Chapter Four
“Wisely and slow, they stumble that run fast.” – Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare.
Sir Roderick was quite clearly in his cups.
He swayed ever so slightly on his feet, and there were wine stains down the front of his jacket, staining the pure white of his cravat.
Ursula suspected that if it were light enough, she would see that his eyes were blurred and unfocused and clearly bloodshot.
“This is not proper, Sir Roderick,” Ursula said, as firmly as she could manage. Something told her that it would not be wise to display any of the fear she felt bubbling up inside her. “I believe perhaps I will return to the house and allow you to continue your walk alone.”
She made as if to step around him, but the man neatly moved in her way. He was grinning widely now.
Sir Roderick was close to forty years of age and had never been wedded.
His reputation as a rake was well-earned, and there had been a scandal a decade ago when he had ruined some poor, guileless young debutante to the point where her family disowned her and she had clearly been forced to leave polite Society altogether. One heard whispers of a child, as well.
Of course, Sir Roderick’s reputation had recovered, as gentlemen’s reputations often did.
No sensible woman would go near him, however.
That was not on account of his rakishness, as reformed rakes could be quite popular.
In reality it was due to his insurmountable debts which were mounting with every successive year.
Being seen with him alone, in the dark gardens, would ruin Ursula’s reputations irrevocably.
“It would be best if we parted ways,” she tried again, taking a step backwards. “I’m sure you mean no harm, but it really is not proper to be here alone. I’m positive you understand. I don’t intend to ruin your walk, sir, but I…”
“What’s the rush?” Sir Roderick interrupted, taking another step forward. Ursula retreated, conscious that she was now moving further away from the house and safety. “Private locations allow for more intimate meetings, after all.”
Ursula bristled. “This is not a meeting, sir. It is an accident. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
She made to dart past him again, and this time she fully intended to push her way past, even if she had to go through the undergrowth.
A hand wrapped around her upper arm, shoving her bodily backwards. Ursula staggered, gasping in shock. Sir Roderick grinned at her, as if her shock and fright were amusing to him.
Gentlemen never, never laid hands on a lady in such a manner.
But he is not a gentleman, is he? Ursula thought, heart hammering. In a rush, she understood exactly how much danger she was in.
“I won’t stand for this treatment,” she gasped. “You…”
“Oh, I believe you’ll stand for whatever treatment I see fit to give you,” Sir Roderick murmured, eyes glinting.
He began to walk towards her, and Ursula scuttled backwards.
The path opened up into a circular crossroads, with a stone bench at the centre.
At once, Ursula rushed to put the bench between herself and Sir Roderick.
What am I to do? She thought frantically. I can’t get past him. Can I outrun him? Doubtful. I certainly cannot overpower him.
Sir Roderick was a tall man with a full girth, but she suspected that he was deceptively strong underneath it all.
His thinning fair hair plastered against his scalp, and large hands opened and closed at his sides.
His eyes were bright, and she did not like the look in them when he stared at her.
He was sweating already, droplets rolling into his eyes.
“Stay back,” Ursula managed, her voice wobbling rather pitifully. “I warn you; I will not be threatened.”
To further emphasise her point, she darted forward, aiming a slap towards his face. He grabbed her wrist, squeezing it in a painfully tight grip.
“Oho, so you’re a vicious little thing, are you?” he hissed. Then his hand shot out, a stinging backhand catching her across the face. Ursula gave a cry, stumbling backwards.
“Keep your claws to yourself, little cat,” he added.
“You’re a devil!”
Sir Roderick did not even bother to respond properly this time. He laughed, throwing back his head. Then, quite without warning, he lunged.
Ursula was not quick enough. She dodged, but he still managed to seize her by the shoulder, trying to pull her towards him. She heaved, trying to free herself but he held on tightly. The sound of tearing material filled the air, and Ursula finally managed to stumble away, gasping for breath.
Her capped sleeve had torn away entirely, leaving her shoulder bare. With a growl, Sir Roderick tossed the limp bit of satin away and advanced again.
The situation did not seem to be real. It could not be real.
Only ten minutes ago, Ursula had been finishing up a dance in the middle of London’s busiest ballroom, surrounded by noise and laughter and people.
And now here she was, cornered by the vilest man in the world in the middle of a decorative forest. Alone.
“Desist, sir!” she gasped, breathless.
