24. The Lonely Gentleman #2
“Get your coat,” Kate said to Vikram. “Quickly.”
The boy ran.
Mary stepped closer, her voice urgent and low. “Ma’am, if Lord Ramsay perhaps—if there’s a confrontation and Mr. Moore-Sullivan is so drunk he can’t defend himself properly—”
“I know.” Kate’s voice was fierce. “That’s exactly why I have to go. He’s out there because of me, because I—” She stopped, unable to voice the guilt crushing her chest. “I have to get to him before Ramsay does something irreversible.”
“Then I’m coming with you.”
‘No. There’s no need for both of us to go.” Kate was already moving toward the door. “Stay here, Mary.”
Mary opened her mouth to protest, then closed it, nodding reluctantly.
Vikram reappeared, coat buttoned crookedly in his haste, his face set with determination.
“Let’s go,” Kate said, and together they hurried toward the front door, leaving Mary standing in the dining room, her face creased with deep worry.
* * *
At the Green Swan, Ramsay walked slowly toward the bar, like a predator about to pounce on its prey.
He stopped just behind Mr. Moore’s hunched form, close enough to be heard over the tavern’s noise.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Mr. Moore-Sullivan after all.”
The voice cut through Mr. Moore’s alcohol-hazed thoughts like a lightning bolt in the middle of a storm. He looked up slowly to find Ramsay standing beside him, impeccably dressed even in this rough establishment, and a cruel smile playing at his lips.
“Come to sample the local color?” Ramsay continued, gesturing around the tavern. “How very… democratic of you.”
Mr. Moore turned back to his drink without answering. He didn’t have the energy for Ramsay’s games tonight. Didn’t have the control to maintain the performance of masculine rivalry without betraying how close he was to falling apart completely.
But Ramsay wasn’t finished. Oh no, he was just getting started.
He settled onto the stool beside Mr. Moore, signaling the barkeep for his own glass. “I must say, I’m surprised to find you here alone. Where’s your lovely wife this evening? Surely she hasn’t left you to your own devices so soon after your marriage?”
Mr. Moore’s hand tightened on his glass. “That’s none of your concern.” He said carefully, trying his best to maintain his voice properly masculine even after the effects of the alcohol loosing Gina’s tongue.
“Oh, but it is.” Ramsay’s voice carried a note of false sympathy. “We were such good friends, Kate and I, before you came along. I still feel a certain… responsibility for her well-being.”
“She doesn’t need your concern.”
“Doesn’t she?” Ramsay leaned closer. “I must say, it’s curious how you and your lovely wife have become quite…
invisible lately. One used to see the newlyweds at every event, and now?
” He made a show of looking around the tavern.
“Here you are, drinking alone in a place like this. And where is Mrs. Moore-Sullivan, I wonder? Conspicuously absent, from what I hear. Separate lives already?” He paused, studying Mr. Moore’s face with cruel interest. “Makes one wonder what’s really happening behind closed doors.
Trouble in paradise so soon after the wedding?
Or perhaps—” His smile sharpened. “Perhaps you were never quite suited to begin with.”
The words landed with incredible accuracy, each one confirming Mr. Moore’s worst fears.
Invisible. Separate lives. Trouble in paradise.
Of course, Ramsay had noticed their absence from society.
Of course, he’d connected the dots—Mr. Moore drinking alone in a dockside tavern while his new wife remained conspicuously elsewhere.
How long before others noticed? How long before the whispers started, before people began questioning what kind of marriage required the couple to avoid each other completely, what kind of husband drove his wife into such deliberate distance?
The bartender slid Ramsay’s drink across the bar, but he didn’t even pay any attention to it, his gaze still fixed on Mr. Moore’s face.
“Nothing to say?” Ramsay continued, clearly enjoying Mr. Moore’s silence. “Or, perhaps, you know I’m right. Perhaps, you’ve realized you’re not quite… equipped to keep a woman like Kate properly satisfied.”
Mr. Moore’s vision narrowed as his head turned sharply toward him, focusing entirely on Ramsay’s smug face.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, the part of Gina that wasn’t drunk, that hadn’t abandoned ten years of control, screamed warnings.
But he couldn’t hear them over the roaring in his ears, over the crushing weight of knowing that Ramsay was completely right, for once.
He wasn’t equipped to keep Kate satisfied because he wasn’t what he’d pretended to be, because every touch he’d given her had been a lie, because she was repulsed by him and everyone would be able to see that at the moment they went out at any society event again.
