Chapter 27 #2
“I shall offer no respect to a criminal!”
George's words hit Cecelia like a ton of bricks.
“This man is a criminal and a liar,” George said, looking to Cecelia's mother.
“He stole another man's honour on the battlefield and claimed it as his own. He has been running illegal smuggling operations and has been using the title he received for said honour to blackmail and extort hard-working men to do his bidding.”
“You lie, sir!” Greystone snarled, his anger boiling up, his face reddening.
“Perhaps you wish to know all the evidence I have gathered to the contrary,” George threw back at him before he turned once more to Cecelia's mother. “I have it all in writing.”
What came next caused Cecelia's head to spin.
Greystone surged forward so quickly and violently that George was clearly unprepared.
He stumbled sideways, leaving Cecelia unprotected for but a moment, but it was long enough for Greystone to grab her wrist. He tugged her towards him, causing pain to lance up her arm as he spun her around and placed her back to him, his arm crossed so strongly across her chest that she could not break his grip.
That's when she felt the cold bite of something sharp against her throat.
George took a half-step forward as her mother cried out in panic, her maid too gasping in shock.
Cecelia's mouth opened on a silent scream, one she bit back as she felt the knife at her throat press in a pinching manner against her flesh.
“Stay where you are,” Greystone warned, and though she could not see him, she sensed the venomous way with which he glowered at George over her shoulder. “It does not have to be this way.”
George lifted his gloved hands, his movements stalled.
“Don't hurt her,” he said, the pleading in his tone making Cecelia's heart ache.
George's gaze met hers for only a second, but there was enough affection and concern there to take her breath away.
“This will not end well for you, Fitzwilliam,” George said, looking at the man over Cecelia's shoulder. “Release the young lady and let us settle this like gentlemen.”
“You would like that, wouldn't you?” Fitzwilliam hissed, and his voice was so loud it made Cecelia's ears ring. “Look at you, the high and mighty duke who thinks he can just come in and destroy everything I've worked so hard to build.”
Cecelia's entire body trembled so violently that she thought if he released her now, she might simply crumble to the floor.
“I won't allow you to harm her,” George insisted. “Release her, and we will come up with a solution that suits us both.”
“Suits us both?” Greystone scoffed. “You would see me rot in some prison cell for the rest of my days or worse!”
The way George's jaw clenched suggested Greystone was right.
He did not agree, however, and instead took a half-step forward.
“What say you if I were to say I thought your plan a clever one?” George asked, and Cecelia's insides shifted once more. “You have fooled everyone into believing you to be an honourable and heroic gentleman. I can at least see some merit in that, sir.”
Cecelia felt Greystone's grip falter, and she immediately knew what George was trying to do. Flattery always seemed to work on these kinds of men.
She held her breath, biding her time.
“Lady Cecelia could not see through you, nor her mother, nor the rest of the ton,” George continued, another half-step forward.
“My plans were perfect until you came along!” Greystone spat at the duke. “You have ruined everything, and for what?”
Cecelia felt the man's grip falter again, and at a glance from George, she did the only thing she could think to do.
Bracing herself for the possible bite of the knife at her throat, she lifted her foot and slammed it down on Greystone's.
“Ahh!” he screamed, clearly agonized by the assault as he reeled backwards, the knife dropping with a jarring clang on the floor.
In an instant, George surged forward. He grabbed Cecelia by the wrist once more and pulled her well out of the man’s reach.
Cecelia, spinning on her heels, her mind just as frantic as her feet, turned just in time to see the two men lock in a desperate battle of strength.
“Go!” she heard her mother snap behind her. “Fetch the Bow Street Runners! Fetch someone, anyone you might find!”
Cecelia glanced over her shoulder just in time to see her mother's maid hitch up her skirts and bolt for the closest end of the bridge.
“Cecelia, come here!” her mother ordered when she saw her looking, but Cecelia ignored her, instead turning back to the two struggling men.
“George!” she exclaimed, terrified that this was all going to end in tragedy as the two men struggled closer and closer to the bridge railing.
