Page 48
Beside her, Fiennes was equally calm. But there was something about his stature that suggested to Ella that he was ready to leap from the settee and overpower the viscount.
After another five minutes, the viscountess sagged against Ella’s arm and appeared from her regular breathing to have gone to sleep.
Ella couldn’t help stealing glances at Fiennes from under her lashes. The moment when he rescued her by sending a footman to the Savoy Club felt as if it had happened in another lifetime, to another lady.
Then, he had looked at her with passionate tenderness in his eyes. Now Fiennes’s gaze moved over her as if she were a piece of furniture.
“You!” the viscount said, abruptly wheeling about and fixing his eyes on Ella for the first time. “This is all your fault!”
As if he’d worked out a math problem, he dabbed his round forehead. Ella had the sudden conviction that her uncle had padded his chest as well as his calves: he seemed to be swollen everywhere, his waistcoat holding him in precariously.
Ella raised an eyebrow. “I had no idea Fulvia meant to play Juliet until Lady Regina announced the same.”
“I didn’t inform anyone other than Regina,” Fulvia said in an even voice.
Behind the viscount’s thin legs, Ella saw Fiennes flex his calves, a cautious movement that reminded her of the way Starlight settled into a crouch before bursting into motion and knocking Josephina’s acorns out of her paws.
The viscount was purple in the cheeks. “Don’t lie to me! You aided and abetted a plan to allow the inexecrable presence, a professional actor, into the house of my ancestors.”
“No, I did not,” Ella said.
“I understand he touched Fulvia’s hand with his fat paw, that they exchanged endearments. Desecrated the person of my child.”
The viscountess’s eyelids fluttered. She murmured, “No, no, surely not,” and lapsed back to sleep.
“You are useless!” the viscount howled at his wife.
He leaned in toward Ella. The sides of his mouth were flecked with spittle, and his eyes glossy and unfocused. “Your days are numbered in this house, girl! I’ve given you room and board only from the goodness of my heart, when any other man would have long ago dismissed you.”
“I see,” Ella said.
Furious at her composure, he retorted, “You are useless to me! The one important task you had, you failed. Now my only daughter is the laughingstock of every decent man in London.”
Behind him, Fiennes stood, his massive shoulders seeming twice the breadth of the viscount’s to Ella’s tired eyes. “Do you count the Prince of Wales among these decent men?” he inquired.
The viscount only barely managed to stay on his feet during the intricate process of swiveling to face Fiennes. “His Majesty is pure of heart and noble of deed.”
“Optimistic, indeed,” Fulvia said, rising and stepping forward to stand beside her betrothed. “The Regent propositioned me, Father.”
A moment of silence, then, like the hiss of a snake, her father said, “Surely you expected as much, Daughter? You asked for it! Your behavior led to the prince—my dear friend, His Majesty—judging my own offspring no better than a drab, a creature of the stage.”
“A few lines of Shakespearean verse and you excuse a royal lout’s debased behavior toward a woman of your family?” Fiennes demanded.
Ella’s heart felt like a cold fist in her chest. Fiennes was defending Fulvia, his future wife. Of course, he was. It was humiliating to realize just how much she had hoped that he would protect her, hold her close, take her away.
Fiennes’s derisive tone sank through to the viscount’s befuddled brain. “This is a family discussion,” his lordship said, drawing himself up. “I must ask you to absent yourself so that I can speak to my family in the privacy they deserve.”
“No,” Fiennes stated. He stood still, his powerful body entirely relaxed.
The viscount swept back the oiled lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. He was sweating profusely, and Ella could smell brandy emanating from his skin.
Her heart sank, looking at Fiennes and Fulvia standing shoulder to shoulder. They were so very beautiful, like rulers of the Land of the Worthy.
Dishwater had now soaked through her apron to her legs. She was crumpled and plain, while they glowed.
She was a housekeeper, and Fulvia was a lady.
The pain of that comparison felt like the lash of a whip; she instinctively tightened her arm around her aunt, who raised her head and blinked confusedly.
