Chapter 18
“He will win who, prepared himself, waits to take the enemy unprepared.”
“Hawke.” Mr. Marceaux plastered on a charming grin. “Be a chap, and give us a few minutes alo—”
With one hand, Edmond yanked Mr. Marceaux off me and slammed him into the opposing wall. The shelves rattled, and Mr. Marceaux’s eyes widened in fear. He squirmed, trying to twist free. But Edmond didn’t budge. Even with his injured arm in a sling, he pinned the Frenchman down with terrifying ease.
“Are you hurt?” Edmond called out through gritted teeth. It took me a few heartbeats to realize he was talking to me.
“No,” I croaked. Mrs. Sweete hurried over to me and pulled me into her arms, slipping my sleeve back onto my shoulder. “I—I’m unharmed.”
“Jealous are we, Hawke?” Mr. Marceaux said, his face pressed against the wall. “You can’t keep them all to yourself, mon ami.”
Edmond ignored him. “Get her out of here, Mrs. Sweete. I’ll take care of him.”
“Take care of me?” Mr. Marceaux barked a horrible laugh, a thin line of blood dripping from his nose. “Before I what—spread word of my time with our dear girl? One man is mere rumor, but two? She’ll be the talk of the ton.”
Heat flared throughout my body, and I found myself lunging for Mr. Marceaux. But Mrs. Sweete pulled me back.
“Now,” Edmond ordered.
Mrs. Sweete led me to the door. I spared a glance back at Edmond, but he was focused on keeping Mr. Marceaux pinned to the wall with his one good arm. I could hear Mr. Marceaux chuckling under his breath.
As soon as we were back in the main hall, I turned to face Mrs. Sweete. “Thank you for—I didn’t—I mean, I had no idea he would—”
My words fell away when I saw the baron standing down the hall.
“It’s all right,” Mrs. Sweete said. “Lord Cranford was helping us look for you.”
He gave me a stiff bow. “Did you—are you well?”
“I’m fine.” I willed the hot shame burning my cheeks to cool. The baron knew Mr. Marceaux had taken me into that corridor alone. What would he think of me now? The worry bubbled in my throat, making it hard to take a full breath.
Lord Cranford motioned with his cane to the staircase behind him. “There is a private room up these stairs. The first door on the right. It’s yours, if you wish to use it.”
“We would,” Mrs. Sweete said. “Thank you, Lord Cranford.”
She led me past the baron, but I paused and turned back to him to say, “You must make sure Mr. Hawke is all right. His shoulder…”
“I will go to Hawke at once,” he said.
I nodded in thanks, and Mrs. Sweete and I followed the baron’s instructions to a private bedroom. Once inside, I immediately yanked the vile gold ring off my finger and shoved it into Mrs. Sweete’s hands before sitting on the canopied bed.
“Take this. I can’t bear to look at it.”
She put it in her pocket before sitting beside me.
“Mr. Marceaux is going to tell everyone,” I said.
“Should I expose the story before he can control the narrative? No—” I squeezed my eyes shut “—just admitting I was alone with him would ruin me, even if I wasn’t at fault.
What I need is leverage. Have you heard anything about Mr. Marceaux? Anything that could keep him silent?”
She shook her head. “Only whispers, but nothing with proof.”
“Then I must locate a witness. Or invent a witness. Someone reliable. Perhaps Edmond—” I slammed my palms on the mattress. “That won’t work, not when he’s already part of the first scandal.”
“Miss Weston,” she said firmly. I paused, unused to hearing such sternness in her voice. “You don’t have to strategize every minute of your life. You can take off the commander’s hat for a few minutes and just breathe.”
I let out a brittle laugh. “If tonight has proven anything, it’s that I am no commander. I’m not even a foot soldier. Foot soldiers don’t let themselves be cornered in dark hallways.”
“My darling girl,” her voice broke, “even commanders lose battles sometimes.”
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. “I fear I have lost the war.”
“Oh, Miss Weston.” Mrs. Sweete’s eyes filled with tears. “I am so, so sorry. One minute, you were on the dance floor—and the next, you were gone. I promised to not let you out of my sight, and again I failed you.”
Mrs. Sweete’s tears broke something within me. I hadn’t ever seen her cry before.
“No, Mrs. Sweete, I failed you.” My throat was so tight I thought it would break. “I should have seen Mr. Marceaux for what he truly was. It’s my fault.”
“You are not to blame.”
