Lady Fiasco: A Humorous Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt Book 1)
Lady Fiasco: Chapter 15

Honore floated down the stairway in a purple beaded gown, not beads sown onto fabric, but strung together like a coat of mail. Beneath a flimsy underskirt she wore nothing at all. If one caught precisely the right angle, Honore’s anatomy was quite visible through the glittering network of beads. Her breasts mounded up out of a very low neckline, and a huge garnet nestled in her cleavage.

Marcus drew in a loud breath. “My dear Honore, you will devastate the gentlemen.”

She tossed her nose into the air. “And why should I not?”

Marcus looked at her appreciatively. “No reason at all, my dear. You are a stunner.”

She inclined her head.

“I daresay every fellow here will go blind straining to look at you.” He tapped his fingers against the newel post. “Poor Fiona. You’ll put her quite in the shade. She’ll disappear into the woodwork next to you.”

Honore glared at him. “What is that to me? She looks after herself well enough.”

“Certainly. I merely thought, that as her chaperone—”

“I am not her dragon!” She poked her finger at his chin. “I’m not some old biddy consigned to the wall! Do you hear me? I’m not.” Honore stepped back and straightened her shoulders.

“Perish the thought. Hiding your superior charms would be a crime against nature.” Marcus hooded his eyes and shook his head. “You, in the role of duenna? It’s unthinkable. A tragedy. Yet, my dear, you have mentioned, many times, that Fiona is your protégée, the offspring you never had?”

Honore cocked her chin in the air. “That was before I knew the girl. I’ve changed my mind. She’s as stuffy and dull as that lovesick earl who pants after her. No, she won’t do at all. Thank goodness, I hadn’t gone to all the bother of changing my will, yet.”

She flipped her hand backward against her forehead and briefly struck a pose of one of the seven muses. Then she patted Marcus’s cheek as if he were eight years old. “It’s of no consequence. I’ve other nieces. My brother in Hertfordshire had a daughter, and I believe my younger brother spawned several gels. If I decide to adopt a new protégée, I may look in that direction. But for now, I’ve had enough of schoolgirls, haven’t you? Excuse me, Marcus, I must attend to my guests.”

As Honore walked past him, Marcus glared at her undulating backside and muttered, “How many nieces can the woman have?”

His inheritance was safe for the moment. No point in killing Fiona now. But what if Honore changed her mind? Or found a new orphan niece to donate her wealth to? Damn. One solution seemed to elevate itself above the others—get the inheritance now. Tonight’s scheme to eliminate Fiona needed alteration. He had a new target.

* * *

Aunt Honore had seated Tyrell halfway down the enormously long dining table, directly across from Fiona, where they might glimpse one another but not converse. Equally annoying was the mountainous flower centerpiece that obscured their view unless one or the other craned their neck sideways.

The mischievous nature of her aunt’s table arrangement was not lost on Fiona. To Tyrell’s right, sat a voluptuous young actress. Fiona found herself wishing the footman would spill something hot on the young woman’s head. Where were her accursed catastrophes when she needed them?

On Tyrell’s left sat Maria Haversburg. Fiona noted how pleased Maria looked. She was fortunate Honore had placed her next to the one man in society who was not repulsed by her unfortunate breath.

Fiona strained to catch their conversation.

Maria confided, “It is a great relief to be seated next to you, Lord Wesmont. Mama warned me that the company might be a trifle fast tonight. She insisted that we must come and bear it. One dare not risk offending Lady Alameda. She gave me strict orders to be on guard, but nothing prepared me for this gathering of notorious poets, actors and…” She leaned closer and Fiona could not make out what she said. Maria gestured across the table, and Fiona quickly averted her eyes so that they would not know she’d been eavesdropping. “The man sitting next to Miss Hawthorn is said to be friends with Lord Byron. Can you imagine?”

“All too well.” Tyrell frowned into his wine glass.

Maria rattled on. “My goodness, when the tenor began to sing that song about country maidens, I tried not to listen. Truly, I did. But of course, I heard every word. I suppose I should have put my hands over my ears, but that would’ve been rude, wouldn’t it?”

