Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Inside the warmth of the foyer, the air felt thick with the adrenaline of the last few moments. Ambrose’s hand was still wrapped firmly around Imogen’s arm, his touch possessive and protective as he guided her into the drawing room.
“Your Grace, please,” Imogen whispered, her voice trembling as she tried to gently disengage. She smoothed her damp skirts with shaking hands. “You shouldn’t have done that. People… the neighbors… they saw. It was a mistake to cause such a scene …”
“A mistake? There is right, and there is wrong,” Ambrose’s voice was like a low peal of thunder.
He turned to her, his eyes blazing. “The man had his hands on you, Imogen. He was accosting you on my very doorstep. No one, peer of the realm or otherwise, has the right to lay a finger on you in such a manner, nor any member of my household. I would have done more than break his nose if I thought it would stop him for good.”
“But the scandal, I cannot bear the thought of it!”
“To hell with the scandal,” he snapped, though his expression softened when he saw her flinch.
He reached out, his leather-gloved hand hovering near her cheek before he pulled it back.
“I will not apologize for defending a member of my household. What is the world coming to if villains like Presholm can…” His voice trailed off.
The quiet of the foyer was shattered by the front door being flung open with such violence that the brass handle dented the plaster.
Lady Presholm didn’t just walk into the hall.
No, she erupted into the space with force.
Her silk skirts were soaked and heavy, and her umbrella dripped a trail of muddy rainwater across the pristine white marble.
“Your Grace! Have you lost your senses?” she shrieked, her voice hitting a register that made the crystal chandelier vibrate overhead.
Her face was a mask of contorted fury, her rouge standing out in garish patches against her deathly pale skin.
“I just found my husband collapsed in the foyer of our home like a common drunk, his face unrecognizable! You assaulted a peer of the realm! You broke the nose of an Earl! Over her?”
“You would do well to watch your tongue in my household, Lady Presholm.”
She leveled a trembling, gloved finger at Imogen then, her thin lips curling back to reveal her teeth in a snarl of pure, unadulterated loathing. “You would drag the Welton name through the gutter for this… this pathetic, penniless parasite? It is positively mad!”
“Lady Presholm, that is quite enough,” Ambrose warned. “You have entered my household uninvited.” The tone was low, vibrating with a tectonic pressure that should have silenced any sane person.
“You assaulted my husband!”
He stepped toward her, his shadow falling long and dark across the foyer. “Get out of my house before I have the footmen throw you into the street.”
“Oh, do you think I fear your posturing?” She laughed, a shrill, jagged sound that bordered on the hysterical.
She turned her venomous gaze toward Imogen, who stood paralyzed, her hands clutching the maps of the world as if they could save her.
“Do you even know what you’ve brought into your home, Your Grace?
Do you know why I find her very breath an insult to a respectable household?
She is a contagion. A moral rot. Has she told you of her heritage? ”
“Please, My Lady,” Imogen whispered, her voice barely audible. “I beg of you, do not do this. This is all just a misunderstanding.”
“Watch your tongue, Lady Presholm,” Ambrose roared, his voice echoing off the lofty ceilings like a cannon blast. “I will not warn you again.”
“Why would I do that? Will you assault me?”
“My Lady,” Imogen whispered.
“Do you want to continue to play house with a creature of the shadows?” Lady Presholm said as she stepped closer to Imogen, the scent of her rain-dampened perfume turning cloying and sour. “She isn’t some tragic waif, Your Grace. She is the living, breathing stain on my family’s honor!”
“I beg your pardon?” Ambrose said, breathless.
“You did not know? She is the byproduct of my late husband’s filth. She is the result of his disgusting lust for a common, third-rate stage dancer! Look at her! She has the same manipulative eyes as her mother, the same low-born cunning.”
The words hit Imogen like a knife in the back. She felt the blood drain from her extremities, a cold numbness spreading from her chest to her fingertips.
Her secret, the shame she had carried like a lead weight since her father’s death, was stripped bare in the most brutal, public fashion. And in front of him. She reached inside her dress and pulled out her beloved locket, feeling the cool metal of it in her hands.
Give me strength, mother, to face such cruelty.
She didn’t dare look at Julia. Her eyes sought Ambrose’s, searching for the inevitable flicker of disgust, the moment he would realize he had bled for a woman who was nothing.
He must hate me…
But Ambrose didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away.
“I don’t care who Miss Lewis’s parents are,” Ambrose said.
Julia blinked, her mouth falling open in a stupid, uncomprehending gape. “What? Did you not hear me? She is a bastard, Ambrose! A dancer’s brat! She is literally nameless!”
“I heard you perfectly well,” Ambrose said, stepping forward so hurriedly that it made Julia stumble back. He positioned himself directly in front of Imogen, his broad shoulders acting as a fortress.
“Pardon me, but you are mad, Your Grace!”
“I don’t care who her father was, or what stage her mother danced upon.
Miss Lewis has more dignity in her smallest finger than you have in your entire, bitter pedigree.
She is a woman of character, intelligence, and a nobility of spirit that you couldn’t recognize if it were served to you on a silver platter. ”
He leaned down, his face inches from the Countess’.
“She is a member of this household. She is under my personal protection. And if you, or that sniveling, lecherous coward you call a husband, ever breathe a word against her birth again, I will not stop at a broken nose. I will make the Presholm name a punchline in every salon from London to St. Petersburg. I will buy your debts and call them in by morning. I will erase you, Lady Presholm. Do you understand?”
