Chapter 29
I never understood how one could be enraged enough to kill, but think I have it now. Of course, I am now well-versed as well in being so aggravated by a woman that I would like nothing more than to...I know not what, but the indecision will drive me as mad as she.
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Hobbes was at the door when Fiona returned to Eaton Square with Aylesbury.
The butler looked them up and down, clearly bursting with questions, but even Hobbes wouldn’t break form long enough to ask about the state of their clothing, their rumpled hair or the bloody handkerchief Aylesbury held to his neck.
“Where is everyone?” Fiona asked quietly.
“The gong rang some fifteen minutes past, my lady. They should be dressing for dinner.”
“Where is your telephone located, Hobbes?” Aylesbury asked.
The butler didn’t even blink. “In my pantry, my lord. Shall I ring up someone for you?”
Aylesbury shook his head. “I’ll do it myself.” He turned to Fiona, rubbing the pad of his thumb over her cheek. His blue eyes were grave. “I’m going to call the authorities. You need to speak to your brother. In all fairness, he needs to be told.”
Fiona nodded and watched him as he walked away, his heels beating decisively against the marble floor.
“My lady...”
“What is it, Hobbes?”
There were a dozen questions in the old butler’s eyes when she looked back at him.
“You have a visitor in the library, my lady,” he said at last. “He insisted on waiting.”
Fiona glanced at the closed doors of the library off the foyer, wondering whom Hobbes would have considered worthy of not only the private room but admission itself.
Harrowby? Temple. Regardless of whatever future she may or may not have with Aylesbury, she knew that kindness demanded that she let them both down gently. “Who is it?”
“Lord Ramsay, my lady.”
Her jaw sagged in surprise, and she simply couldn’t help but gawk at him. “Ramsay? You let him in? Now you let him in?”
The butler said nothing but stared steadily over her shoulder. His expression was as impassive as ever, but she swore she could see his lips twitching. “Proving your point?”
“I don’t know what you mean, my lady,” he said without expression. “You asked me to admit him next time he called. This is nothing more than that time.”
Fiona scoffed. Oh, yes, she knew what he was doing. He was trying to teach her a lesson about who knew what was best for her. Unfortunately, this was the last thing she needed today.
With a grimace, she glanced at the door again. Lord, she was so tired already. The mere thought of confronting Ramsay was exhausting.
“Consider yourself sacked, Hobbes.”
“Of course, my lady.”
* * *
“Lord Ramsay,” she said as pleasantly as possible, leaving the library door opened wide behind her as she entered. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight. What brings you here?”
“What?” he asked bitterly, displaying none of the buoyant charm he usually put forth. “No kisses, darling?”
She frowned as he closed the distance between them but refused to yield her ground. “You seem upset. Is there something amiss?”
“Yes, there is.” He stopped, looking down at her with frigid blue eyes that were nothing, she decided, compared to the warmth of Aylesbury’s. “I’ve waited for you as you asked. Patiently.”
She couldn’t help but raise a brow, but he didn’t notice as he continued.
“I thought you loved me.”
“You know I did not,” she pointed out immediately, but he ignored her.
“I thought you wanted to marry me as well.”
“I did.” She took a deep breath and plunged in. “I’m sorry, Lord Ramsay. But I find I cannot marry where I do not love. I cannot marry you, with or without an elopement.”
“It’s the marquis, isn’t it?” he ground out. “I saw you hanging all over him. I’ll wager you don’t call him my lord, do you? What do you call him?”
Staring at him incredulously, she ignored those questions. “You saw me hanging all over him? When? Yesterday? Today? Were you following me again?”
“He stole you from me!”
“He did nothing of the sort,” she insisted fiercely. “My reasons for not marrying you have nothing to do with him and everything to do with you. They have to do with rumors of your circumstances and questionable”—obviously justified—“temperament. I will not be wed for my money.”
“You whore!”
Stars burst behind her eyes as his palm met with her cheekbone. Holding her hand against her wounded cheek, she gaped at him in astonishment. No one had ever struck her like that before.
“Get out.”
“This is all your fault!” he spat out, spewing saliva like a mad dog.
“Get out,” she screamed, and he lifted his hand again.
Involuntarily, Fiona flinched away, but the blow never fell. Instead, he was thrown to the side by the force of Aylesbury’s body as the marquis tackled him to the floor. Drawing back his fist, Aylesbury hit him again while Ramsay cowered away, covering his face with his arms.
“My lady.” Fiona turned to Hobbes where he lingered in the doorway, looking more concerned than she had ever seen him. Biting her trembling lip, she threw herself into his arms. Awkwardly, he patted her shoulder. “There, there, my dear,” he said softly.
“Did you bring him?” she asked and felt his nod. “Thank you.”
“My apologies, my lady. I did not anticipate such an...episode when I granted Lord Ramsay admission.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“What the hell is going on down here?” Glenrothes shouted as footsteps thundered down the staircase, harkening more than her eldest brother’s arrival. “Fiona!”
He looked at her in surprise, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he noticed her ramshackle appearance and the red mark already blossoming on her cheek. Looking about the library, he took in the situation at a glance.
“Eve, see Fiona to her room,” he said with a deadly calm that every one of them knew was more dangerous than his loudest bellow.
Hobbes disengaged himself from her and snapped his fingers, sending curious servants scurrying.
Unmindful of the crowd gathering at the door, Aylesbury continued beating the now-mewling Ramsay while Fiona watched in horror.
What had happened? How had this happened?
Ramsay was right about one thing. It was her fault for not being able to read her own heart.
Cool hands caught her gently by the shoulders.
“Come, Fiona,” Eve said quietly, trying to turn her away.
Fiona took a step but stopped. “Harry. Harry, please,” she repeated when he didn’t respond. He looked up then, his blue eyes burning with fury. She held out a hand to him. “Please, Harry.”
Immediately, his anger faded, and he was on his feet. She met him halfway, staring up at him as he gently stroked his knuckles over her swelling cheekbone.
He kissed her forehead, whispering, “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”
She shook her head, taking his hand in hers and kissing the bruises forming on his knuckles. Tugging gently, she led him from the room, pausing by her brother.
She cast the moaning, fetal Ramsay a pitying look. “Don’t kill him, Francis.”
Her brother ground his teeth as she left the room. Aylesbury stopped by the earl as well. “Yes, don’t kill him, Glenrothes,” he said, then leaned forward to murmur tightly, “But save some for me, will you?”
Glenrothes laughed humorously. “There’s ten of us, Aylesbury. I doubt there will be much left when we’re finished.”
With a capitulating shrug, Aylesbury left them to it and followed Fiona away.