Tyrell nodded, only half listening, and tried to steal a glance at Fiona. She looked like an enchanting sea nymph, with a wreath of tiny blue flowers encircling her head, and tendrils of escaping hair floating around her cheeks and whispering across her bare shoulders. Her dress was the color of seawater in sunlight, neither green nor blue, but it made her eyes appear as dark as the ocean during a storm.

The young man sitting next to Fiona bent too close to her. Blast the bounder! Tyrell wanted to run him through with a table knife. Poets! Why did Honore invite that rabble here? He cursed the lot of them. Nothing but a pack of dissipated dandies. Tyrell coughed loudly and glared at the poet insinuating himself on Fiona. The young puppy took no notice.

“My lord,”—Miss Haversburg touched his sleeve—“I believe that young man is foxed. Indeed, he and his friends were rather well into their cups long before dinner began.”

“It would seem so,” Lord Wesmont agreed, and stuck a fork of something into his mouth. He chewed. The something had no taste.

After dinner, Lady Alameda’s guests were invited to wander through various rooms filled with amusements, much like an indoor circus. Musicians played in the ballroom so that those who wished could dance. A magician entertained in an anteroom, and there were several card rooms available. Port, claret, and champagne flowed liberally throughout the house.

The actress on Tyrell’s left laid a proprietary hand on his sleeve. She asked him to escort her to the drawing room, where she’d heard there was a snake charmer of amazing ability. When Tyrell glanced across the table, Fiona had already risen and was leaving the room. He could not possibly catch up to her without vaulting over the table, so he bowed to Maria and reluctantly escorted the actress to her destination.

He scanned the audience in the drawing room, but Fiona was not there. The woman at his side squealed with delight as the snake charmer allowed what appeared to be a live viper to crawl into his mouth. Just when it looked as if he had swallowed the creature, he opened his mouth, and the lethal snake slithered out.

“Jackass,” grumbled Tyrell.

“You cannot mean it?” The actress protested. “It’s the most fantastical feat I’ve ever seen!”

“Suppose the blasted snake bites him? What then? We have a dead snake charmer and a house crawling with vipers.”

“Eewh, how dreadful! Oh, what shall we do?” She squealed and clutched his arm, looking desperately about the floor as if the snakes were already loose. Tyrell rolled his eyes.

The Duke of Cumberland stepped forward. The Duke needed no introduction. Everyone knew him by the cruel scar that marred the side of his face. Tonight, it was partially concealed under a black velvet eye patch. His thick wiry side-whiskers did nothing to soften his harsh appearance. “Do not concern yourself, miss.”

Cumberland sneered at Wesmont before openly examining the shapely little actress’s assets. The dark duke puffed up his chest and said, “No viper will escape, but what I shan’t take great pleasure in blowing its ruddy head off.” He opened his coat to reveal a small pistol housed in the sash around his waist. “I never go anywhere unarmed.”

Wide-eyed, she sank into a deep curtsy. “Oh, Your Grace, how very brave you are.” She tilted her chin and fanned her eyelashes at the notorious duke.

Tyrell left them to it and stalked out of the room, mumbling that the house was indeed crawling with vipers, and the Duke of Cumberland was chief among them. Lady Alameda is probably hosting bear-baiting in the next room. It’s a demmed asylum – that’s what it is.

Fiona and Maria Haversburg sat together on a sofa in a quiet part of the house, hoping to avoid the raucous company. Relaxed somewhat by all the rum punch and champagne, Fiona asked Maria a question that had been on her mind since the day they met. “Why does your mama not take you to a surgeon to fix your teeth?”

Maria sighed wearily. “I have begged her to do so several times since we came to London. But all my pleading is pointless. She swears by our family physician, Dr. Klimes. Honestly, the man must be a hundred years old, quite the most ancient fellow I’ve ever seen. Which only goes toward further convincing Mama that he is the best doctor alive.”

“Won’t he do something for your poor mouth?”

Maria put her hands up to cover her face in a struggle to hold back tears. “You cannot imagine the ghastly cures he puts me through. He forced me to drink boiled pike’s eyes. Can you imagine?”

Fiona grimaced and shook her head.

