Hyacinth loved her grandmother dearly, but the old lady was at her most cantankerous when her routine was disrupted. It was cause for concern, since Hyacinth’s launch into the marriage mart was a mere week away, and certain to be a disruption.
At best.
At worst, it would be an utter catastrophe.
It wasn’t as if shewanteda season. She didn’t. The very idea of being on display for every aristocratic gentleman in London to gawk at made her stomach roil with nausea.
She wanted…something. Anything, really. She didn’t much care what, as long as it made a tiny crack in the shell she’d built around herself.
The trouble was, she hadn’t the faintest idea what that thing might be. A suitor, a courtship, a marriage—she didn’t have much hope her season would bring her any of those things, but perhaps it would bring her something else.
Something I never could have imagined…
Before her sisters married, Hyacinth had told herself she’d be content to live out her days in her grandmother’s Bedford Square house. After Iris and Violet were gone, the silence she’d once treasured became deafening, and her solitary peace an aching loneliness. With every day that passed the walls of that house pressed in upon her, closer and closer, and her world narrowed by another inch.
No one, not even she, could live within such a tiny sliver of space. So she’d agreed to a season, because she had, quite literally, nothing to lose.
Hyacinth rose from the bed and snatched her cloak from the back of a chair, but she paused when she caught sight of her reflection in the window, illuminated by the light from the lamp behind her.
She hesitated, her cloak clutched in her hand. She’d thought to take a quick turn around the inn-yard for some air, but it was darker than midnight outside. She didn’t like to wander about an inn yard in the dark, but neither did she like to deprive her lungs of oxygen, and she’d been half-smothered all day.
She could open the window now, but the bite of cold air was sure to wake her grandmother. Perhaps she’d be better off simply going to bed. Surely, she could hold off on breathing for another eight to ten hours…
For pity’s sake, you’re frightened of the dark now? Has it come to this, then?
It was one thing to dread her season—seasons were dreadful, after all—but it was quite another to succumb to childish fears. If she kept on like this, what would be next? Ghosts? Thunderstorms? Large dogs? Spiders?
No. She wouldn’t indulge it. It was utter nonsense. Well, all but the spiders, perhaps, because they were wretched, crawly things.
Hyacinth straightened her shoulders, pulled her hood low over her face, and tiptoed across the room and down the stairs. When they’d arrived at the Horse and Groom late this evening, the inn-yard had been crowded with carriages, but not a single soul graced the rows of wooden tables in the dining room now, and the entryway was eerily silent.
A strange shiver of apprehension shot down Hyacinth’s spine at the stillness, but she shook it off and made her way toward the open space around the corner of the building, on the side removed from the stables. She’d take a quick turn in the yard to get the blood flowing through her stiff limbs, and then she’d return to her bedchamber—
“…still Scot enough to knock you unconscious for the rest of the night.”
Hyacinth turned her head toward the voice, confused, but as soon as she saw the two men, she went still.
They were standing just outside a faint pool of light spilling into the yard from the inn’s dining-room window. Both of them were dark-haired, and…goodness, they were both giants, with shoulders that went on for miles and chests like stone walls. They’d tossed their coats aside and were circling each other in their shirtsleeves, but the fine cut and costly fabric marked them as gentlemen, not servants or stable-hands.
She ducked into the shadows at the side of the inn, some instinct warning her neither of these men would want a witness to whatever mayhem was about to occur between them.
The taller of the two of them was grim-faced, but the other’s mouth was quirked at the corner with an insolent grin, as if he found something terribly amusing. It seemed to cost him an effort to remain upright, and Hyacinth guessed he was befuddled with drink, but he shrugged, undeterred by his companion’s warning.
“Have it your way. First your blood, then his.”
Even in the dim light, Hyacinth saw the taller man’s shoulders go rigid. “Get on with it, then.” He had a trace of an accent, but what might have been a pleasant lilt was spoiled by a tone so cold and hard it sounded as if he were spitting bits of chipped ice. There wasn’t a hint of softness in his face, or a tremor of indecision.
Hyacinth stared at him, a sick feeling growing in the pit of her stomach. This man, with his steady hand and cold voice—he’d beat his opponent to unconsciousness without any hesitation, and without batting an eye.
She shook her head to clear a sudden dizziness as she gaped stupidly at the scene before her. They were seconds from attacking each other, right here behind the Horse and Groom Inn, and one had only to look at their faces to see the brawl would be an ugly one.
But…it was impossible, wasn’t it? She watched them circle each other, her brain sluggish with shock. None of this made sense. Gentlemen didn’t tear each other to pieces behind a public inn.
Except these two men, in this oddly quiet moment, half-hidden in the shadows…
They would. Theywere.
Even before either man made a move toward the other, Hyacinth could see this altercation between them was inevitable. Whatever had sent them careening to this point had them in its grip now, and like a heavy stone tipped over the edge of a cliff, it wouldn’t end until it came to a crashing halt at the bottom.
