“Stay a moment.”
Jane turned around with some apprehension, but she did stay. She had decided to play this game out, and she didn’t want to pass up any plot twist he might be offering.
“What is it, Sir John?”
“I just thought we might spend time alone together, perhaps engage in our own private game of”—he leaned closer to her face—“whissst.”
She coughed once. “That’s a four-person game.”
“I thought we could be partners. A little wink-wink, a little nudge-nudge under the table, you understand me?”
She sorted through the Austen plots searching for a scenario when a married man solicits a young lady. There was the doomed tryst inMansfield Parkwith married lady and bachelor, but Sir John was no suave young Henry Crawford.
“I think I should go to bed,” she said, unsure of how he was expecting her to proceed but not enjoying this subplot.
“Precisely my point,” he said.
He began to advance again. She stepped back until she hit the wall.
“Hold on, now,” she said, stopping him with a hand on his chest.
Sir John took her hand and held it in both of his own. His skin was hot and scratchy.
“You are so, so lovely.” His breath hit her again, and she gagged at the stench of food and fermentation. He was clearly much drunker than she’d suspected.
“Sir John, you’re married to my aunt.”
“Not really,” he said, winking. Or perhaps, blinking poorly. “Me and the missus sleep in separate beds, don’t tell her I told you, and I have been so lonely, lonely and cold, cold like your sweet hands. And we never had a specimen so young and pretty and taut as yourself.”
“Step back, sir,” she said, pressing her other hand against his chest. He didn’t budge. His dry hands rubbed her fingersenthusiastically, his round belly pressed against her, and his mouth leered near her own.
“Surely a young beauty like yourself is lonely, too. It can be a part of the game.”
“I don’t like this game.” She didn’t care if this was a plot point. The way he was treating her was not okay. A white-hot streak of anger zoomed up her middle. “I will ask you once to let me go.”
His answer was to lean in closer. So she kneed him in the groin as hard as she could.
“Aw, ow, dammit!” He doubled over and thudded onto his knees.
Jane brushed off her knee, feeling like it had touched something dirty. “Aw, ow, dammit indeed!”
Jane heard hurried footsteps coming down the stairs. It was Mr. Nobley.
“Miss Erstwhile!” He was barefoot in his breeches, his shirt untucked. He glanced down at the groaning man. “Sir John!”
“Ow, she kicked me,” said Sir John.
“Kneed him, I kneed him,” Jane said. “I don’t kick. Not even when I’m a ninja.”
Mr. Nobley stood a moment in silence, looking over the scene. “I hope you remembered to shout ‘Ya’ when subduing him. I hear that is very effective.”
“I’m afraid I neglected that bit, but I’ll certainly ‘ya’ from here to London if he ever touches me again.”
“Miss Erstwhile, were you perhaps employed by your country’s armed forces?”
“What? Don’t British women know how to use their knees?”
“Happily, I have never put myself in a position to find out.” He stared at the prostrate Sir John. “Did he hurt you?”
