At three o’clock in the morning, Eleanor sat on a sofa near the back of the Picards’ ballroom and fluttered her fan to create a breeze. It had grown hot, and she was very tired. What with worrying about Mr. Knight and his nocturnal intentions, she hadn’t slept well the night before, and the day had been spent in apprehension and anguish. Now her first public appearance as the future duchess was almost over, everything had gone well, better than well, and she was almost faint with relief and exhaustion. Soon she would ask Mr. Knight to take her home…but such a request held dangers, too. Mr. Knight could misinterpret it, and the consequences would be dire.
She watched his upright figure as he strode toward the refreshment table to fetch her a lemonade.
He was such a harsh man, trusting no one and nothing. She had no doubt that he had ruthlessly arranged for the prince to recognize them and give them his blessing. He had imagined that made their relationship inviolate in the eyes of the ton; but more important, the prince’s acknowledgment had made Lady Shapster’s suspicions look even more like the ravings of a madwoman. Lady Shapster had retreated to her home as soon as the prince had left. For tonight, at least, Eleanor was safe from her.
But not from Mr. Knight. He was unwavering in his pursuit of his goal, and Eleanor pitied the woman he eventually would marry. Pitied her…and envied her.
From behind her, a deep, creaking voice said, “They tell me you’re to be the new duchess of Magnus.”
Turning in her chair, she saw an old man standing there, leaning on an ivory cane. Like so many of the elderly, he wore the clothes of his youth: a white-powdered wig, high-heeled, buckled shoes, moss green satin breeches and a lace-edged silver satin vest with stiffened skirts. He was tall, very tall, and thin, so thin his silk stockings hung loosely on his legs. “If I could be so bold.” He bowed, low and graceful, like a courtier of old. “I’m Lord Fanthorpe.”
In the far reaches of her mind, memory stirred. She knew the name, although why she didn’t know. She only knew it wasn’t a pleasant memory, like biting into an apple and finding a worm.
But Lord Fanthorpe was an elder, and trembling a little from standing, so she gestured to the seat beside her. “My lord, how good to meet you. Won’t you take a seat?”
Taking her hand, he lifted it to his lips and looked down into her eyes. His narrow face looked like a gravestone, hard and angular, with a thin nose that drooped at the end. He wore pale powder and rouge on his cheeks, and a velvet heart-shaped beauty mark had been affixed above his upper lip. His rheumy eyes were kindly. “I had to come over and tell you how much I admire your pretty fan.”
“Thank you.” She opened it wider to show him the scene etched in needlepoint upon the spokes. “I worked it myself.”
His voice was faraway and reminiscent. “Yes, you are very like her. Very like her indeed.”
She recoiled. “Her?” Madeline?
“Lady Pricilla. She also was very talented with her needle.”
“Ohh.” Now Eleanor remembered where she had heard of Lord Fanthorpe. It was in conjunction with an old family tragedy. Lady Pricilla had been her aunt, her father’s sister, and Lady Pricilla had been murdered in a heinous crime.
Using his cane and the arm of the sofa, Lord Fanthorpe inched himself down beside her. “You’re aware of me. I wondered. It was so long ago. It’s hard to believe more than forty years have passed. Yes, I was Lady Pricilla’s betrothed.” His old voice quavered yet more, and his black-rimmed eyes filled with tears. “The man she left brokenhearted with her passing.”
“I’m so sorry.” Inadequate consolation, for after so many years the man still mourned.
“If she had lived, I would be your uncle.”
“Yes.”
Lord Fanthorpe looked out into the ballroom, but he seemed to gaze on a different scene. “I’ll never forget seeing her body lying there on the grass, her poor face battered beyond recognition, the blood welling from the wounds in her breast. It was a horror from which I have never recovered.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said again. This was not party conversation, but Lord Fanthorpe was lost to his memories, and she…she had never heard the whole story. It was as if Lady Pricilla had never existed, and Eleanor hesitated to stir up hurtful memories by asking about the dreadful incident.
Lord Fanthorpe’s hand twisted on the head of his cane. “That bastard, that commoner who had killed her, held her body. He was covered in her blood, and he cried as if he had had nothing to do with the tragedy.” He almost spit as he said, “As if he were innocent.”
His virulence took Eleanor aback. “He was deported, was he not?”
“To Australia. Mr. George Marchant had an alibi.” Lord Fanthorpe said the word as if it were an abomination. “Three noblemen swore he had been with them. Men of good character. Pah! So the authorities wouldn’t hang Marchant. Myself, I would have drawn and quartered him, for daring to imagine he was worthy to soil Lady Pricilla with himself.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” Lord Fanthorpe looked at her, and his brown eyes were bleak. “He had fallen in love with her, and he wanted her to run away and wed him.”
Eleanor covered her mouth with her hand. “And when she refused, he killed her?”
“The lower classes have all those emotions—love, hate, happiness, melancholy—roiling inside them, and when it all becomes too much, it explodes into violence. Do you remember when the peasants in France stormed the Bastille, my dear?”
She shook her head. “I was just a child.”