“But if I had just—”
Mrs. Sweete placed her hand on my shoulder. “You are not to blame for someone else’s wickedness.”
Tears stung the corner of my eyes, and my entire body quaked as the shock that had been holding me together unraveled.
“Oh, Mrs. Sweete,” I said, my voice frail, “I was so afraid.”
She pulled me against her, like she used to do when I was a child, and I fell apart. The tears spilled over, drenching my cheeks. Every ounce of fear and anger that was boiling within me slowly cooled with each uneven sob.
Mrs. Sweete patiently held me while I cried until my eyes were red and swollen. I wasn’t sure how long we stayed that way. A minute, an hour. However long it was, it was enough. I wiped away my last tear, then sucked in a deep breath and said, “That is sufficient for today.”
Mrs. Sweete released me. “What would you like to do now?”
But before I could answer, a knock sounded at the door.
“May I come in?” said a voice from the other side.
Mrs. Sweete and I exchanged glances. It was the baron.
“One moment,” I called out. After Mrs. Sweete helped me look presentable with a flurry of handkerchiefs and combs, I stood and adjusted my skirts before saying, “Come in.”
The baron entered the bedroom. If he was surprised at my red-rimmed eyes, he was enough of a gentleman to say nothing about it.
He closed the door and stood right in front of it. “Is the room comfortable, Miss Weston?”
It struck me then that I hadn’t considered where I was exactly.
As I took in my surroundings, I realized this was no ordinary guest room.
An elegant vanity with a brass mirror stood beside a grand window that overlooked an orangery hidden among the trees.
A marble fireplace glowed faintly on one wall, its gilded mantle adorned with fine porcelain figurines that seemed too fragile to touch.
The bed was draped in sumptuous damask and crowned with gold-tasseled pillows.
The elegance of this room was so unlike the rest of Lord Cranford’s home—and I realized with a sinking horror that this was the baroness’s room.
It could be my room.
No, I thought with a sinking feeling. It would never be my room.
Any potential future here had crumbled. Lord Cranford would surely rescind his deal with my father after tonight’s events.
Although I had not been thrilled at the prospect of marrying the baron, my stomach lurched at the thought of losing such a stable guarantee.
“The room is lovely, Lord Cranford,” I said, my fingers digging into the folds of my dress, searching for something—anything—to hold onto.
“Good.” He swallowed, his expression grim. “Your father demanded to see you.”
I paled. “And what did you tell him?”
“That you were feeling unwell, and that you are recovering with Mrs. Sweete’s aid. I encouraged him to wait for you back at your home, and that I’d lend my carriage for your use once you were well again. He seemed… eager to leave.”
My shoulders eased. “That was very generous of you, Lord Cranford.” At least I wouldn’t have to endure Father’s reprimands in public. For now, I could focus on the more immediate issues at hand. “And Mr. Hawke? Is he all right?”
“He’s fine.” To my surprise, the baron had a hint of a smile as he said, “Mr. Marceaux, however, is nursing a bruised eye.”
“Are you implying that Mr. Hawke hit Mr. Marceaux?”
“All I can say is that Mr. Hawke would have been a fine soldier. And he has made sure that Mr. Marceaux will not spread word of what happened tonight.”
I steadied myself on one of the bed’s sturdy posts. It was one thing to pull Mr. Marceaux off of me. It was another entirely to harm him—with an injured arm, nonetheless. What had Edmond been thinking?
But the larger part of me was relieved and grateful for what Edmond had done. Not only had he ensured that Mr. Marceaux’s pride had been wounded right alongside his eye, but whatever threat he held over the Frenchman was likely enough to buy me more time.
The baron cleared his throat. “Mr. Hawke would have come to see you himself, but he said he had urgent business to attend to.”
“Oh.” A faint sense of disappointment curled in my chest.
“There is one more matter of business.” The baron’s stance shifted, as if his leg was bothering him.
“Although no word has spread yet, there could still be a chance someone saw you with Mr. Marceaux. As such, it seems prudent that I—that is to say, the urgency of the situation requires—It’s like how the Mantis religiosa protects a garden from pests and…
” He coughed. “Well, you understand what I’m saying, don’t you? ”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Right.” He gripped his cane tightly, his gaze firmly on the floor. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m offering you my hand in marriage, as a practical solution to safeguard your reputation.”
My lips parted, though not even the smallest breath escaped. Mrs. Sweete squeezed my hand tightly, bringing me out of my fog of disbelief.
“You—you wish to marry me? Even after tonight? Why?”