“I should save my breath, if I were you,” Sir Roderick snarled, and lunged at her again. This time, she was more prepared for the attack and ducked away. Even so, he was faster than she had anticipated, and his fingers closed around a clump of her hair.
Ursula found herself yanked unceremoniously backwards. She felt pins pop out from their place, chunks of hair falling loose onto her neck. Abruptly, she was released, and staggered away, clapping a hand to her sore scalp.
Spinning around, she glared at Sir Roderick. He had a few long, dark tendrils drifting out from between his knuckles.
“You are the vilest monster in England,” Ursula seethed. “Tell me, what have I done to deserve this?”
Sir Roderick tossed the limp handful of hair away. “I shouldn’t worry your pretty head about that. Really, this business has nothing to do with you at all.”
He advanced, and she retreated.
“Time to bring our game to its finale, I daresay,” he muttered, half to himself.
Now or never, Ursula thought. If they were discovered, it would destroy her reputation, but the alternative did not bear thinking about. Sucking in her breath, she opened her mouth, ready to scream.
“Help! Help me…”
Sir Roderick crossed the space between them faster than she might have thought possible, clapping a hand over her mouth.
His other hand cupped the back of her head, pressing her face against his palm.
Both her nose and mouth were covered, and Ursula realised with a panicked jolt that she could not breathe.
“Enough of that, you little hussy,” he hissed. “You’re all the same, every last one of you. Now, I…”
Suddenly from the dense undergrowth, a gentleman quickly emerged, his eyes adjusting to the unexpected light.
“I heard a cry,” he said. “What is…? Good God!”
Ursula tore herself free of her attacker, staggering backwards. She was gasping for breath, and somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she must like a sight with her torn clothes, hair hanging in tangles over her face, flushed and dishevelled.
“Stay out of this,” Sir Roderick snarled. “Go back to the party.”
The man took a step forward. “I think not. What are you doing out here with this lady, sir?”
“None of your concern.”
“I disagree.”
Sir Roderick narrowed his eyes. Before Ursula could cry out a warning, he lunged forward, his fist shooting through the air.
The man dodged neatly and brought his left fist up and into the side of Sir Roderick’s face with a resounding crack.
Instantly, Sir Roderick collapsed to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut abruptly. He lay still, and silence descended. In the quiet, Ursula’s own breathing sounded shockingly loud.
“Is… Is he dead?” she quavered.
“I doubt it,” the man responded, shaking out his left hand. “Out cold, I should say. Madam, are you hurt?”
He turned towards her, taking a step forward, and before she could stop herself, Ursula flinched. At once, the man stopped, holding up his hands in an apologetic gesture.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said quietly. “Tell me, are you hurt?”
Then, in a flash, she recognized him.
“You,” Ursula whispered. “I met you in Hatchard’s. I tripped over you while you were collecting your books.”
The man tilted his head. “Yes, you did. You are Lady Ursula Fairmont. Forgive me, I didn’t recognize you before.”
She swallowed thickly, rising shakily to her feet. “I… I look a sight. I cannot possibly go back into the ballroom in this state.”
“No, I think not,” the man murmured, eyeing her up and down with a frown. “Although of course you have done nothing wrong.”
She gave a short, mirthless laugh. “I’m not sure that Society will see it that way.”
Ursula’s legs were like jelly, and suddenly she was afraid that they would not hold her weight.
She tottered, stretching out her hand for balance, and suddenly the man was there, holding out his arms to steady her.
Ursula took his hand, almost without thinking.
A frisson of energy shot through her again, just as it had before, and she found that her mouth was dry.
Glancing up, she saw that he was looking down at her, his face calm and his eyes thoughtful.
“I never did ask your name,” Ursula murmured. “I told you mine but never asked yours.”
He gave a faint smile. “My name is Graham. I’m Lord Sinclair.”
“Ah, I see. I’ve heard of you.”
“I’m sure you have. Now, let’s concentrate on getting you somewhere a little more proper, shall we? I thought…”
He broke off abruptly as voices echoed across the lawn. Spinning around, Ursula saw shadowy figures striding towards the little wooded area. They were led by Georgie.
“I saw her go in here,” Georgie was saying, twisted around to speak to the people behind her. Mr. and Mrs. Winter were there, along with Charlotte.
