Chapter 8
James
James exhaled, not looking forward to having to explain to his godmother what had happened.
In fact, he dreaded it, thinking of that gunshot—that unmistakable noise. He shuddered at the thought of it, the memories rising in the back of his mind, but he pushed them away.
He didn’t want to remember. He didn’t want to think of it. And yet he could not help it. Because that awful sound—a gunshot ringing in the night—had started
The more they walked toward his godmother’s house, the more images flashed through his mind. The sound of the gunshot faded, replaced by the thud of fists against flesh. The taste of blood filled his mouth. Then a scream. A horrible cracking sound. And more blood.
“There you are!” His godmother rushed toward them.
Her carefully applied makeup was smudged now as she wrapped her stout arms around Frances and pulled her near. She peppered kisses on her face, then turned to James, hugging him close.
“How are the two of you? I thought you got caught up in the crowd!”
“We were,” he said, “but not voluntarily. We tried to make it back to the carriage, but—”
“I know, I know! I had to leave. I thought the two of you had gone down the street, so I directed the driver to collect you. But then we couldn’t get through because those people were coming with their torches.
So I had hoped that we could catch up with you, but there were more and more people coming.
I do not even know where they were headed. ”
“To the house of Frederick John Robinson on Old Burlington Street,” Frances supplied.
“Oh goodness. I bet that man had no idea what he was unleashing when he introduced the Corn Bill to the House of Commons.”
“I dare say so,” James agreed. “There were dozens of people outside his house, and then there was a gunshot.”
“A gunshot!” Aunt Eugenia exclaimed with horror. “Was anyone hurt?”
Frances and James both shook their heads.
“Not that we know of, but we were several blocks away by then,” James added.
“Well, I am glad that you have brought her home safe and sound, James. Frances, let us go inside. All of us. How about a cup of tea?”
“I do not think I can drink anything,” Frances replied. “I think I need to lie down. I am rather fatigued.”
“Of course, dear,” Aunt Eugenia said as the three climbed the steps and entered the house.
Frances made her way up the stairs, while James remained behind. She had held herself together remarkably well, given that she was not accustomed to life in the city. She had most likely never seen a mob descend upon her in all her life.
The moment Frances was out of earshot, Aunt Eugenia smacked him on his arm. “How dare you bring her into such a situation!”
“I did no such thing!” he protested. “I only went to see what the commotion was. I couldn’t have known what was going to happen. In any case, I kept her safe.”
Aunt Eugenia divested herself of her pelisse and the turban on her head. “I suppose you did. Come, take a glass of whiskey with me. That’ll put hair on your teeth.”
“That sounds like the sort of thing I could use now,” he muttered.
They entered the parlor, and she poured them each a generous glass of whiskey. James drained his in three swallows.
Usually, he enjoyed the burn down his throat, but today he did not. It had been terrifying, the moment he had lost Frances in the crowd. He had never been so scared. Well, not in at least ten years.
“You look as pale as a wall,” Aunt Eugenia commented and sat down beside him on the settee. She had brought the bottle with her and refilled his glass, then hers, up to the rim.
“I will admit I am not myself tonight. It was rather disturbing. I do hope nobody was killed or hurt.”
“I suppose we will know in the morning. You know how people talk in these parts. If anything happened, we will know.” She paused and looked at him sideways. “A gunshot, you say?”
“Yes. Sounded as though it came from within the house, not from the crowd, but I could be wrong. I had my back to the mob at the time.”
“Right,” she said. “And how do you feel?”
“I already said I am a little shaken, but no worse for wear.”
“I worry it dredges up bad memories every time you hear a gunshot.” Aunt Eugenia took his hand and squeezed it.
“I do think of it,” he admitted, though he could not admit to her that his thoughts drifted much further, much deeper.
“It wasn’t your fault, what happened to your brother. You know that. You did nothing wrong.”
He wanted to tell her that she was quite wrong. That it was his fault that Marcus was dead. How his father had told him time and again. Not that he needed to. James knew it on his own. He’d killed his brother, whether he meant it or not. But his aunt didn’t know that. Only his dearest friend did.