They grappled with each other, their fists flying, hands gripping throats, fingernails clawing at empty air as each tried to free himself from the other.
And just when Cecelia thought George might have the upper hand, she watched Greystone raise his knee. Horror struck just as his knee connected with George's groin, sending him doubling over. Greystone moved swiftly out of the way, using the duke's own momentum to force him against the railing.
“Stop! Stop!” Cecelia pleaded, screaming the words louder than ever she had screamed before. “Please, you must stop this!”
Her feet moved without any real instruction, and she grabbed the back of Greystone's coat in a vain attempt to pull him off the duke.
“Get your hands off me, woman!” Greystone crowed, and his elbow connected with her ribs, sending her reeling backwards once more.
Yet, her interference seemed enough to give George the upper hand and suddenly, their positions shifted.
It happened so quickly that Cecelia barely managed to blink as George practically lifted the man off his feet by his throat.
“Ahh! No!” Greystone cried as his back missed the railing and he all but tumbled over the edge.
Again, Cecelia moved on instinct, reaching not for George but for the man he had almost pushed from the bridge.
In an instant, everything changed, and she and George were suddenly working together to pull him back from the edge.
The combined momentum sent them all flying back onto the bridge, onto their knees in a tumble of limbs.
George's hands grabbed her elbow for only a second to bring her back to her feet before he dropped himself down onto the man still splayed on the floor.
He gripped the man's arms, pulling them wide as he pinned him down with a knee on his chest and hissed, “Stop fighting! It's over!”
Cecelia felt herself dragged backwards then. The adrenaline still coursing through her veins caused her to lash out until she heard her mother's voice. “It is me, Cecelia. Be calm. Step away.”
And so she did, just as the Bow Street Runners came hounding across the bridge, their whistles blaring, and truncheons in hand.
They swarmed the two gentlemen, and for a second, Cecelia feared that they might get the wrong idea, that they might arrest the wrong man.
But as the group separated and the dust started to settle, she was relieved to find it was Greystone they had locked between them, three men holding him back from George, who rose back to full height and dusted himself off.
“Your Grace,” one of the Bow Street Runners, perhaps their captain, stepped forward, bowing to George, who stood glowering at the restrained man. “What would you have us do?”
“This man is a menace,” George said, his conviction almost palpable. “Take him away, and I shall have my solicitor send over all the evidence you may need to make a full investigation.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” the man said, dipping his head once more. “Are you in need of any further assistance? Do you require medical attention?”
George shook his head, then looked back over his shoulder. Cecelia instinctively shook her own head.
“Thank you, sir,” George said, dismissing the men who began to drag Greystone – Fitzwilliam – away.
“You can't do this!” he cried over his shoulder as they went. “I am an innocent man!”
“We shall let the judge decide on that,” George returned.
“No, no! Lady Cecelia! Lady Westmere, you must intervene. I am an innocent man! He is a jealous fool only seeking to get in the way!”
Cecelia noted how George stiffened at his words, and instinctively, she stepped forward to lay her hand on his arm.
“George?” she said softly, and she felt the tension release from his body as he turned to look at her.
There was concern on his face as he looked her up and down, and asked, “Are you certain you aren't hurt?”
Cecelia quivered as he placed his fingers beneath her chin and urged it upwards, examining the area of her throat where Fitzwilliam had held the knife.
“I am fine,” Cecelia assured him, her hand tightening on his arm. “Are you?”
George's expression softened into a smile, and he gripped her hand on his arm.
“I am now.”
The way he said it caused a tingle to run down Cecelia's spine.
For a second, their gazes met, and they stood in an oddly comfortable silence, both of their faces broadening into smiles.
“I am glad you came,” Cecelia said, barely able to say the words past the ever-growing lump in her throat.
“I am glad I made it in time,” George responded, his tone causing her face to heat. “I don't know what I might have done had any harm come to you.”
His fingers moved from where they lingered on her chin and caressed her cheek gently.