“On another occasion he smeared my gums with alum and lime and seared them with a hot iron. When that didn’t work, he applied leeches in my mouth. Leeches! I didn’t think I could bear it. No matter how I scream, or cry, Mama will not listen. She’s known that wretched old doctor since birth. His cures are sacred to her. I swear, she reveres him more than the King himself. I dare not think about when we return home, and what remedy he will try next.”

Fiona grabbed Maria’s hand. “But that’s barbaric.”

“The worst of it is, Fiona, I have been praying, praying to God, that Dr. Klimes will die before the Season ends. Do you think I shall go to hell for that?”

Fiona’s brows knit together. She looked at Maria and bit her lip. “I don’t know. It is a very bad thing to pray for someone’s death.”

Both girls sat in silent contemplation.

“Come.” Fiona decided they needed a diversion. “Take a turn with me in Aunt Honore’s garden. Her roses will look lovely in the moonlight. They might cheer us. Perhaps, Maria, we can think of a way to get you to a proper doctor. Then you wouldn’t have to be afraid of that wretched old Dr. Klimes, and you could stop praying for his death.”

They looped arms and headed out into the summer night.

A few moments later, Tyrell, still searching the house for Fiona, passed by the empty sofa they had just occupied.

* * *

Maria and Fiona wandered among Honore’s rosebushes. The cool crisp air smelled sweet with the rich perfume of new blooms and dying blossoms. Autumn would be here all too soon.

“I love the fragrance of summer roses. Don’t you, Fiona?”

“Yes,” Fiona agreed absently and pulled Maria’s arm tighter to her. “But listen, I’ve devised a plan. Let us suppose that I were to pose as your older sister, I am much taller than you are, you see, so it would be quite believable. Then I could escort you to a surgeon for a consultation about your teeth. We might escape Lady Haversburg by telling her we are going to visit Hatchard’s together.”

“Oh, I don’t know if Mama can be persuaded to let me out alone in your company. It is not you, I’m never allowed to go anywhere without a maid.”

“Of course.” Fiona studied the stones on the pathway and looked up suddenly. “I have it! I’ll call on you with my aunt’s maid in tow. She owes me a small debt, so I’m certain I can obtain her promise of silence. We’ll have a maid with us and that will satisfy your mother.”

“Yes, it just might work.”

They stopped to admire a huge white rose. The spray from a nearby fountain adorned the rose with minuscule drops of moisture, so that the petals glistened in the moonlight.

Behind them, a shout went up. “There she is!”

Three young bucks stumbled and staggered up the path to Fiona and Maria. Mr. Rupert, the amorous poet who had sat next to her during supper, pointed at Fiona.

“That’s her! My enchantress. Look at her, ye mere mortals. Be ye captivated, as I am, by her wild…” He paused and hiccupped, groping for his next words. “Her wild engulfing spirit. That’s it—engulfing spirit. I am swallowed up!” Rupert swung around, nearly knocking down his fellows. “There is no escape for me. I am consumed by the—by the liquid fire in her eyes. She calls to me like a siren song. Behold, I am drowned in the elixir of her mouth.”

“Kissed her, have you?” jibed one of his companions, slapping Rupert on the back.

The poet stumbled forward, almost falling at Fiona’s feet. He turned back to his companions and placed his hands on his heart. “I have not.” He shook his head. “Though her lips beckon me like ripe plums… no, wait, that’s not right. I have it! Her lips beckon to me like ripe pomegranates.” He pointed up at the night sky. “I have not yet tasted, nor yet partook… partaken…” He hiccupped.

Fiona squeezed Maria’s arm and whispered, “We’d best leave quickly.” She edged away down a side path.

“Hold!” cried the young man. He reached out with surprising speed and snared Fiona’s arm. “Would you leave me to suffer the endless torment of unrequited love? Can beauty be so cruel?”

“Mr. Rupert, you are foxed,” Fiona said while trying to pry his fingers loose. “The only thing you will suffer from is a violent headache in the morning. Now, please let go of me.”

“Nay,” he said. “I will not release you until you have freed me from your spell.”