Nobody knew the whole truth, only the part they had been told. Everyone thought his brother had been killed in a duel with Oliver Hollingsworth. Even Hollingsworth believed it. And it was true, the duel had started it all.
If only James had stopped Marcus from going to it…
“I could’ve stopped him,” he said bitterly. “Why did he have that blasted duel? A duel over a woman who had already rejected him? It was ridiculous.”
“You were a boy.”
“I was nineteen. I was old enough to know better. I knew duels were illegal. Moreover, I knew that Marcus was a terrible shot. But no, he had to go through with it. He had to do it.”
He remembered the argument he and his brother had that day. And he remembered the argument he’d had with their father that very evening. And everything that had followed. In frustration, he kicked the table with his right foot.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I did not mean—”
“Dash it all, I am not worried about the table,” Aunt Eugenia cut in. “I am worried about you. I think it’s time that you let go of all of this. It has been more than enough time.”
“It has,” James agreed. “But there is so much you do not know. I can never… I am over it, over what happened at the duel.” He waved his hand and drank down the whiskey.
Aunt Eugenia pursed her lips, and he could see the spots where powder had washed away. There were red stains left that made her lips look patchy. Charcoal from her eyelashes stained the skin underneath her eyes as well.
“I am not entirely convinced that you have. You are still not married.”
“And I will not be,” he declared. “I do not believe in love. It is a foolish venture, and I do not believe in marrying just for the sake of siring an heir.”
“Just because your brother was a fool in love does not mean that you would be. There are a great many lovely ladies in the world who I think would make you very happy if you only gave them a chance. The way you debate with Frances tells me that you can still connect with a lady.”
He sat up ramrod straight. “I will stop you right there, Aunt Eugenia. Your houseguest has a quick wit and a sharp tongue, and she is admittedly easy to look at and charming when she chooses to be, but no.”
“No, what?” she asked innocently.
“As I said, I am not interested in any woman. There are times, of course, where a gentleman must avail himself of the services of certain Cyprians, but—”
Aunt Eugenia shook her head in alarm. “No, no, no! I need no such details, thank you. You can keep that to yourself. Now, I should thank you, however, for keeping her safe tonight. In fact, you have done such a wonderful job, I think I shall avail myself of your services again.”
He let out a sigh. The two glasses of whiskey were hitting him, and he longed for nothing but the soft pillow that awaited him in his bedchamber.
“What is it?”
“I need you to accompany her to a ball on Wednesday.”
“Wednesday? I do not think that she will wish to go anywhere after everything that has happened today.”
“Be that as it may, she is out now, and she must remain out if I am to find her a husband, since you refuse to consider it. She is going to Almack’s.”
James groaned and threw his head back. “Not that place. The driest cake and the weakest lemonade, and not an alcoholic beverage in sight. You cannot mean it. Every time I leave there, five new women set their caps at me.”
“Well, you shall have to put up with it for me, then. The reason I need you there is that she does not know how to dance. Last time, the girls arranged for her to dance with someone sensible, but she could only manage the basic dances. So I need you to dance with her once or twice when the more challenging dances come up. You are a good dancer, so you will help her feel comfortable, and then you will make sure that no unfortunate gentlemen try their hand at ruining her.”
“Will it not look a little peculiar if I, a gentleman, accompany her?”
“Not if Marianne comes with you as well. You will go as a trio. You will dance with Marianne when you don’t dance with Frances, and when you’re not dancing with either, you can indulge in the lemonade. Or better yet—” She smirked and got up.
The way she moved reminded him of a battleship navigating stormy seas.
She opened a drawer, walked back to him, and held out a small flask—small enough to fit into the inside pocket of his jacket. “This will help make the lemonade not quite so weak.” She winked at him. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to bed.”
James stayed behind, shaking his head as his godmother left.
The years had changed her. She was far more strong-minded and meddlesome than she had ever been, and he had to admit he found that somewhat alarming.
Because he knew that once his godmother set her mind to something, she wouldn’t let it go. And he was nowhere near convinced that she had abandoned the idea of making a match out of him and Frances.