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“My father did provide for me,” Ella stated. “You burned his will and stole my inheritance.”
An ugly peal of laughter rang through the carriage. “I never saw his will because there wasn’t one.” The viscount’s lip curled in an ugly sneer. “I’m not saying that I wouldn’t have burned it, but I didn’t have to bother. You’re nurturing a false memory of my brother if you tell yourself he gave a damn, because he didn’t. All he wanted was an heir.”
Ella had spent years negotiating a household headed by this monster, as Fiennes called him. She could tell when the viscount was lying.
He was not lying.
The truth jolted through her. The viscount had not burned a will.
Yet that didn’t mean that her father hadn’t provided for her.
She had seen the will, and so had Jarvis.
Thankfully, the carriage was rocking to a halt. “You go after Fulvia and rescue her from that actor,” her uncle snapped at Fiennes, “or I’ll spread the word that you debauched my innocent child, leading her to take her own life!”
Fiennes laughed as he pushed open the door to the carriage. “Come, Ella.” He jumped out, reached back in, and caught her up in her arms.
Before she could stop herself, she let out a little cry.
He placed her carefully on the ground. “What hurts?”
“My ribs are sore.”
“Where?”
Ella put her hand on her right side, just below her breast. “They aren’t broken.”
“Move to the side,” the viscount bellowed.
Not taking his eyes from Ella’s face, Fiennes reached out and slammed the carriage door shut, flicking down the handle that locked the door.
Ignoring the pounding that made the whole carriage shudder, Fiennes asked softly, “May I?”
When Ella nodded, Fiennes ran his fingers carefully over her side. “I think you’re right, but I am no expert.” He dusted her nose with a kiss. “I’ll send for a doctor.” Looking up at the coachman, he said, “You may let him out now.”
The man hopped down and opened the carriage door. The viscount stumbled out and fell to his knees on the dusty sidewalk.
“You’re fired!” he screamed.
The coachman looked at him impassively, arms folded over his chest. “I work for the Mad Bishop. You’re the owner of that pile of junk just outside the inn. You’ll need to pay to have that hauled away.”
Ella didn’t dare look for fear she’d burst out laughing. Snugly tucked against Fiennes’s side, she felt safe.
Unafraid.
The emotion felt new and green, like a spring leaf uncurling on a bough, making her realize that unbeknownst to herself, she had been tightly coiled with fear ever since her parents died.
“Isn’t that the Duke of Lennox’s carriage?” Fiennes asked, pulling Ella’s thoughts away from her memories.
A magnificent barouche, painted dark crimson with an elaborate coat of arms on the door, was drawn up outside the St. Trevelyon townhouse. Matched black horses stamped their feet impatiently.
“I don’t understand,” Ella exclaimed. “Why isn’t it on its way to Greta Green?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
IN WHICH FULVIA SURPRISES ALMOST EVERYONE
“Lady Regina was lying,” the viscount snarled as he pushed past Ella and Fiennes, slapping dust from his thigh. “My daughter would never steal a coach. The whole tale was nothing more than a … taradiddle! My daughter—the daughter of a viscount—would never lower herself to marry an actor.”