“Ho, now,” said one of his less-inebriated companions. “You’d do well to remember the chit is the countess’s niece. This is la Hawthorn, the Dangerous Duchess. Come away, Rupert. Think, man, Lady Alameda will have your guts for garters.”

“I don’t care. Go away you spineless sheep. Better yet take away this other charmer and leave me alone to worship at the feet of my goddess.”

“Nah! You’re barmy. You’ll have hell to pay.” The dissenter waved his hand at the group and staggered away. “I’ll have no part in this.”

The third young man stepped forward and waved his hand in the air as if answering his teacher’s summons. “I’ll oblige you, Rupert.” He eagerly snatched Maria by the waist. “Come, my beauty, let’s away in the moonlight.”

Maria shrieked as he put his other hand on her bottom and hurried her along.

“Kick him! Maria, run!” Fiona called after her. Maria only answered with a squawk before disappearing into the darkness.

Fiona stomped down on Lord Rupert’s boot, but her slippered foot did little to penetrate his inebriated senses. He pulled her close, and his rummy breath turned Fiona’s stomach. “Mr. Rupert, I insist you stop this nonsense immediately.”

“I cannot help myself, my siren. It is you who must release me from this exquisite bondage.” He dropped to his knees, still gripping her arms, and buried his face against her abdomen. “I worship you.”

“Sir, I beg you to stop this nonsense.”

On the pathway behind them, Fiona heard scuffling noises and rustling bushes. Mr. Rupert’s friend bellowed, “Gad! What an odor! Foul, don’t do it justice. Fah!” The man spit noisily and cursed again. “I’ve been cheated. Thought I was kissing a woman, turned out to be a chamber pot.”

Fiona heard Maria’s wounded exclamation and a resounding slap as the man must have received his fair reward.

“That’s right, dearie, run away. Does me a favor, it does.” He, too, fled the scene, but in the opposite direction.

Poor Maria, to be doubly insulted in such a way. Fiona wanted to console her friend. Her patience with the poet who had clamped himself about her waist ran out. She grabbed a sizeable chunk of his hair and applied a painful twist.

Maria scampered down the dark path toward the lights of the house. She burst through the first open doorway, like a frenzied lunatic. Fortunately, she collided with Lord Wesmont, who was just on his way outside, having exhausted all the interior rooms in his search for Fiona.

He grasped her by the arms. “Miss Haversburg, you’re overset. What’s happened?”

“Oh, my lord, it was horrible!” she cried. Maria sniffled and tried to stop sobbing. “Those wretched poets—they accosted us. I escaped. It was awful—truly awful. Oh!” She looked up in alarm. “My lord, you must come quickly! Lord Rupert still has Fiona. I can’t say what he is doing to her. It’s all too dreadful—”

“Where?” demanded Tyrell. “Where is she?”

“Out there.” She pointed at the dark garden. “Near the fountain.”

“Stay here,” commanded Tyrell. “Better yet, your mother is in the next room, tell her what’s happened. She’ll undoubtedly want to take you home.”

She nodded obediently. He marched out with his fists doubled, planning to knock the randy poet all the way to perdition. He would have, too, if he hadn’t arrived at the fountain just in time to see Fiona thrust her knee into Rupert’s private parts and shove the blighter backwards into the fountain pool.

Fiona planted her hands on her hips and watched the poet sloshing in the fountain pond. Tyrell strode up beside her. She turned and glanced up at him as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to be standing at her side. “Do you think I’ve killed him?”

“No. He’ll live. Which is more than I can say if I had reached him before you politely pushed him into the drink.”

“He became annoying.”

“Yes, so I heard. Miss Haversburg bolted into the ballroom looking like the devil was after her.”

“Is she all right?” Fiona put her hand on his arm.

“Yes.” Tyrell covered her hand with his. “She appears to have come to no serious harm.”

“Thank heavens.”

Just then, the poet sat up in the fountain. He shook his head, sending a spray of water over Fiona and Tyrell, and beamed up at them like an idiot. “I will be famous!” he shouted. “Famous! I have been vanquished—nay, nearly drowned, by the Duchess of Disaster. I’ll be the talk of London by morning. Help me out, sir.” He held out a hand to Tyrell. “I must compose a verse to send the Post.”