Worst of all, Mrs. Sanderson-Peters trotted along in the rear, accompanied by Mrs. Jest, her toady. The women were infamous as the worst gossips in the country. No doubt they’d heard a whisper of scandal and had come hurrying along to find out for themselves.
“No,” Ursula gasped. “No. Lord Sinclair, I really cannot…”
Then it was too late. Mrs. Sanderson-Peters lifted her spindly arm and pointed directly at Ursula.
“Lady Ursula!” Mrs. Winter gasped, hurrying towards her only to recoil when she saw the state of her. “Heavens, what has happened?”
Swallowing thickly, Ursula tilted up her chin, trying and failing to recover her dignity.
Her dress sagged, the sleeve having been torn off, and there were other tears near the hem, revealing a ragged piece of petticoat.
Her hair hung in a tangled mass at the back of her neck, and her cheek was bruised.
And, of course, there was the fact that Lord Sinclair was standing entirely too close to her, in a secluded tree glade, with London’s most notorious rake sprawled out on the ground nearby.
“Oh, Ursula,” Georgie gasped, pressing her hands against her cheeks. “What have you done?”
Mr. and Mrs. Winter exchanged horrified glances.
“At our party, no less!” Mrs. Winter hissed.
Charlotte met Ursula’s eyes, and Ursula saw fear in her friend’s face.
“Shameful,” Mrs. Sanderson-Peters murmured, and Charlotte rounded on her, eyes blazing.
“Instead of gawping, madam, might you perhaps do something useful?” she snapped. “Go and fetch Lady Ursula’s parents.”
Mrs. Sanderson-Peters shot her a nasty look, but obeyed, leaving Mrs. Jest to trot along after her.
“Lord Sinclair, I hope to hear a full explanation from you,” Mr. Winter managed at last, his voice wavering.
“Certainly,” the man answered, his voice cool. “I can assure you that Lady Ursula here bears no blame. The blame lies with Sir Roderick, who accosted her while she was walking here. I was fortunately close enough to intervene. Lady Ursula is innocent.”
“Oh, but that doesn’t matter,” Charlotte murmured. She did not look at her friend. “All that matters is how this all looks. And with Mrs. Sanderson-Peters and her wretched toady having witnessed it, it can’t be kept secret. Ursula, what have you done?”
She swallowed thickly, trying to work moisture into her dry mouth.
“I didn’t do anything wrong, Charlotte,” Ursula managed. “Truly, I didn’t.”
“I believe you’ll find that you have, my girl,” Mrs. Winter said sharply. “And at my house, no less. Oh, Bless my soul, here is Lord and Lady Farendale. You must not pass back through the ballroom, Lady Ursula. It’ll cause more of a scandal than is already inevitable.”
Ursula glanced desperately from face to face, longing for somebody to show her even a little bit of sympathy. Charlotte would not meet her eye. Mr. Winter was staring above her head, with a mildly disgusted expression on his face. Mrs. Winter was staring her with open contempt.
Georgie’s face was harder to read. She looked appalled, but Ursula could not understand what had gone wrong. If Georgie knew that Ursula was being attacked and how could she have known it? Why cause a scene? Why not simply enlist a discreet friend, like Charlotte, to help?
“Did you find your dance card, Georgie?” Ursula heard herself say aloud.
Reddening slightly, her cousin glanced away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ursula. Do you feel faint? Perhaps you ought to sit down.”
Voices drifted across the green again, and Ursula glanced over to see her parents hurrying towards her, their faces deathly pale in the moonlight.
Mrs. Sanderson-Peters and Mrs. Jest followed, naturally, along with a little cluster of other gawkers. Ursula closed her eyes in despair.
This is it, then. I am ruined. It’s all over. Nobody will have me in their houses. No eligible men will wed me. I am… I am ruined.
We all are.
Mama reached the pitiful little scene first, gasping for breath. She glanced around at the silent spectators, pausing to glare balefully at Lord Sinclair, then tossed a shawl around Ursula’s shoulders.
“What have you done?” she hissed, her voice trembling with fear and rage. “You foolish, foolish girl!”
“I believe it would be best for Lady Ursula to return home,” Mrs. Winter said coolly. “Perhaps she has overindulged in champagne.”
Ursula, who had not touched a sip of alcohol, felt all the keenness of this insult. There was no time to reply, however, because at that moment Papa reached her. Grabbing her wrist, he turned on his heel and dragged her away without another word.