“Who on earth is that?”
“Is she drunk?”
“Nothing surprises me when it comes to the Roy family. Like father, like son.”
Marcus heard the words whispered and, in some cases, spoken aloud by the people around him who had noticed the young woman. They could not help but be aware of her stockinged feet or the servant’s dress. Nor could they miss the unsteady steps and look of confusion upon her face.
Why the devil did Gracie not keep you in the room? What are you doing to me?
She reached the foot of the stairs and then her eyes alighted on Marcus. A smile bloomed across her face, and she began to walk towards him. Marcus glared about himself at the comments he could hear. Wherever his dark eyes landed, silence fell. He strode towards the young woman.
“I’m sorry. I’m interrupting your…occasion,” she said.
“Not at all,” Marcus soothed, “I am just concerned that you might not be well enough. Don’t you think you should be resting?”
“Probably, but I think I have had too much to drink. There was wine beside the bed, and I drank all of it,” she said, looking about herself with increasing distress.
It was as though she had come this far without realizing what she would be walking into. Now, she could see the looks that were settling on her from the company, feel their disapproval, and, in some cases, open laughter. Marcus put a protective arm about her shoulders instinctively and steered her back towards the staircase.
“Arthur, I am sorry for the… all the trouble I have caused you. But I was desperate,” the young woman said, “he struck me, and my father did nothing.”
That brought Marcus up short. He felt the ignition of a flame of anger.
Someone struck this woman in front of her own father, and he just watched? That is monstrous!
“Who struck you?” he asked, guiding her towards the stairs again.
“The Duke of Christleton. My father may not be a Duke, but he ought to have defended me, don’t you think?”
“Christleton is an old bastard,” Marcus snarled. “Where did this happen?”
“In my father’s house. In Sawthorne itself,” she mumbled.
That name rang a bell. There was a Sawthorne manor somewhere in west Kent, or possibly the north of that county. Its owner was a man of Germanic name and roots.
Voss! That’s it. His family name is Voss. If only I were au fait with the gentry of the Home Counties, I would know her name too. It shouldn’t be difficult to discover the name of Voss of Sawthorne’s daughter.
He felt a small sense of triumph at this breakthrough. They had reached the stairs at the same time as the Dowager Countess of Claydon emerged from a doorway to one side. It led to the Long Walk, a passageway in which the Roy’s collection of art and antiques were put on proud display. The Dowager Countess was flanked by younger women, simpering and tittering at her every utterance.
She had a formidable nose and a lifted chin; her hair was steel gray and hung with delicate gold ornaments. When she saw the Voss girl, she stopped short, staring with astonishment. Her look took the entirety of the young woman into the balance, weighed her, and found her wanting.
“Well, Your Grace. You waste no time, do you? You could at least do the rest of us the courtesy of keeping your drabs behind closed doors until the event to which you have persuaded us to attend concludes.”
“Oh my!” the young Voss woman exclaimed, her eyes filling with tears.
Marcus gritted his teeth and rounded on the old woman.
“I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself in my house. If that proves too difficult, I shall be glad to personally escort you to the door,” he snapped.
Instinctively, he tightened his grip on the young woman’s shoulders, holding her to him protectively. The urge to shield her from people such as this was overwhelming. She was so delicate and vulnerable; he did not want her exposed to the cruelty and politics of these people. Did not wish to see her harmed. Knowing that she had already been harmed by a reprobate such as the Duke of Christleton only made that instinct more acute.
“Well, really!” the Dowager Countess exclaimed, “to think a peer of the realm should lower himself to…”
“To speak to one such as you,” Marcus interrupted.
The Dowager Countess’ face turned white. Her mouth compressed into a tight line. Marcus knew that what he was doing was tantamount to social suicide. That he was already blasting apart the good opinion he might have gained by hosting an event like this. But he could not make himself care.
“Well, I for one shall not remain here to be insulted!” the Dowager Countess boomed in a voice that could have carried to France, let alone the rest of the hall, “I shall leave at once and advise anyone who cares for respectability to follow suit.”