Tyrell’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He approached the enthusiastic young buck, placed a firm hand on the fellow’s forehead, and pushed him back under the water. Fiona’s laughter bubbled out behind him. He let go, and the bewildered young man popped his head up out of the water, coughing, gasping, and spitting.

Tyrell gave him a moment to recover before speaking to him like a tutor to an erring pupil. “I suggest you go home, Rupert. Sleep off the excesses of this night, and forget you ever met Miss Hawthorn. ‘Else you’ll replace yourself in a very uncomfortable state. Nay, a painful state. For I’ve not thrashed anyone in several days. I must admit I am fairly itching to do so. If you were not too drunk to be of any sport, I’d beat you to a bloody pulp right now.”

“What?” cried the young man. “Not tell a soul that I, Rupert, have fallen prey to London’s latest enigma? Why, it’s the perfect showcase for my poetry. How can you expect—”

Tyrell grabbed the poet’s head and thrust it back under the water. He thrashed about until Tyrell let him rise, gulping for air. “Not a soul. That is precisely what I expect. You will carry the burden of this night to your grave. Think of it as poetic torture, artistic suffering. Whatever you like. However, you will not tell anyone. Do we understand one another?”

Rupert nodded his head reluctantly. Strands of dripping hair flopped over his forlorn face. “Nary a soul. You have my word.”

“Just so,” said Tyrell, shaking the water from his cuff. He inclined his head at the soaking poet, turned and took Fiona by the arm, guiding her down a side path.

She smiled and shook her head. “You needn’t have nearly drowned the poor wretch.”

“Needn’t I?” His voice rose. “Forgive me, Miss Hawthorn, I forget that you don’t mind being the subject of the latest gossip. If you prefer I can go back and invite him to ridicule you in any manner he—”

She yanked her arm away from him and stopped walking. “Do you truly think there is anything I can do to escape my reputation? No matter where I go, no matter how quiet and unobtrusive I try to be, something extraordinary always happens.”

She threw her hands into the air, frustration overwhelming her, making it impossible to speak calmly. “It’s hopeless. I accept my fate. What else can I do? I’m cursed, jinxed, or maybe just plain unlucky. Whether you choose to believe it, or not, my lord. The ton believes it. They replace me vastly entertaining—a novelty. Why shouldn’t they? Am I any different from a bearded lady at the fair, or a two-headed calf?”

She stopped for a moment and lowered her voice. “I’m just another spectacle like—like that horrid snake charmer.” Tears ran down her cheeks, and she lifted her hand up to cover her trembling mouth.

Tyrell’s heart lurched uncomfortably. He gathered her into his arms, and she sobbed against his chest. He smoothed her hair and stroked her back, and wondered what he should say. The moonlight wrapped them in a comforting silence. He said nothing. After some time, she stopped crying.

Fiona grimaced and whispered self-consciously. “I’ve flattened your cravat.”

He lifted her chin up and rubbed it with his thumb. “Yes, I expect you’ve given it a good wash, too.”

“It seems I’m always ruining your clothing.”

The curve of her lips in a hesitant smile made his insides tumble, and the familiar heat began to rise.

“Fiona, you must not look at me like that.” His gaze washed over her, lapping up her beautiful face and lithe form. “You have no idea how tempting you are.” He kissed her cheek and stroked the inviting curve of her back.

Fiona sniffled again. “How can you say I tempt you, my lord, when I have been nothing but an annoyance to you?”

“True,” he murmured into her neck, as if these were love words rather than insults. “You do annoy me. You drive me mad. You couldn’t possibly know how much you annoy me.” He whispered against her ear and gently brushed her wayward curls away from her cheek. “You even bother me in my sleep. You refuse to leave my dreams, and you haunt my waking mind. It is all very, very annoying.”

She pushed back, looking up at him, to gage his expression, trying to understand what he meant, but that only brought them face-to-face.

“Yes, Fiona, that’s it—push away. Run while you can. I’m about to behave like that idiotic poet I wanted to drown.”

She felt his warm breath on her face, and as he held her firmly in place, he slowly covered her mouth with his. His restraint quickly vaporized. Unleashing a ravenous hunger on her lips, he kissed her again and again, this time with an open searching mouth as if he wanted to devour her.

