Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
H oratio whirled at the strident voice behind him. He locked eyes with a woman he did not know. She had hair towering above her head and a beauty spot painted onto her cheek. That hair was burnished bronze. It did not take long for him to realize that she was Lady Margaret Godwin , aunt to Elisa Fothering.
For a heartbeat, he felt a surge of anger. Anger that this woman feigned outrage when he knew that she neglected her niece, even treated her poorly. Miss Fothering had not mentioned specifics but the fact that she was on the outskirts of society, despite the Godwins being gadflies of the county set, told him that she was not treated well.
But that anger faded when he saw the number of other faces, some in masks and some removing them as though for a better look. All with a clear view of the Duke of Ravenscourt crouching over the body of a helpless young woman. He heard a faint sigh, and when he turned back, saw that Miss Fothering had fainted once more.
There was no color in her face, even her lips seemed pale. Was it his imagination or did her breathing seem fluttery and weak?
“Your niece has taken ill, Lady Margaret…” he began, putting an arm underneath Miss Fothering’s legs and shoulders to lift her.
“Unhand her at once, sir!” Lady Margaret cried out. “Have you no decency! Gilbert, go to Juliet. We must make her comfortable.”
A man stepped out from behind Lady Margaret and scurried forward, casting worried glances at Horatio, who rose slowly. He had gray hair but a prodigious amount of it still. His stomach strained at the coat he wore and he was short, with broad shoulders.
“You have nothing to worry about, madam, I can assure you—”
“Your reputation says otherwise. If I were a man, I would call you out, you scoundrel!” Margaret rasped.
Lord Gilbert was stooping to lift his niece and visibly flinched at those words. He glanced up at Horatio with something of terror in his eyes, as though fearing he would be called upon to back up his wife’s challenge.
“Now then, dear…” he said in a placating tone as he picked up Miss Elisa Fothering.
It was then that the name the old dragon had used fully registered in Horatio’s consciousness.
“Whom did you say?” he demanded sharply.
Gilbert flinched again, scurrying for the shelter of his wife. She stood her ground, glaring at Horatio, hands clasped before her, knuckles white.
“I said Juliet. Juliet Semphill . My niece. Daughter of my late sister, Judith Semphill. I am not surprised that you did not even bother to learn the name of the woman you intended to ravish. Such is your reputation after all!”
Anger once again flashed hot and bright in Horatio. This woman was using inflammatory language in public. The fact that there was no truth to the accusations meant nothing in this company. The accusation was enough. Added to that, the sight that all these sheep had seen. Of Horatio over the supine body of… of Juliet!
Now, he remembered the name.
It clicked into place in his mind like part of a puzzle. The young girl who had borne witness against him. Who had lied about what she had seen and as a result destroyed his life. The words of Juliet Semphill had seen him disinherited, exiled from his home and family. From the day that his father had cast him out, Horatio had not set foot in Ravenscourt Castle, or set eyes upon his father until the old man was dead. Years in which Horatio had learned how harsh life could be for those with nothing. When he had starved and begged.
That woman had now, so casually, wreaked havoc on his name once more. Horatio reeled. Had he been trapped? Lured into her company and the jaws of a snare designed to burn down his reputation, bury his name and that of his family?
“Why?” he whispered, no longer aware of anyone around him.
“You must still be in your cups!” Lady Margaret broke into his reverie with the force of a battering ram, “I declare that…”
“Shut up, woman!” Horatio exclaimed, his patience deserting him.
Lady Margaret’s mouth snapped shut with a click of teeth. There was an audible gasp from the gathered onlookers. Horatio felt helpless and foolish. His face colored.
Were they laughing at him behind their shocked expressions? Were the Godwins scheming to undermine him? Had all of this been an elaborate plan? For what goal?
Horatio gritted his teeth, hands clenching into fists by his side. Beside him was an easel, atop which was a painting from last year’s ball. It depicted a beautiful young woman with a swan mask and a dress of silver and gold. He had been struck by her grace and beauty, using her image to remind himself that those he invited to the Ravenscourt ball were not all bad. That some good could be found in the society which referred to itself as the ton. Now it enraged him, reminding him of his naivety. He lashed out, knocking it over and sending the canvas tumbling into the Great Hall.
“Get out! All of you! Get out of my sight!” he bellowed.
He seized another picture, this time hurling it towards the onlookers. It bounced off the doorframe and they scattered like vermin. Even Lady Margaret appeared shaken, stepping backward hurriedly and treading on her husband’s toes.
“Not you!” Horatio snapped, pointing at Lord Gilbert, “I will not be accused of depriving that young woman of the services of a physician. No matter what crimes she has committed against me. Take her to one of the guest rooms. A servant will guide you. A physician will be sent for or found among the guests and upon his approval, she can leave.”
