Chapter Twelve #3
Never mind that the ogrish maid was the one who was injured and barely able to breathe, because dear Aunt Hermia was ruthlessly keeping her pinned down.
Well done, Hermia.
Lord Frampton and two of his so-called guards had been cloistered in the study and now burst into the parlor at a run. Florence began to scream as well, gleefully adding to the pandemonium. “Hermia! Oh, no! I think she has collapsed! Someone fetch a doctor right away!”
“I’ll go, my lord,” one of the guards said, and hurried off.
As soon as he was gone, Florence shouted for smelling salts. “I cannot find hers! She always carries them in her reticule. Where are they?”
Frampton rang for his housekeeper, who tore in with a maid in tow. Sylvia sent the girl up to her bedchamber for smelling salts, putting an arm around her and guiding her into the hallway while rattling off instructions. “At once, my lady,” Florence heard the young maid say.
Florence was kneeling beside her aunt, trying her best to also block the ogre from getting up. She had to give it to her aunt—that was one of the best tackles she had ever seen done.
“Where is your wife? Where is she?” the ogre wheezed, pointing frantically at Frampton and then the doorway. His eyes widened.
“Honestly, Rutledge! You are too much,” Sylvia exclaimed.
“I am right here. I’ve been standing behind my husband all along.
What was I supposed to do? Block his way?
Frankly, I’ve had enough of you. You saw that Lady Hermia was ailing, and what did you do?
Nothing at all to help her, and I distinctly recall asking you to look out for her. ”
“She still has her sewing basket, my lord! Take it from her!” the maid cried out.
Lord Frampton turned to his wife. “Give it to me, Sylvia.”
She held tight to it. “Whatever for? I’ll take it upstairs myself.”
“No, I shall take it,” he said, his voice low and menacing.
“Well, all right. Leave it beside my wardrobe. But you really needn’t trouble yourself.”
“No trouble, my dear.” He took it from her hands and marched out of the room—with every intention to search it, no doubt.
Of course, he would not find anything but Sylvia’s embroidery, since she had taken the moment of distraction to place the fake letters in her husband’s safe.
The Frampton head butler rushed in a moment later. “His Grace has arrived to take Lady Florence and Miss Newton home.”
Sylvia, looking believably frazzled, nodded. “Good, do tell him to hurry in. Although I ought to put Hermia in one of our spare bedrooms. Shall I—”
“No,” Florence said kindly. “Let me take her to Gull Hall. The ride isn’t far, and she will be in familiar surroundings when she revives. Please have the doctor ride over to us. I do apologize for this mess.”
“Not at all. We can all do with a little excitement once in a while,” Sylvia said mirthfully.
Trajan strode in with his cousins.
Good heavens, he wasn’t taking any chances. But Florence liked this show of force.
“Blessed saints! What happened here?” he said, looking believably aghast.
So did his cousins. Well, they probably were genuinely appalled and not acting.
“It is Aunt Hermia. You were right to be worried about her. She is not well,” Florence said, faking tears.
“Oh, sweetheart. I am so sorry. Let me take you straight home.” He then commanded Andrew and one of Framptons’ footmen to carry a limp Hermia to his carriage, and asked Sebastian and Nathan to right the tea cart and assist the ogrish maid to her feet.
“Check the study, my lord!” the wretched maid cried the moment Frampton reappeared.
She was wincing and moaning because she had likely broken a rib in the tumult and had to be in pain.
But it did not stop her from sifting through Hermia’s embroidery basket, her anger mounting as she found nothing but the sample and threads.
“Give me that,” Florence said, wrenching it out of her hands after making certain the sour ogre had time enough to give it a thorough search and find nothing.
She ought to have felt sorry for the woman’s injuries. Was it awful of her that she felt not an ounce of remorse?
“Rutledge, what are you going on about?” Sylvia remarked.
“Rudely grabbing Miss Newton’s basket and now ordering my husband to check the study.
Why should he when he was in there all the while with his men?
What in heaven’s name are you raving about?
” She turned to Florence. “Forgive this mad woman.”