Fiona wrapped her arms around his neck. He was right, she ought to run away as he had ordered her to do. But, just now, she couldn’t. She wanted to kiss him forever, she wanted to melt into him, to wrap herself around him. She pressed closer and kissed him as wildly as he kissed her.

It was happening again. That sweet all-consuming euphoria was overtaking her. Fiona remembered the lake, and how he had kissed her senses into sweet oblivion and then hated her for it later. She had to stop him this time. Better to suffer without his kisses, than to suffer the disgust he would feel later. Fiona slid her hands onto his chest and gently pushed away.

Tyrell stopped and looked into her downcast eyes. “I’m sorry.” His voice came out husky and sounded harsh in the quiet night air.

Her response was barely audible. “Are you?”

“No.” He cleared his throat and stepped back from her. “No. Yes. No! The truth is I’m not sorry. I wanted to do that and more. Much more. I get near you and a kind of insanity takes over. It’s all I can do to keep from throwing you down and having my way with you right here in the garden. I can’t explain it. You are like a strange wine, one taste, and I am drunk to the point of madness.”

He raked his hands through his hair. “Fiona, I’ve known you since you were a child, I’ve no desire to hurt you.”

She studied the pathway stones as they reflected the whiteness of the moon. A cool breeze blew against her hot face, sending gooseflesh down her arms. His words were a pretty way of saying he could not offer her more than momentary satisfaction. He would not be leg-shackled. She prayed her voice would not choke. “In that case, my lord, I think we should return to the house.”

He nodded and offered her his arm. She accepted quietly, and they headed toward the noise and lights of Honore’s soirée.

Fiona stopped. “I would prefer to make a less public entrance. My aunt’s study is just down this side path. I’m certain the doors are unlocked. You needn’t accompany me. I can replace the way without help.”

“Undoubtedly.” Tyrell’s voice sounded gruff even to his own ears. “If it’s all the same to you, I will make certain there are no more inebriated poets lying in wait. Regardless of how capable you are, I shall see you safely into the house.”

“Very well, I know it’s of little use to attempt to change your mind, my lord.” She walked briskly up the path, and he matched his steps to hers.

The doorknob of the study turned easily, and the door opened. Fiona and Tyrell slipped into the dimly lit room. A scuffling noise came from the corner. Tyrell held his finger to his lips, signaling Fiona to silence.

An indignant gasp followed a woman’s voice. “Get off me, you great oaf. Stop!” A loud thwack resonated through the room.

“Slap me, will you! You mean to make this difficult, eh my little courtesan? I’ll teach you not to tease a man. Parade around like a doxy and you’ll get—”

The man never finished his sentence. Tyrell jerked the fellow up by his collar and slammed his fist squarely against the offender’s chin.

Fiona sucked in her breath and covered her mouth with her hands. The flickering candlelight illuminated the face of the woman lying on the floor. Aunt Honore jumped up, her features twisted with rage. She grabbed the fireplace shovel and walloped her attacker on the back.

“You arrogant, thick-witted, pig! Roast in hell—” She raised the iron shovel over her head preparing to club the brute, but Tyrell grabbed it midair.

“My lady, murder is still a hanging offense. I will gladly take the miscreant outside and punish him further for you. But you ought not hit him again with the shovel. Think, my lady. Your neck is far too beautiful to want stretching at Tyburn. Aside from that, consider how this worthless cur’s blood would stain your lovely carpet.”

The man in question rubbed his bruised jaw, and sat in a daze, staring up at the upraised shovel, awaiting judgment. Honore’s arm remained positioned to strike.

Tyrell still held the iron rod firmly in his fist. “I await your direction, my lady.” His voice was calm and soothing.

Honore’s features cooled slightly. “You’re right,” she relaxed her arm. “He’s not worth it. Take him out and thrash him.”

Tyrell bowed to her. He removed his coat and handed it to Fiona. The other gentleman remained on the floor. Slowly, with resignation, he stood up and struggled out of his coat. Tyrell grasped him firmly by the collar and shoved him outside.