He just wanted all of the Godwins out of his house but recognized, even in the depths of his rage, that this might be part of their ploy. To paint him a brute who assaulted a young woman and then threw her out along with her elderly guardians. There would be no coming back from that. No restoration of his name. He would not allow them to do it to him. But his anger needed sating. It could not be contained.
“Now, get out of my sight, the lot of you!” he roared, hurling another picture over the edge. It had the desired effect. The beauty spot became prominent against skin from which all color had drained. Lady Margaret clutched her skirts and ran.
Horatio stood with his hands clasped against the ancient stone of the balustrade. This was the oldest part of the castle, a place where lords of Ravenscourt had stood for generations, looking over the Great Hall below, receiving the homage of their vassals. Now, those below were hurrying out of the room, none courageous enough to look up at the dark figure above them. Horatio looked up into the worn face of a gargoyle carved into the vaulted stone ceiling opposite him. It grimaced back at him, mouth ajar in mocking laughter.
“We are both monsters then,” he whispered, “in their eyes at least.”
A small sound behind him, a subtle clearing of the throat. Horatio knew it well.
“What are your orders, Your Grace?” Hall asked soberly.
“Have a Physician sent for one of our attendees. She will be in one of the guest rooms,” Horatio said without turning.
“I have put her in the Tudor Rooms, Your Grace,” Hall replied, “And a physician has already been sent for. Would nae wait for orders seeing a fainted lass, now would I?”
Horatio grinned bitterly. “Do you know who that girl is, Hall?”
“I think I’m about to find out.”
“Juliet Semphill.”
Hall cursed in French, a language he had learned from captured French privateers and a habit developed due to his late wife’s intolerance of cursing. In English anyway.
“Oui,” Horatio agreed.
“She weren’t on the invitation list.”
“No, she weren’t ,” Horatio muttered, mirroring his subordinate’s speech. “The Godwins brought their daughters and an unnamed other. Now I see why they concealed her identity. She lied to me about her name too.”
“We need to get them all out of the house, Your Grace,” Hall said with conviction.
“No. Then I will be painted a heartless brute. I will speak to the Godwins about their intentions in coming here. When I am calm. There will be no duel today.”
“What can them blackguards be wanting?”
Horatio turned, smiling sadly. An idea was taking shape. A motivation for the lies and the manipulation. It would benefit the Godwins greatly to see their family allied to the Templetons. He could provide wealth and lineage, a great English family. It would elevate them at Court and within the ton, despite the shame surrounding his character.
“What do you know of the daughters, Hall?” Horatio asked.
“One old enough to marry, Your Grace. Frances, her name is. Not yet betrothed. Quite a looker, if you don’t mind me sayin’.”
Horatio glanced at a painting on the wall. It showed a woman with hair of molten gold and skin like purest milk. She was depicted sitting while others danced, hands folded demurely in her lap. Horatio remembered seeing her. Remembered how she had seemed to blaze like a sun, even through the crowd of well-dressed lords and lasses. And she reminded him of Juliet. Or Elisa, as he had known her.
Reminded him of her in the way that a candle might remind one of the sun, for both cast golden light and warmth. But the candle could in no way compare to the sun, of course. Just as that woman could in no way compare to Juliet.
Juliet , the woman who had deceived him.
He could see it all now. Use the niece to ensnare him and then offer the daughter’s hand in marriage. In exchange for helping to quell the fires of scandal.
“It doesn’t matter how much of a looker she is. I will not be pushed into marriage. I will not be used by the Godwins,” Horatio muttered, bleakly.
“Don’t see much choice if that’s their price,” Hall said in earnest.
“Oh, it will be their price. I can assure you of that, old friend. Just wait and see. But it is too high a price. Too high by half.”
The trouble was that Hall was right. There wasn’t much choice if Horatio wished to restore his name. He would need the cooperation of a family in good standing. And the family of the woman he was accused of assaulting would be the most influential. It would be thought that if they could forgive, then others should as well.
It infuriated him that he needed to defend himself in such a way when he was entirely innocent. That the same woman had besmirched his name twice. Perhaps there was a solution though. One that would deny the Godwins the glory of joining their family to his but which would force them to his side. Something that would help to repair the damage to his reputation and could easily be undone once the public interest had abated. And the Godwins would not be able to refuse.
“You’ve got a plan, Your Grace. I know that look,” Hall smirked wolfishly.
“As perceptive as ever.”
“Will I send for Lord Gilbert and his wife? The former isn’t much use without the latter,” Hall said.
“No, wait until a physician has seen to their niece and all is settled. Then send them to me in the Black Study.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”