Chapter Eight
Following their walk, Lord Davenport excused himself, saying he had business to attend to, to which Lady Davenport emphatically declared, “I would be delighted to spend the afternoon with our guest.” Genevieve saw no point in remaining in disguise, so she changed into her dress, then reported to the dining parlor for a scrumptious afternoon meal, which included a lot of bacon for Horatio.
Lady Davenport placed her teacup on the dining table and smiled. “I thought we could spend the rest of the day together. The drawing room is warm and cozy.”
Since Genevieve had nowhere else to go, and she was still recovering from her terrifying encounter with Kilsby, she had no objections.
Neither did Horatio. His belly bloated with pork and carrots, the pup sprawled out in front of the warm hearth, and Genevieve curled into the plush velvet settee, a lovely leather-bound tome in hand.
At first, fear kept her from concentrating.
Logically, she knew that Kilsby hadn’t recognized her because she’d hidden her face in Horatio’s neck, so, as usual, her worry seemed excessive.
Lady Davenport’s calm presence did much to convince her she was safe, so once she relaxed, she found herself fascinated with meddling matchmaker Emma Woodhouse’s story.
It had been a long while since she’d curled into a cozy chair to read a book and it had been something she discovered that she’d missed from her old life, one she’d enjoyed whenever her father wasn’t home.
Meanwhile, Lady Davenport sat at the desk beneath the large window, attending to her social calendar and household lists.
’Twas early evening when Lord Davenport peered into the drawing room, his hair flat against his head as if the unruly strands had been tamed into submission.
Frowning, he called his mother to him. She set her feather pen on her desk and met him in the doorway.
Genevieve couldn’t make out Jonathan’s low whispers, and she had no desire to eavesdrop.
The dowager countess gasped and placed her hand on her heart. Her higher voice carried to Genevieve. “I shall write and express our condolences. We can include a generous bereavement gift.”
How sad that someone had passed. Whoever it was, both the viscount and his mother were exhaling mournful sighs, and he was raking his fingers through his hair.
The dowager countess patted Jonathan’s shoulder, then strolled to the settee. She smoothed her skirts and sat beside Genevieve. “Please pardon us,” she said with a forced smile. “Dealing with an unfortunate incident with one of our farm workers.”
Whistling, and his hair now curling impishly, the viscount sauntered into the room.
Horatio opened his eyes. Lifting onto all fours, he stretched and then charged Lord Davenport.
The grinning viscount didn’t seem to mind that Horatio’s paws were on his hips or that the dog’s tongue was painting his waistcoat and trousers with slobber.
Once the stray dog and the well-bred gentleman enthusiastically greeted each other, Lord Davenport crossed the room to pour himself a glass of whisky.
Two things were apparent. The Davenports seemed genuinely heartbroken over the death of one of their workers, and despite their distress, they had schooled their emotions and were now doing their best to entertain a woman they thought was a street beggar.
At least, Jonathan did. His mother had figured her out almost right away, but apparently hadn’t shared Gen’s secret, something for which she was very grateful.
Just think, if Jonathan knew and somehow, or for some reason, told Kilsby who she really was…
Gen swallowed hard so that she didn’t cry out.
Or bleat, or croak, or utter any sound at all.
The peaceful afternoon spent calming her nerves was for naught because at the mention of the man’s name, Genevieve’s heart pounded against her ribcage.
“Did you attend to the other matter?” the dowager asked her son.
His smile morphed into a frown. Plopping onto the chair across from them, he gulped his libation. “I am afraid the person did not suit.” Exhaling, he rested against the back of the chair and closed his eyes.
Genevieve knew that the Davenport’s conversation was none of her business, and yet she desperately wanted to know who it was that didn’t suit. A tailor? A footman? A woman?
Her heart felt as if it plummeted to her belly.
She didn’t want there to be another woman in Jonathan Davenport’s life, which was a thoroughly absurd sentiment.
The viscount had already told her that he did not want a relationship.