The two men circled each other, squaring off. Tyrell sized up his opponent. The man was broader, bulkier, but not taller, and probably not quicker. The fellow flashed out with his right. Tyrell neatly dodged it, boxed him on the nose, and heard the sound of cracking bone. The man yelped in pain. It took a moment before he regrouped and faced Tyrell.

“Get on with it!” screamed Honore. “Don’t wait for him to recover. He’s no gentleman. Punish him!”

The culprit shot out again with his right, leaving his middle section unguarded. Tyrell blocked with a left and sent his right slamming into his opponent’s belly. The man doubled over, and Tyrell followed through with a left to the man’s jaw. A stream of blood arced through the air, as Honore’s assailant twisted under the impact and collapsed in a senseless heap on the grass, blood running out of his mouth and nose.

Tyrell rubbed the knuckles on his left hand and watched warily as Honore walked over and stared down at the prone man. The reprobate’s white shirt was splattered with red blood. He moaned, and lifted a hand up to his face. His jaw had already begun to swell. Honore stomped him viciously in the ribs with her slippered foot. He groaned, and his eyelids fluttered as he tried to focus.

“Good, you’re awake. Now listen to me, you gutless worm.” She drove her foot into his side once more. “I never want to see your repulsive face again. Should you ever cross my path anywhere, I will tell the entire ton what a vulgar piece of pig dung you are, and then I will send men after you who will not be nearly as gentle as Wesmont was. Now get out.”

Honore held his finely tailored coat up by two fingers, as if it was infested with lice. She let it drop onto his chest and face where it would surely pick up bloodstains. “Come, Fiona, Wesmont. There’s a foul odor in the shrubbery. I’ll send a footman to make sure the stench is removed.” Honore strode majestically back to the house. She locked the study doors after them and turned to Tyrell. “Neatly done, Lord Wesmont. I am indebted to you.”

“Not at all, my lady. You have provided me with some much-needed exercise this evening.” Tyrell used the mirror above the fireplace to straighten his neckcloth. “My cravat is a sad mess. However, if you ladies are not too ashamed to be seen with me, I would be pleased to escort you back to the ballroom.”

He turned to take his coat from Fiona and noted her ashen complexion. She stared out of the window at the bloodied man lying in the grass. Her brow was furrowed when she handed him the coat. Tyrell put it on, studying her face the whole time. “Are you unwell, Fiona?” he asked in a low voice.

Honore answered for her niece. “Of course, she’s unwell. Fiona isn’t used to seeing a fellow bashed about. It must be the blood and whatnot. Blast that insolent cur for upsetting her. I daresay, you’ll recover in a few minutes, won’t you my darling?”

Fiona’s jaw tightened. “No. I don’t believe I will recover. Not tonight, in any case. I have had quite a full evening. If you will both excuse me, I believe I will go up to my room and lie down.”

She turned and fled. Tyrell made to go after her, but Honore grabbed his arm. “Hold Wesmont. Let her go. Pray, tell me exactly what you have been up to this evening? Obviously, it’s more than that brawl that’s upset her.”

Tyrell looked down at the eccentric countess. She was dressed like a courtesan with orange hair mounded up like an absurd turban, yet, somehow she managed to look as severe as a Vicar’s wife, fully qualified to chastise him for mistreating her charge.

He explained nothing.

She scrutinized his face. “That’s what I thought. Hear me out, Wesmont. I appreciate how you handled yourself tonight on my behalf. You have my respect, which I don’t bestow lightly. Having said that, I must tell you, you haven’t handled my niece well at all. In point of fact, you have bungled the entire affair. Walk with me back to the ballroom. I intend to call you to task.”

With great self-restraint, Tyrell allowed Lady Alameda to lecture him regarding his behavior towards Fiona. She subjected him to completely scurrilous advice on how he ought to proceed in the future. His brows drew together in a choleric scowl as he and the Countess stood wrangling in the corner of the ballroom, completely oblivious of the music and laughter floating around them.

“Your suggestion is scandalous. Worse than that—it’s heinous!” Tyrell slapped his hand against the wood paneling.

“Do you think it’s kinder to knock the chit’s feelings around as if she were a croquet ball?”

