“My father used to say, ‘Good fortune is the byproduct of a sharp mind and unfailing fastidiousness.’ I say, good fortune is reflected in the kind and steadfast friends granted to a blessed man.” Lord Quickner smiled at his wife and lifted his glass. “It seems I am a truly fortunate man.”
“Here, here,” came a voice down the table.
The viscount chuckled. “Enough of the speeches. Let’s drink!”
Each guest took a sip of champagne, a sense of warmth spreading around the room with the viscount’s words.
And then Lord Quickner fell atop the table, rattling the silverware and knocking plates and bowls to the floor in a shower of porcelain.
Lady Quickner was out of her seat and across the room before anyone else thought to rise. “My lord, what’s wrong?!”
The viscount’s face was turning the same unhealthy shade of plum as his velvet coat.
No one moved, seeming frozen in place. Except one.
“Stand him up!” Camille ordered the nearest footman. The moment the viscount was dragged to his feet, she pushed the servant away and wrapped her arms around Lord Quickner’s midsection from behind and made a series of sharp thrusts in and up.
The room watched in suspended horror as the Lord gagged and a dark shape flew from his mouth.
The projectile struck the flower arrangement down the table, the unmistakable sound of metal on glass sounding.
Lord Quickner sucked in lungful after lungful of air, his color improving, all while Lady Quickner fluttered about him like a mother bird at the nest.
“My lord, are you well? Can you breathe? Sit down.” She pointed to a footman, seeming on the verge of hysteria. “Fetch him a glass of wine.”
Lord Quickner patted his wife’s hand where it rested on his arm. “I’m quite all right now, darling.” He glanced over his wife’s head and gave Camille a nod. “You are an angel, after all. You have my gratitude.”
Lady Quickner turned and embraced Camille like a long-lost daughter, sharing her husband’s sentiments. “You are a godsend, Miss Forthright. That maneuver you did was extraordinary. Wherever did you learn such a thing?”
Sheepish, Camille ducked her head, her face red. “It was nothing. I read about airways in a medical journal andfigured air pressure worked both ways. Anyone could apply the appropriate force.”
“What modesty! You should be accredited for such heroics.”
The viscountess took note of the reanimated room and the skittering whispers. Ordering a footman to assist her lord, she begged the room to take their seats and enjoy their meal while she excused herself and Lord Quickner. With a last, whispered word to Camille, she quit the room, trailing behind her husband.
Order restored, the conversations in the room livened as the first course was brought out, a new sense of mortality leaving even the most reserved among them with a lively word to say.
Renard caught Camille’s gaze and leaned forward to keep his teasing quiet. “That wasunexpected.”
Her responding grin made his chest tighten, among other lower extremities.
“I couldn’t bear to disappoint you and your ridiculous ideas of quiet propriety,” she said. “Be thankful there were no baked goods involved. The evening would have taken a violent turn.”
He shook his head. The woman never ceased to amaze and delight. If there weren’t a roomful of witnesses, he’d have jumped the table and kissed her soundly. In that brief and aptly described moment of ‘heroics,’ all his doubt and worry over the social gap between them vanished. She was a warrior and a saint. Given an hour in her presence, even the harshest society crone would be charmed. He’d been an idiot to ever suspect her of manipulation. The necklace in his jacket pocket was a taunt. If only they weren’t stuck in this room with dozens of witnesses, he’d get down on his knee and beg her to marry him.
“There’ll be a whirlwind of invitations for you after this,” he said. “To the heroine who saved a viscount’s life after he made such a speech of blessings and fortune. You beat out fate herself.”
She groaned. “I should have left the man to choke.”
He laughed at her obvious lie.
Her expression softened. “Did you find your sister?”
“Third lady down on the left.” He nodded towards Charlotte, where she sat eating the first course of pea soup, her eyes downcast.
“She looks miserable.”
That’s because she’d not been introduced to a single person. He scowled at his blunder. “I’ll fix that tomorrow.” Charlotte would need connections and friends—even eccentric viscountesses—if she were to survive the future.