“Of course,” Florence said with a dose of overdone sympathy.
“But I understand why your husband must be careful. He has been very concerned about trespassers. He told me and Weymouth himself when encountering us on the beach. And someone even tried to break into Gull Hall the other night. Both he and Weymouth have to be on edge.”
She turned to Trajan. “Perhaps you ought to put on extra guards at Gull Hall. Is it a band of thieves terrorizing the neighborhood, do you think?”
Sylvia shook her head. “No, it’s—”
“Quiet, Sylvia,” Frampton said, now hurrying back after checking the study and no doubt peering into his safe. “How you do go on. No need to alarm our new neighbors. It is nothing. Rutledge, you are too overwrought,” he chided the ogre. “Seeing phantoms where there are none.”
“But—”
“You are dismissed,” Frampton said, glowering at the woman, who bowed her head and limped out.
Frampton remained agitated but not alarmed, which meant Sylvia had successfully placed the fake letters in his safe only minutes before he ran to his study to assure himself nothing had been taken.
However, he still shot Florence a malevolent gaze, for he knew she had attempted to take his precious extortion letters.
Attempted was the magic word, wasn’t it? He thought she had failed.
She tried her best to look frustrated and defeated.
“Take care of yourself, Lady Florence,” he said with a sneer.
“Oh, I shall, Lord Frampton. I hope to see you and your lovely wife again soon.”
“Yes, I look forward to it. But I am sure you have much to keep you busy now that your wedding is so close. Do take care of yourself, Florence,” Sylvia said with much sincerity. “You will soon be the Duchess of Weymouth, and nothing must get in the way of that.”
Florence cast Trajan a doting smile.
He looked like he wanted to strangle her.
“Frampton, I do apologize for this mess. Let me take on the costs of the damage to your rug. I wasn’t certain Florence’s aunt should have joined the ladies today, but she and Florence are inseparable.
Well, send over the bill for it and I will have my man of affairs attend to it at once. ”
Florence allowed him to steer her out. Frampton and his wife followed them to the front steps.
“Please let me know how dear Hermia is feeling,” Sylvia called out, looking just the right amount of genuinely concerned.
“I will,” Florence assured her. “Thank you so much for a lovely afternoon. I’m so sorry it ended this way. But we’ll be in touch soon, for Hermia is very eager to establish our embroidery circle.”
Frampton still wore his triumphant sneer as he bade them farewell.
Ha! He would soon get his comeuppance.
She wished she could be there when he learned her failed attempt had been successful after all.
Well, perhaps not. The man was a most unpleasant fellow. There would be quite the volcanic explosion when he realized he had been duped.
Trajan practically shoved her into his carriage. Hermia was already in there, sprawled across one of the seats and softly moaning. She was so believable, Florence was convinced her aunt would have been a great actress had she ever taken to the stage.
Trajan climbed in after her and immediately rapped on the roof. “Home, Tucker.”
“Aye, Your Grace.”
His cousins had come on horseback and followed behind them.
Florence let out a breath the moment the carriage rolled out of the Frampton courtyard. “Trajan, I—”
“Not a word, Florence.” He looked mad enough to create his own volcanic eruption. “I do not want to hear what you and your minion have done until we are home and I’ve had a stiff drink.”
“My minion?”
Hermia miraculously recovered from her fainting spell and sat up now that they were out of sight of Frampton’s house. “He means me.”
Florence smiled at her. “You were brilliant, Aunt Hermia.”
“I know, child. But I think we have rather upset His Grace. Let’s ride in silence, shall we? I think he needs time to recover from what we just did.”
Florence nodded.
“But that was rather exciting, wasn’t it? Quite more fun than I’ve had in years,” Hermia admitted, smiling at Florence.
Trajan said nothing, merely glowered.
Not even a word of admonishment. Certainly no congratulations. Only silence now.
This was what she had lived with all of her life.
This was the very thing she hated.
She glanced at Trajan again and saw that he was still fuming.
A shiver ran through her.
Was he reconsidering their betrothal?