“He never regained consciousness.” Jocelyn, attempting to shift his position to rid himself of a few cramps, inadvertently knocked the cushion to the floor. “Come and replace this, Miss Ingleby, will you? He never regained consciousness and yet—according to some accounts—he was able to give a perfectly lucid account of the attack and his own spirited and heroic defense. He was able to identify his attacker and explain her motive for breaking his skull. A strange sort of unconsciousness.”
Jane bent over him and placed the cushion in just the right spot, lifted his leg onto it as gently as she always did, and adjusted the top of the bandage, which had curled under. But she was, he noticed when he glanced at her, white to the very lips.
He was almost sorry then that he had insisted upon her remaining in the room. Clearly she was uncomfortable in the company of all men. And no doubt with their talk. As stoic as she had been over his injury, perhaps the talk of hair and blood and brains had been too much for her.
“News of his death may be just as exaggerated,” Garrick said cynically, getting to his feet and helping himself to another drink. “It could well be that he is simply ashamed to show his face after admitting to having been overpowered by a mere slip of a girl engaged in a robbery.”
“Was she not clutching a pistol in both hands?” Jocelyn asked. “According, that is, to the man who never regained consciousness from the time she struck him with one of them until the moment of his demise? But enough of that nonsense. What sort of a cork-brained scheme is this that Ferdinand has got himself into? A curricle race against Berriwether of all people! Who made the challenge?”
“Your brother,” Conan said, “when Berriwether was boasting that you will be eating humble pie at all your old sports now that you will have one lame leg to drag about. He was claiming that the Dudley name would never again be one to be uttered with awe and admiration.”
“In Ferdinand’s hearing?” Jocelyn shook his head. “Definitely not wise.”
“No, not exactly in his hearing,” his friend explained. “But Ferdinand got wind of it, of course, and came striding into White’s with flames roaring from his nostrils. I thought for one moment he was going to slap a glove in Berriwether’s face, but all he did was ask as polite as you please what Berriwether thought your finest accomplishment was apart from your skill with weapons. It was your skill with the ribbons, of course. Then came the challenge.”
“And how much has Ferdinand wagered on the outcome?” Jocelyn asked.
Garrick provided the answer. “One thousand guineas,” he said.
“Hmm.” Jocelyn nodded slowly. “The family honor worth one thousand guineas. Well, well.”
Jane Ingleby was no longer standing in her corner, he saw idly. She was sitting there very straight-backed on a low stool, her back to the room.
She did not move until his friends took their leave more than an hour later.
***
“GIVE ME THE DAMNEDthing!” The Duke of Tresham was holding out one imperious hand.
Jane, standing beside the sofa, where he had summoned her the moment after the drawing room door had closed behind his visitors, unfastened the ribbons beneath her chin and removed the offending cap. But she held it in her own hands.
“What are you intending to do with it?” she asked.
“What I am intending to do,” he said irritably, “is send you to fetch the sharpest pair of scissors my housekeeper can provide you with. And then I am going to have you watch while I cut that atrocity into shreds. No, correct that. I am going to haveyoucut it into shreds.”
“It is mine,” she told him. “I paid for it. You have no right whatsoever to destroy my property.”
“Poppycock!” he retorted.
And then to her horror Jane knew why he had suddenly blurred before her eyes. An inelegant sob escaped her at the same moment as she realized that her eyes had filled with tears.
“Good God!” he exclaimed, sounding appalled. “Does the wretched thing mean that much to you?”
“It is mine!” she said vehemently but with a lamentably unsteady voice. “I bought it and one other just two days ago. They cost everything I had. Iwillnot allow you to cut them up for your own amusement. You are an unfeeling bully.”
Despite the anger and bravado of her words, she was crying and sobbing and hiccuping quite despicably. She swiped at her wet cheeks with the cap and glared at him.
He regarded her in silence for a few moments. “This is not about the cap at all, is it?” he said at last. “It is because I forced you to remain in the room with a horde of male visitors. I have hurt your sensibilities, Jane. I daresay in the orphanage the sexes were segregated, were they?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I am weary,” he said abruptly. “I believe I shall try to sleep. I do not require your presence here to listen to me snore. Go to your room and remain there until dinnertime. Come to me again this evening.”
“Yes, your grace,” she said, turning from him. She could not say thank you even though she knew that in his way he was showing her a kindness. She did not believe he wished to sleep. He had merely recognized her need to be alone.
“Miss Ingleby,” he said when she reached the door. She did not look back. “Do not provoke me again. In my service you will wear no cap.”
She let herself out quietly and then raced upstairs to her room, where she shut the door gratefully on the world and cast herself across the bed. She was still clutching the cap tightly in one hand.
