Page 14

He rolled onto his back, his hands lifted upward. “No more, guvna,” he pleaded, pressing a grubby sleeve to his bloody face.

“Go!” Breathing heavily, fists still raised in defense, Ian stepped backward. He jerked his head toward the unlit street. Wheezing and gasping, the hefty villain lumbered to his feet. Cupping his streaming nose, he tore off without a backward glance, deserting his insensate accomplice.

Bending over to retrieve his hat and cane, Ian winced. His shoulder complained no small amount at the exertion. Scarce a week had passed since his stallion threw him toe over top. Only agile reflexes and quick thinking prevented him from cracking his skull. His aching shoulder had taken the brunt of the fall. He rubbed the bruised muscles with his spare hand.

Pericles had never thrown him before, but Ian blamed himself. He’d been riding the horse, neck or nothing, and when he shifted his weight to leap a hedgerow, he’d been unceremoniously tossed to the ground. At the time, he attributed the fall to Pericles’ refusal to take the hedge. But in truth, his foul temper could be blamed for the horse’s balking. Incensed and grief-stricken over his brother’s and father’s recent deaths, Ian had been too enthusiastic with his boot-spurs to Pericles’ sides.

Geoff, my beloved brother.

Sorrow pierced his chest, fierce and unrelenting, and he closed his eyes against the pain. Covering his heart with his hand, Ian recalled the last time he and Geoff had raced their horses across that very meadow. The lavender dots of heather now speckling the field and lending their subtle fragrance to the crisp morning air hadn’t been blooming that day.

Ian remained motionless until the spasm of grief passed. His cheerful, gullible brother would laugh no more, and Miss Caruthers was to blame. That in itself was a crime far greater than the deplorable state his father had left Somerfield’s ledgers and tenants.

Miss Caruthers.

A wave of fresh anger rolling over him, Ian clenched his fist. Pain ripped through his hand. If he wasn’t mistaken, he’d broken a knuckle or two. He flexed his fingers and grimaced. The answering twinge confirmed his assessment. Running his uninjured hand over his cheek and jaw, he gingerly opened and closed his mouth. His face throbbed where he’d taken the blow from the ham-handed lout.

He’d have a colorful bruise come morning.

Settling his hat atop his head, he twisted his mouth into a cynical smile. A black-and-blue face paired with his battered pride. Somehow, it seemed fitting and, truth be known, a far more brilliant match than the union proposed to him an hour ago.

“Wake up!”

Why was Yvette trying to wake her so early?

“Please, no.” Vangie groaned and pressed her face into the downy softness of her pillow. Sleep curled around her consciousness again.

Yvette gently shook her shoulder, repeating urgently, “Wake up, Vangie.”

“Chérie, you must rise and dress at once,” Aunt Adélaid said, her voice muffled.

Vangie drowsily opened her eyes.

Her aunt poked about inside the wardrobe, rifling through Vangie’s borrowed gowns.

She frowned and covered a yawn.

Yvette lifted a fresh chemise and stockings from the bureau. She brought the garments to the bed, dangling them from her fingertips. “Here, I’ll help you. You must make haste.” Her expression troubled, her voice trembled the merest bit.

Why were her aunt and cousin here to assist her instead of her abigail? Most peculiar. Vangie studied Yvette’s pale face. “Where’s Mary?”

“She’s…” Yvette sent her stepmother a helpless glance.

“Occupied, at present,” Aunt Adélaid finished.

Sitting up, Vangie brushed hair away from her face. It hung loose, in heavy waves around her shoulders and back. “Whatever is going on? Is someone ill?”

“Lord Warrick has…” Yvette sent another quick, uncertain glance to Aunt Adélaid. “That is, he…uhm…he’s come to call.”

“At this ungodly hour?” Vangie looked to the French windows opening onto a private balcony. Muted, early morning light shimmered through the panes, crisscrossing the hand-hooked, blue and pink cabbage rose rug. Taking a sideways peek at her bedside table clock, she widened her eyes. “It isn’t even eight straight-up!”

Far too early for a social visit. Downright rude, in fact.

She plucked at the satin coverlet. “Can’t Uncle Gideon address any urgent matters with Lord Warrick?”

Her aunt shook her head, lines of worry creasing her face. “No, dear. His lordship specifically asked for you, and your uncle asked us to make haste with your toilette.” She sighed, her gaze swinging between the two gowns she held in either hand. She selected the yellow and flung the green across the back of a chair. “Mary may not have been the best choice of a lady’s maid for you. She’s a dear, but she dawdles terribly.”

“I don’t understand the rush for me to dress, or why Uncle Gideon has accepted a caller so unfashionably early.” Bewildered, Vangie idly twirled a curl, her gaze shifting from Yvette to Aunt Adélaid. Tension radiated sharp and severe across their attractive features.