“You… you are a fool,” Julia hissed, her face turning a mottled, ugly purple. “You would choose a gutter-born girl over your own kind? You are throwing away your reputation for a distraction that will be forgotten by next Season!”
“Perhaps you should ask your husband what he was doing at White’s just a few days ago. I observed him making quite an interesting transaction with an unsavory fellow.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That is enough, Lady Presholm.” Ambrose dismissed her without answering her question. “Please take your leave before I forget that I was raised a gentleman and treat you with the same lack of ceremony I gave your husband.”
The Countess’ eyes darted between them, clearly realizing the power she thought she held had vanished. She gathered her sodden, heavy skirts with a violent jerk.
“You’ll regret this, Your Grace! When the ton hears that the Duke of Welton is harboring the bastard of a Viscount and a harlot, they will shun you! You’ll be a pariah in your own city! I had kept quiet, for propriety’s sake, but I will do no more!”
She turned on her heel, her silk boots squeaking on the wet marble. She didn’t just leave. She made a meal of her exit, throwing the door open so hard the glass rattled in its frame. She may as well have been the actress.
“I hope she was worth the ruin of your house!”
And with that, she swept out into the freezing sleet and slammed the door behind her with a finality that felt like the earth was cracking open.
Ambrose remained where he was, his back to Imogen, his chest heaving. The silence that followed Julia’s departure was thick and suffocating, vibrating with the echoes of the word bastard that still seemed to hang in the rafters.
Then, the soft, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of small feet broke the spell.
Arthur and Philip appeared at the top of the grand staircase, peering through the banisters like two frightened sparrows.
Their faces were unnervingly pale, their eyes wide as they took in the scene below, the puddles of rainwater, the heavy breathing of their uncle, and Miss Lewis, who stood as still as a statue of salt.
“Is everything all right?” Philip asked, his voice small and trembling, cracking the heavy air. “We heard shouting. We heard a door slam.”
Imogen’s shoulders jerked, and she finally moved, though it looked as though she was pulling herself through deep water. She forced a brittle, heartbreakingly brave smile onto her face, one that didn’t reach her swimming eyes.
“Everything is… fine, Lord Philip,” she said, her voice thin and high. She clutched the book of maps to her chest so hard the edges bit into her palms, realizing she had never set it down. “Just a disagreement with an unexpected visitor. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Are you sure?” Arthur pressed, raising an eyebrow to her.
“Yes,” she answered. “I am sure. Why don’t you show your uncle this book you purchased for him?” She said as she handed the book to Arthur, then finally risked a glance at Ambrose.
Her eyes were brimming with tears she refused to let fall, a mixture of gratitude and devastating, raw shame.
To have been defended by him was a miracle. To have her illegitimacy stripped bare before him was her death toll.
“Your Grace,” she whispered shakily. “If I may… I would like to go to my room. Just for a moment.”
Ambrose turned then. His movement was sudden and desperate. He reached out, his hand finally finding her arm, his fingers brushing the damp wool of her cloak.
“Miss Lewis, wait—”
“Please,” she whispered, her voice finally breaking. She didn’t look at him; her gaze fixed on his bruised knuckles. “Please, I just need to be alone. I promise I am all right.”
The agony in her tone was more than she could bear. She ascended the stairs with a frantic grace as she vanished into the upper shadows of the nursery wing and into her quarters.
Arthur and Philip watched her go, then turned their twin gazes toward their uncle.
“Is Miss Lewis sad?” Arthur asked, stepping down one stair. “Did that mean lady make her cry?”
“We don’t like her,” Philip added, sticking out his tongue in disgust. “She’s so terrible.”
Ambrose took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to force the primitive rage back into its cage for the sake of his wards. He knelt on the cold marble, heedless of the rainwater soaking into his trousers, so he could look them in the eye.
“Miss Lewis has had a very long, very difficult day, boys,” Ambrose said, his voice gravelly but soft.
He reached out and squeezed Philip’s shoulder.
“Sometimes, adults say things that are very unkind to further their own gain. It is abhorrent. You should always seek to be kind, and if you cannot be kind, be prudent and truthful. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Uncle,” they said in unison.
“Please do not worry about Miss Lewis. I am going to speak with her in a moment. I promise you, I will make it right.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” they said in unison.
“We care so much about Miss Lewis,” Philip said. “She is lucky to have you to protect her.”
Ambrose sighed.
He looked up as Mrs. Higgins appeared at the edge of the foyer, her face a mask of quiet, observant concern. She had clearly heard enough to understand the gravity of the shift in the house, and like any dutiful servant, she waited her turn.
“Mrs. Higgins,” Ambrose said, standing up. “Excellent timing.”
“How may I be of service, Your Grace?”
“Would you mind taking the boys to the nursery? They need their supper, and perhaps a bit of extra honey in their tea.”
“Thank you, Uncle!” Arthur said with a wide smile.
“Of course, Your Grace,” the woman answered, her eyes lingering on his bloodied hand before she ushered the boys away. “Come along, my Lords. Let’s see what the cook has for us today.”
Ambrose stood alone in the empty foyer, the silence absolute. He looked down at his right hand, the skin split and swelling, the blood of a man who had insulted the woman he… he couldn’t even name the feeling yet. He looked up at the empty landing where she had disappeared.
He knew he could not stay away. The secrets were out, blood was spilled, and the walls of propriety were lying in ruins on his marble floor.