“The magistrate? Christ, this is absurd.”
There was a shocked gasp. “A murdereranda blasphemer!” It was her grandmother speaking, but there was an odd, fluttery quality to her voice, as if she were about to succumb to a fit of hysteria.
Something awful had happened. Hyacinth couldn’t quite remember what, but as she drifted back toward wakefulness, dread seeped into the blurry edges of her consciousness.
“For God’s sake, will you allow me to explain myself? The lady’s mistaken. I didn’t beat a man to death at an inn in Aylesbury!” It was more of an angry growl than a voice, and strangely familiar. Hyacinth’s sluggish brain groped for the memory, but it hovered just out of reach.
“My sister-in-law says you did. Why should she say it if it’s not true?”
A brief silence fell, then it was broken by a man’s bitter laugh. “Scores of high-strung chits in that ballroom, and the one who accuses me of murder is Huntington’s sister-in-law. Bloody perfect. Well, wake her up, and make her explain herself.”
“Sheexplain herself!” It was Finn, and his voice was shaking with fury. “It’syouwho owes the explanation, sir. I’ve never laid eyes on you before, and I can’t think of any innocent reason why you’d be skulking about my ballroom uninvited. But you’ll have ample time to explain it when the magistrate arrives.”
“Finn, wait.” It was Iris’s voice, but it was faint, as if her sister were speaking from a great distance away. “What sort of murderer confronts a witness to his crime in the middle of a crowded ballroom?”
Nick snorted. “A remarkably foolish one?”
“No. Something isn’t right about this.” It was Iris again, her voice still distant. “I think we need to do as this, ah…gentleman asks, and wake Hyacinth.”
Hyacinth’s frown deepened. Why, what a traitor Iris was.
She didn’t want to wake up. She wanted to stay where she was, gliding about on this soft cloud. Hyacinth’s fingers twitched as she tried to grasp at the cool, floating mist; desperate to hold onto unconsciousness just a little while longer, but as she began to drift off again, the acrid scent of smelling salts burned her nose.
“Hyacinth?” Cool fingers brushed her forehead. “Open your eyes, dearest.”
Hyacinth jerked her head away, but it was too late. The fog was dissipating. A faint moan of protest left her lips, but whoever wielded the smelling bottle waved it under her nose again. The last few shreds of that blessed, numbing fog slipped through her fingers.
She peeled her eyes open to find she was in a dimly-lit room. The walls were spinning in dizzying circles around her, but she thought she was lying on a sofa in Finn’s study, her head in someone’s lap. Iris, Violet and Lady Chase were leaning over her, peering anxiously down into her face.
“She’s waking up.” Iris patted her cheek, and some of the tension eased from her face when Hyacinth’s eyes opened wide. “Ah, much better. We’re going to sit you up, all right? Violet, take her hands.”
They eased her limp body upright and propped her against the back of the sofa. Lady Chase wrapped cold fingers around Hyacinth’s hand, and the rest of her family gathered in a protective circle around her.
“What happened?” Hyacinth blinked up at the faces surrounding her.
They all looked at each other with blank expressions, then Violet said, “We’re not sure, dear. A man none of us recognizes approached you in the ballroom just now. For some reason he gave you a fright, and—”
“And you called him a murderer, then fell into a swoon without explaining yourself.”
The voice was deep and clipped, slightly accented, but with the lilt shorn off at the edges.
I’m still Scot enough to knock you unconscious…
Hyacinth’s entire body went rigid as memories slammed into her, all at once, one after the next. The blood gushing from that man’s nose, the dark red stains on his white cravat. The sickening crack of a fist meeting bone, the hard wall of the inn digging into her spine as she shrank back against it, clinging to the shadows.
The man, lying still and lifeless on the ground, his face covered with blood.
Without warning, Hyacinth shot to her feet. Dizziness swamped her, but she struggled against the swoon that threatened.
“Hyacinth!” Iris leapt up and gripped her arm, but Hyacinth shook her off, and took two steps toward the fireplace, from where the voice had come. When she emerged from the shadows and he got a look at her, a scowl blacker than death itself fell over his face.
Oh, dear God.
She’d thought him terrifying enough when she saw him beat another man to a bloody pulp, but he was far more frightening up close. He was the most enormous man she’d ever seen—a veritable giant—with shoulders wider than a doorway, straining at the seams of his coat, a wild shock of inky black hair, and hands the size of horse’s hooves.
“You…w-why did you c-come here? W-wh-what do you want of me?”
His hard mouth pulled into a grim line, and icy hazel eyes narrowed on her face. “Not a damn thing until you began shrieking about murder. Would you be so kind as to explain yourself, before someone slips a noose around my neck?”