Besides, what would he want with her, as pathetic as she’d become, especially since he could have any woman in England?
“I suppose I had other things on my mind this afternoon that interfered with my concentration.” He opened his eyes and briefly met Genevieve’s gaze. Then he pressed a thumb to his temple.
Like what? Or who? Perhaps me? Please!
Not in a million years. Besides, it is none of your business, silly girl.
“Would you like my assistance?” the dowager asked.
He stared into space.
“Jonathan, do you have another headache?” his mother asked.
He guzzled.
The dowager raised a skeptical brow.
“We ran into Kilsby today when we were walking,” he said.
Lady Davenport hacked out a shocking, unladylike sound that further endeared her to Genevieve.
“If he comes around, we need to send him away,” the viscount said. “I’ve already talked with Peters, and he is to alert the rest of the staff.”
“Why in heaven’s name would Lord Kilsby show up here?” Lady Davenport asked.
Jonathan slid his gaze to Genevieve. “I’m not sure.” He stared at her, his lips pursed.
Genevieve swallowed. She simply couldn’t tell them the horrible story because if she did, she’d have to say who she was, which might pique their curiosity.
Questions and answers might lead to her deepest secret.
She simply could not take that chance. And unfortunately, even if she tried to tell the truth, her throat would close.
As Lady Davenport regarded Genevieve with a compassionate countenance, invisible fists wrapped around her throat and squeezed until she gasped.
“I see,” Lady Davenport said. “Jonathan, you were correct.”
“As usual,” he said with his crooked grin. “But perhaps you will enlighten me as to which thing I am correct about this time. When there are so many, they all blend together.”
“Heavens above.” Lady Davenport looked at the ceiling as if the answers to her son’s taunting were etched in the carved medallion.
Turning her attention back to him, her jaw tensed.
“You should introduce Gen to Josephine and Franny. And the sooner the better. Some punching lessons might be in order. Not prizefighting per se, but something a bit more serious than the ladies’ exercise sessions.
I suppose a cross between fighter training and defense skills.
I am headed to The Silk Knuckles after I change clothing.
” She stood and then strolled from the room, calling over her shoulder, “I shall take my carriage and meet you there.”
“No time like the present.” The viscount chugged the rest of his drink, stood, and placed his glass on the side table. “Come along, Gen. Floppy can wait here. My footmen adore him and would be happy to entertain him.”
Genevieve didn’t want to leave the safety of Greenpark House.
However, she was curious about The Silk Knuckles Saloon and The Ladies Autonomy League.
That meant she needed to leave the drawing room.
Besides, with Kilsby running around London she should probably learn authentic fighting skills, not just the ones she and Christopher had made up.
The moves she could imitate after watching a couple of fights at The Purple Rabbit might be enough to keep her from making a complete fool of herself. Remaining in the viscount’s presence was an added bonus. But only because he made her feel safe, not because he made her heart flutter.
Alluding to butterfly wings tickling her heart and girl parts was beyond silly, so much so that she needed to put an end to that nonsense.
But before she went anywhere, she needed to change back into her disguise. And then she would pray that no one at The Silk Knuckles Saloon recognized her.
*
The second Genevieve entered the old factory-turned-gymnasium, she knew this was where she belonged. A powerful energy crackled, vibrated, and zinged, invigorating her. Almost two dozen men and women exercised, and her muscles craved to join them.
Sandbags hung from the ceiling, and dumbbells and skipping ropes were organized along a side wall. Pugilists sparred in two roped rings. In the back of the massive space, a group of women, which included Lady Davenport, were moving freely, without a care in the world.
“The Silk Knuckles is so scandalous that many men in parliament have tried to have it closed down,” Jonathan whispered in her ear.
She didn’t doubt it. Men and women engaged in sport.
Together! How taboo. “Some men are afraid of strong women,” he said.
“A cowardly bloke even tried to burn down the building. Obviously, he failed. But it was a close call, and all because his wife wanted to learn to defend herself against his physical abuse.”
Genevieve swallowed.