”
How the devil had they found out? Gossip had wings indeed, it seemed.
“William Winterbourne,” the brother confirmed, narrowing his eyes at Harry. “And you will get within a mile of our sister again over my dead body.”
“A rather suicidal threat,” Avery said, his voice languid, as he strolled into sight from somewhere to Harry’s left. “I believe Mrs. Tavernor’s cottage is within half a mile of where we stand. In my experience, it is always a mistake of colossal proportions for men to flex their muscles instead of recognizing that women have voices—and often surprisingly sensible minds behind those voices.”
“I shall go and have a word with Mrs. Tavernor,” Harry’s mother said, stepping up beside him and within range of the iron fist that had collided with Harry’s chin not so long ago. “She is very fortunate to have two brothers who care so deeply for her. I am the Marchioness of Dorchester, Harry’s mother. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Winterbourne.” And she extended her right hand to the elder brother, who still looked as though fumes might blow out his ears at any moment.
Bizarrely, he took her hand and even bowed over it, murmuring something unintelligible.
“Harry will accompany me,” his mother continued. “I shall certainly see to it that he offers no sort of insult to Mrs. Tavernor, whom I have found to be a woman of dignity and integrity. Will you accompany us, Mr. Winterbourne? And your brother?”
The Westcott family, Harry thought, might never have been more silent. Even the children were unnaturally quiet.