“You look so much like your aunt, I forget how young you are. But the Bastille proved the peasants’ bestiality, and why we rightfully hold the power.”
“We?”
“The aristocracy.” He waved his long, narrow hands. The fingers were bent sideways, as if he’d been tortured by some terrible disease. The knuckles were swollen, but his fingernails were manicured and shaped. “We have the whip hand. Thank God someone does, or this country would be in the same shambles that afflict France. The Little Colonel, indeed.” His voice rose. “Napoleon’s nothing but a Sicilian thug.”
Eleanor held a lurking regard for Napoleon; she might not agree that he should control the world, but she admired his confidence. Yet she had too much respect for the old lord to say so. Instead, she nodded and smiled.
“I never thought to see Lady Pricilla again, but you’re the living image of her.” Lord Fanthorpe’s shaking fingers reached out and tilted her chin up. “So beautiful, with your black hair”—his gaze scanned the shaggy cut as if it bewildered him—“and your big blue eyes. Do you know, I still dream about her eyes, looking at me in adoration? As I age, I think about her more and more, and to see you sitting there makes my silly old heart leap.”
“Well…I’m glad.” Eleanor had never felt so ill-equipped to make conversation, yet at the same time, she felt sorry for him—and horrified by his revelations. The vague tragedy of long ago had acquired a face, and that face was her own.
“Here comes your young man.” Lord Fanthorpe’s sharp eyes picked out Mr. Knight and watched him make his way through the crowd, holding her glass and smoothly evading collision with dancers and drunks. “Handsome enough. Yet a mongrel, too.”
Lord Fanthorpe echoed the conviction of almost everyone in English society, but as much as Eleanor disliked Mr. Knight’s high-handed ambitions, she couldn’t mock him behind his back. “He’s very determined.”
Lord Fanthorpe turned his chilly gaze on her. “You are like Pricilla. Softhearted. Foolish. Who is he? Who are his people? Where did they come from?” His wrinkled lips curled in a sneer. “From America, the land of mongrels. All mongrels.”
“But Mr. Knight’s feelings are quite refined.” Her jaw dropped when she heard her own voice spouting nonsense. Mr. Knight? Refined? She couldn’t believe she had said such a thing.
But neither did she want this old aristocrat, with his blind prejudices and his casual insults, to malign Mr. Knight. Mr. Knight might lash back, and the old man would suffer an embarrassing loss at the hands of the younger, ruthless American.
For no other reason did she defend Mr. Knight.
“I doubt that. I believe your father lost you in a card game. I admire your filial duty—and your loyalty. All women should be so proper.” Rising, Lord Fanthorpe bowed to her, then hobbled away without acknowledging Mr. Knight in any way.
Mr. Knight took the seat Lord Fanthorpe had abandoned. “Who was that?”
She watched the old man depart and wondered at the strange encounter. Lord Fanthorpe had suffered a dreadful tragedy, and she felt sorry for him. So sorry for him. “His name is Lord Fanthorpe. He was once betrothed to my aunt Pricilla.”
Mr. Knight watched Lord Fanthorpe with the same intensity Lord Fanthorpe had used to ignore Mr. Knight. “Why didn’t he marry her?”
“She died.”
He looked down at the glass he held, then up at her. “That won’t happen to you.” Putting it down, he stood and extended his hand. “Let’s go home.”
“There’s our carriage.” Mr. Knight assisted Eleanor and Lady Gertrude down the porch steps while the London fog swirled around in an endless, maddened dance that the lanterns scarcely pierced. A long line of carriages snaked away from the Picards’ door as the tired guests at last headed home.
The footman handed Eleanor and Lady Gertrude into the dark interior, and Mr. Knight followed. They settled into their seats, the ladies facing the front, and with a jolt the wheels turned.
Lady Gertrude patted her hand over her mouth as she yawned. “It’s very late.”
“Yes.” Eleanor stared into the darkness and fog. She could see nothing, yet her every sense was alert to Mr. Knight, seated across from her. In the tiny interior, his knees jostled hers, and she knew he was staring toward her, watching with brooding intensity. Her conversation with Lord Fanthorpe had swept through him like a strong wind, removing all softness and compassion and leaving only the harsh bedrock of his character. She didn’t understand it, but the shadows that encircled him made her uneasy, and she glanced out the window as if anticipating danger.
She could see nothing out there. The lanterns on the carriage barely penetrated the fog, isolating them within the shelter of the carriage.
Insensible to the atmosphere, Lady Gertrude spoke again, her voice slurred with weariness. “The perfect ball to introduce you two as betrothed! Everyone was there. Even that dreadful Lady Shapster. I tell you, children, the day Lord Shapster married her was a sad day for the family.”
“Most assuredly.” Eleanor knew Mr. Knight was as aware of her as she was aware of him. It was odd, to feel close to a man who threatened her and everything that she was. Yet irresistibly, he drew her.
The carriage rolled on, separating from the other carriages, moving deeper into London.
Lady Gertrude fell silent, and a soft snore sounded from her corner of the carriage.
With a sigh, Eleanor tried to relax. It had been such a long day, and tomorrow would be just as difficult. She needed to sleep…she must have drifted off, for she roused at a roar from the street. The coachman shouted and pounded on the roof.