“You know perfectly well that’s not my intention.”

“Intention or no, it is what you’ve done.”

“I’ve tried to stay away from her.”

“Made a hash of it, haven’t you?”

He shrugged. “What would you have me do? Abandon her entirely?”

Lady Alameda shrugged. “If I were you, I’d take her to bed and have done with it.”

“How can you suggest such a course? She’s your niece. She’d be ruined.”

“Bah! She won’t be ruined unless you go boasting about it at White’s, or Brook’s, or wherever the devil you fellows go to brag about your conquests. What archaic notions you have, Wesmont. She won’t be ruined at all. She’ll be seasoned. You want her. That much is obvious. I seriously doubt you’ll be able to stop sniffing about her skirts until you’ve had her properly.”

“There’s nothing proper in what you propose.” He folded his arms across his chest.

“Oh, well,” She tilted her head and dragged out, “If proper is what you want—court my niece and marry her?”

“You whittle everything down to the bone, don’t you?”

With a smug smile, she tossed her head as if he’d just delivered a great compliment. “I’m not one for roundaboutation.”

“Truly said.”

“You’re avoiding the question, my lord. What’s it to be? Do you intend to bed the gel, or marry her?”

“You can’t force my hand like this.”

“Oh, can’t I?” Honore’s eyebrow’s shot up. “Are you challenging me? Just see if I can’t. Make up your mind, Wesmont, or I’ll take matters into my own hands. I’ll banish you from her circle until she discovers there are other men who might please her. Perhaps her cousin, Marcus, he pants after her occasionally—”

Tyrell growled. “If Alameda lays one finger on Fiona I’ll have his bloody head on a plate.”

“How daft you are. It ain’t his finger I’m thinking of.” The Countess laughed wickedly.

Tyrell tried to moderate his breathing, his fists knotted, and he very much feared he might pummel his hostess right there in her own ballroom if she didn’t stop mocking him.

As if knowing her cue, Honore stopped teasing, smoothed down the sides of her gown and looked up at him in deadly earnest. “I see you are not pleased with the thought of Marcus with Fiona.”

He glared at her.

“Then, my lord, I have trumped you. I win. I give you two days to decide whether you intend to take her to bed or marry her. You have my permission either way. Otherwise, I tell Alameda he may do as he pleases with her.”

Tyrell silently consigned the woman to burn in Hades. “You ought to be locked up in Bedlam.”

She smiled, refusing to rise to the bait. “I mean what I say, my lord. Two days.”

“You leave me little choice.”

“No, I didn’t, did I? Be warned, Wesmont. I never make idle threats. Call for Fiona early Saturday morning. Take her riding. When you return, give me your decision. Oh, and bring a spirited mount. I have it on good authority Fiona enjoys—”

A loud bang followed by a whizzing sound splintered the air. Honore screamed and her hands flew to her head. “I’ve been shot. My head! I’ve been shot!”

She blanched. The music screeched to a halt and the guests on the dance floor gaped at her.

Tyrell grasped her arm to support her. “Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know.” Honore felt her head in various places just to make sure. “I’m not bleeding. I think it went through my hair.”

Tyrell frowned. There was a burn mark and a small gap. It did look as if something had flown through her odd coiffure. He grabbed a candle from a wall sconce and used it to illuminate the paneling behind where they’d been standing. He ran his fingers along the wood until he found a small dark ball embedded in the wall. He looked across the room, and surmised the shot must’ve been fired from that empty doorway. Dashing across the ballroom, he found the gallery crammed with guests all laughing and bantering with a magician who challenged the audience to guess which box held his rabbit.

Tyrell returned to Honore and shook his head. She waved at the musicians ordering them to resume playing.

“I’m sorry, my lady. It is impossible to tell who fired the shot. Perhaps, someone was carrying a pistol and it misfired. Just this evening the Duke of Cumberland showed me a firearm concealed under his coat. Such a thing is not impossible.”

“I suppose not. Some ladies carry a small revolver in their reticule for protection. I do. If the lady’s bag were dropped, the weapon might accidentally discharge.” She shrugged.

“Perhaps.” But Tyrell guessed Lady Alameda had more enemies than just him.