Cecelia saw her mother out of the corner of her eye, saw the way she glanced away as if to give them a moment's privacy, a rare gesture on her part.
Suddenly, remembering where they were and who they were, Cecelia stepped away, clearing her throat.
“I should get my mother home,” she said, feeling her gut churn at the idea of leaving him. “The fog is getting thicker, and the sun hasn't done anything to warm the day.”
George nodded in understanding, though there seemed to be an equally disappointed darkness in his gaze.
“I shall escort you,” he said then, making Cecelia's heart soar. “That is, if that is acceptable to you both?”
He glanced between her and her mother, and it was her mother who turned to look at him and say, “That would be most kind of you, Your Grace.”
Though he offered her a smile, he looked to Cecelia as if it were her answer he really awaited.
Blushing, Cecelia nodded and echoed, “It would be most kind of you, Your Grace.”
She dipped her head then, fearful that if she gazed into his eyes for too long, she might say something she would regret. Or perhaps not, as the case may be.
“What of your horse, Your Grace?” she asked, turning to the animal, who had only wandered a little way to escape all of the commotion.
“I think he shall be grateful for a rest from having to carry me,” George said, offering her his arm.
When she took it, he guided her forward, collecting his horse by his reins.
“Shall we, ladies?” George asked, looking to her mother, and when she nodded, gripping her maid's arm as if it were all she could do to keep herself upright, they all started back towards the manor.
They walked in relative silence, though Cecelia suspected it was not out of lack of anything to say but rather George's wishing for them to have a quiet moment to come to terms with the shock of all that had happened.
And in truth, she wasn't sure she was quite ready to talk about any of it just yet.
Instead, she was glad just to have a quiet moment of peace, to walk along the bridge with the man – she dared tentatively to admit to herself – she had always wished to share this view with.
Guilt clawed at her stomach as she realized it ought to have been he whom she had told her story to about her father bringing her there when she was younger.
Yet, to her surprise, George stopped near the edge of the bridge, drawing his horse to a halt.
“Your father was right.” He sighed deeply, looking out over the river. “It truly is at its most beautiful at dawn.”
The lump that had begun to calm in Cecelia's throat thickened once more.
“How … when …” she stammered, unable to ask the question with any real comprehension.
George smiled down at her as he said, “He, my father, and I, travelled this bridge many times for business. My father always insisted yours was far too distracted by the beauty of things.”
“He always said life was not worth living if one did not stop to smell the roses once in a while,” Cecelia said.
And at the same moment, George said, “If one does not stop to smell the roses once in a while.”
Cecelia blinked up at him in astonishment, baffled by how he could possibly remember such a thing, tearing up at it also.
“You …” she gulped, struggling to form the words, “you miss him, too?”
George squeezed her hand to his side with his arm as if he wished to take it in his free hand but did not dare release the reins of his horse. His smile faded as he admitted, “I regret to say that perhaps I miss him even more than I do my own. Is that terrible of me?”
He glanced down as if he did not wish to see the judgement in her eyes, but, in truth, there was none.
She understood entirely why he might feel that way.
“You forget,” she pointed out, “I remember well just how cruel your father could be.”
George looked up in a flash as if surprised by her response.
“Then I am not a—”
Cecelia cut him off with a shake of her head, already knowing what he was about to say, “You are not a bad person.”
How could he possibly be? After all he had done, chaperoning her even though she had tested him to his last nerve, rescuing Catherine from certain death on the lake, coming to save the day right here on the bridge—
She thought, perhaps, the list might go on and on.
“Thank you,” she said, her bottom lip trembling a little.
“For what?” George asked.
“For giving me a moment to remember him,” she said, glancing over her shoulder as she felt her mother and her maid drawing nearer. “I do not like to mention him around Mama and my sisters. They … they do not handle his memory very well.”
George's gaze filled with sympathy, and he simply nodded, slow and respectful.
“Come, let us get you home,” George said gently, urging her forward before he leaned in and whispered in her ear, “I am happy to give you a moment to remember him, any time you need.”