Lady Gertrude snorted and woke. “What…what is it?”
Mr. Knight said nothing, but Eleanor heard him pick up his cane. Her heart beat faster, her breath caught. Outside, the commotion grew louder. She recognized these sounds.
The carriage lurched to a halt.
“We’re being robbed,” Eleanor said to them quietly.
“Robbed?” Lady Gertrude sounded panicked and indignant at the same time. “I’ve never been robbed in my life.”
“I have.” Sliding her hand along the wall of the carriage, Eleanor sought the pistol she’d seen on the ride to the ball.
“Really?” Mr. Knight sounded interested and not at all worried by their situation. “Where?”
“In the Alps. The bandits there are fierce.” The pistol had disappeared. Did he have it? “I can fight if I have a weapon.” She never had had to, but she would if it was necessary.
“I think not.” Mr. Knight placed his hand on her shoulder. “Stay in the carriage.” Before she could reply, he kicked at the door, knocking it violently open. Outside, someone yelped as he went flying, and Mr. Knight launched himself into the street.
At once Eleanor peered out the window. In the dim light of the carriage lanterns, she saw two burly thieves leap at Mr. Knight.
She came half off her seat. “Lady Gertrude, do you have a hat pin? An umbrella?”
Mr. Knight lifted the pistol and shot one man in the chest. At the same time, he used the tip of his long cane to jab the second man in the stomach.
Eleanor blinked in shock and relief. Mr. Knight knew how to fight. Fight like a street brawler.
“I don’t have anything!” Lady Gertrude said.
The footman leaped off his perch and into the fray.
Sinking down, Eleanor said, “I think Mr. Knight will be fine.”
Three more men hurled themselves out of the fog. Before she could scream a warning, the broad side of Mr. Knight’s cane snapped around and smacked one in the throat.
The thief went down, choking and gagging.
Eleanor clenched her fists at her waist and made small, jabbing motions, as if that would somehow help.
The footman smashed his fist into one robber’s face.
The robber’s head snapped back. His hand came up and gave the footman a clout, and the two went down in a brawl.
The carriage rocked as the horses pranced in alarm. The coachman held them and shouted encouragement.
The last bandit rushed Mr. Knight, knife held low.
Mr. Knight caught his wrist and pulled him toward him, stepped aside, and slammed the thief into the side of the carriage hard enough to rattle Eleanor’s teeth.
Lady Gertrude whimpered softly. “Is Mr. Knight hurt?”
“Not yet.” Eleanor removed her cloak and, with a swirl, tossed it out the door onto the staggering villain. Giving a yell, he tried to fight his way out.
With one foot, Mr. Knight kicked the muffled form into the darkness.
Another ruffian charged Mr. Knight—no, it was the second man again. He landed a clout on Mr. Knight’s shoulder.
Mr. Knight staggered sideways. He brought his cane around behind his back.
The thug went down with a blow behind his knees.
Mr. Knight finished him off with a crack to the head.
The footman came up, dusting off his hands.
Abruptly, the street was silent. It was over.
The footman climbed up on his perch.
Mr. Knight leaped into the carriage and called to the coachman, “John, let’s go!” and the vehicle was moving before he finished closing the door.
Before she could ask if he was hurt, or run her hands over him—or, what was more likely, move to her place on the forward facing seat, he crowded her into the corner. “That was amusing.”
“Amusing?” She didn’t like his snarl, or the way he held his arm across her chest like an iron bar. “Terrifying would be a better word.”
“I wonder who sent them.” He sat too close. The aggressive heat from his body scorched her.
“Sent them?” Eleanor didn’t understand, but her hackles rose.
“What do you mean, Mr. Knight?” Lady Gertrude asked. “Do you think this was done deliberately?”
“I don’t believe in coincidence.” He smelled of sweat and violence.
To her distress, Eleanor breathed it in as if it were perfume. On some primal level, she liked that he’d fought for her.
“Of all the carriages leaving the Picards’ ball, ours was the one stopped.” He spoke right at Eleanor, as if he were accusing her of something. “I throw Dickie Driscoll off my property this morning,” he said, “and thieves attack my carriage tonight. Thieves who didn’t want to rob you but only wanted to hurt me.”
Shocked, Eleanor asked, “Are you saying Dickie Driscoll tried to kill you?”
He didn’t answer, but she heard—and felt—the heaving of his breath.
“You are!” Eleanor couldn’t believe Mr. Knight’s effrontery. “I’ll have you know that my servant is a good, kind man who would never hurt a flea.”
“Unless that flea bit his duchess.”
“Well, of course he’s totally dedicated to the duchess, but—” Abruptly, she realized how she had incriminated Madeline’s groom, and she couldn’t allow Mr. Knight to be Dickie’s enemy. She knew all too well how very deadly Mr. Knight could be. “I’ve known Dickie Driscoll my whole life, and I swear to you, Mr. Knight, he did not arrange to have you hurt.”
“Hm.” Mr. Knight slowly sat back.
Eleanor released a long-held breath.
He said, “Then I wonder who did.”