“In fact,” Ramsay said, taking his drink now and draining it before standing, “perhaps I should call on Mrs. Moore-Sullivan myself. Offer her the companionship her husband so clearly fails to provide. I’m sure she’d appreciate the attention of a real man—”
Mr. Moore was on his feet before he’d made any conscious decision to move, though he had to grip the bar to steady himself after rising so quickly. His chair clattered backward, and suddenly the entire tavern had gone quiet, every eye turning toward them.
“You will not—” Mr. Moore swallowed hard, forcing his tongue to cooperate. “Speak. Of. My. Wife.”
Ramsay’s smile widened. “Or what? You’ll challenge me? Please, Moore. We both know you’re not man enough—”
Mr. Moore moved before the sentence was finished. His hand shot out, fisting in Ramsay’s cravat and the fine fabric of his coat, yanking him forward with surprising strength. Their faces came close, too close for civility.
The reek of whiskey hit Ramsay full in the face, and he jerked his head back instinctively, his nose wrinkling in disgust.
“Finish that thought,” Mr. Moore said, his voice deadly quiet, “and see what happens.”
In that moment, the entire tavern became their most attentive audience.
Ramsay’s expression shifted, the cruel amusement draining away, replaced by a dangerous gaze.
His eyes locked with Mr. Moore’s, and the challenge in them was unmistakable.
He wasn’t backing down. He was calculating, deciding whether to push further, whether to—
“WHAT IN THE KING’S NAME IS THIS?”
The voice cut through the tension like a bullet through fog, feminine and sharp with authority.
Every head in the tavern turned toward the door.
Kate stood there, right in the doorway of The Green Swan, her chest heaving, her eyes taking in the scene before her—Jason gripping Ramsay’s coat, their faces too close, the entire tavern watching.
Vikram was beside her, his young face pale with distress.
Mr. Moore’s grip on Ramsay’s coat went slack instantly. His hands released their hold as though burned before he stumbled back a step.
Ramsay smoothed his coat with deliberate, exaggerated movements, adjusting his cravat and rolling his shoulders as though shaking off an unpleasant touch. His head tilted slightly as his cold gaze swept from Mr. Moore to Kate and back again.
The smile that curved his lips was vicious.
“Ah, Mrs. Moore-Sullivan,” he said, his voice dripping with false courtesy. “How delightful. You’ve come to collect your husband.”
Kate began walking forward, her steps measured but her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
Ramsay continued, making a show of straightening his sleeves. “Though I must say, it’s rather telling when a man needs his wife to defend him. Here is your lady, Moore, come to your rescue.”
Kate was halfway across the tavern floor now, her eyes fixed on Ramsay with an intensity that made several men step aside.
Ramsay’s eyes glittered with malice as he looked directly at Mr. Moore. “What sort of man hides behind his wife’s skirts? Perhaps you’re not a man at all.”
‘You bastard!” Kate was at his side in two strides; her hand shot up without a second thought, palm open, ready to slap him across the face…
But Mr. Moore was faster.
His fist swung in a wide arc, connecting with Ramsay’s jaw with a crack that echoed through the tavern.
Ramsay’s head snapped to the side, his eyes going wide with shock. He staggered backward, one hand flying to his face.
Kate’s raised hand hung suspended in the air for one frozen moment, her slap interrupted, unnecessary now. Then it flew to her mouth, covering the gasp that escaped her.
The entire tavern murmured in astonishment. Every patron was on their feet, watching. Waiting.
Vikram stopped beside Kate, his eyes huge in his pale face, and despite his fear, despite the shock of seeing his refined mentor throw a punch in a common tavern, something like fierce pride flashed across his young features.
Mr. Moore-Sullivan had defended his wife. And himself. Like a proper gentleman should.
Ramsay lowered his hand slowly from his face. Blood welled at the corner of his mouth, bright against his pale skin. He touched it with trembling fingers, staring at the red stain as though he couldn’t quite believe it.
Then he made a sound—half gasp, half grunt—his other hand pressing against his jaw where Mr. Moore’s fist had landed with unexpected force. The pain seemed to register all at once, making him wince, his face contorting.
But the shock was already giving way to something darker. His eyes, when they lifted to meet Mr. Moore’s, burned with pure, undiluted rage.
“You—” Lord Ramsay’s voice came out thick, distorted. “You dare—”
He surged forward with a roar, his fist swinging wildly at Mr. Moore’s face.
But Gina’s body remembered what Jason’s alcohol-fogged mind had momentarily forgotten. Years of secret training, of learning to survive on dangerous streets, of preparing for exactly this kind of moment, took over.