It was obvious Jamie had never butted anyone with his head in all his life. There was a correct way of doing it, and an incorrect one. He’d done it incorrectly. Truly, she should have given him some fisticuffs tips before tonight. She simply hadn’t considered the necessity.
The next instant, the men were back at it. Hortense sprang into action as the tussle continued, stepping behind Jamie, just as they’d planned, and flung the tiara off her head. “Oh, dear, the tiara!” she exclaimed, falling to her hands and knees as if to retrieve the jewel. She tugged at his cloak, all the while imploring, “Stop this instant, Clare! Stop!”
He’d received her signal, for the cloak fell to the floor. Unerringly, she felt along the interior lining until she came upon a jagged lump. Half an eye on the brawling men, she slid her hand inside the hidden pocket and pulled out the genuine tiara, and slipped the fake one into its place. She sprang to her feet and tapped the small of Jamie’s back three times in quick succession, thereby giving him the second signal. She’d made the switch.
But he wasn’t finished. He drew back his right fist and clipped Rothesbury directly on the nose. A bright red spray of blood shot forth and began streaming down the duke’s face.
Livid and plugging his nostrils to no avail, he shouted, “Out of my house!”
Jamie wasn’t done. He grabbed Rothesbury’s wig, snatching it clean off the duke’s head. “You’re fooling no one with that pathetic thing!” Out, the mess of furry fuchsia sailed through an open window.
For what could have been a pair of seconds, a pair of minutes, or hours, time stood still as three sets of eyes stared at the window, the import of what Jamie had done sinking into the air. Rothesbury’s hand flew to his head, which had but twenty or so white natural hairs populating his rather bulbous dome. His face contorted with rage and humiliation, but mostly rage, while with one hand he held his bleeding nose and the other his head.
“Get out!” he shouted.
Jamie grabbed Hortense by the wrist, even as she made a big show of straining toward Rothesbury. “I will not abandon you, my duke,” she cried, the mawkish words leaving a sour taste on her tongue.
“And take your little trollop with you!” Rothesbury’s blood dripped on the Persian carpet. “The tiara stays here!”
Only now did Hortense realize she yet held the real one. She dropped it on a console table on her way out and cast the duke one last tearful glance over her shoulder.
“Out!” he shouted, sounding entirely deranged, his free hand shooing her away.
The man had been humiliated in front of a woman. He wouldn’t be able to tolerate such a thing.
Within a thrice of minutes, she and Jamie were exiting the mansion and summoning the coach and four. She swiped at her tears before removing her beauty patch and domino. “Have you a handkerchief?” She suspected kohl was running down her cheeks.
He reached inside his cloak and dug out a square of white linen. Quiet stretched between them as she dabbed at the kohl. “Did I get it all?”
He searched her face. “Here, allow me.”
She closed her eyes as he gently wiped a few spots. She swayed into his touch, unable to help herself.
“There,” he said, too soon. “You look like yourself again.”
Her eyes blinked open, as his hands fell away. “In Rothesbury’s bedroom…”
“Yes?”
“There were a few seconds—” She shook her head. “It matters not.”
“You thought I wasn’t coming?”
“I knew you would come.”
“But you thought you might have to fight him off?”
“Possibly.”
He tucked his thumb beneath her chin, lifting her gaze to meet his. “I was outside the bedroom door the entire time. I gave it exactly four minutes, as we planned. You were never alone with him, not truly.”
She swallowed back a sudden surge of emotion. Of course. Jamie would never leave her stranded. A smile pulled at her mouth. “The wig.” A laugh bubbled up, no restraining it. “Do you think Rothesbury will ever recover from this night?”
Jamie snorted. “Not bloody likely.”
“Good.”
The levity of the moment faded, and his hand fell away, his eyes growing serious. “There will be no changing of clothes or other distractions. We go to Flick Doylenow. My son is coming home tonight.”
