Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I see colour creep into the Duke’s cheeks, but I will not further his embarrassment, not because I pity him, but because I simply cannot bring myself to shame my father by calling out the Duke. ‘An easy mistake to make, Your Grace,’ I say, dropping the watch into his hand. ‘I’m sure a few shillings to the boy will compensate him for his trauma.’
‘What?’ Lymington blurts, looking up at me. I tilt my head, certain my eyes are projecting warning. ‘Oh, yes. Of course.’ He turns to the boy, who, poor thing, looks quite the frightened animal. I should assure him, it is not he who is the animal around here. The Duke holds out a shilling to the boy, and he accepts gratefully. One measly shilling? I clear my throat, and the Duke peeks at me.
‘Oh God,’ my Father breathes quietly from behind.
I smile at the Duke, eyeing his coin purse, prompting him to delve back into the velvet pouch.
‘How much does Mr Fitzgerald pay you?’ I ask the boy.
‘Five shillings, my lady.’
‘I think ten will cover it.’
The tight-fisted Duke nearly chokes, rendering him unable to contest my suggested donation.
‘He has suffered quite an unfortunate injury, Your Grace,’ I say, flicking my eyes to the boy, my voice strong. ‘Haven’t you?’
A moment’s pause and a frown before he cottons on. ‘My neck,’ he spits out quickly, playing my game as he feels at his nape.
‘His neck,’ I repeat on a nod. ‘Strained, I expect. I imagine his work as Mr Fitzgerald’s stable boy may be hindered for at least a week. Five shillings to cover his loss of earnings, and five for the inconvenience.’ I paint a smile on my face. ‘I would hate to see such a clumsy error aired in tomorrow’s newspaper.’
‘Lord above, she’ll bankrupt me,’ Father whispers as Lymington, with a face caught between graciousness and umbrage, coughs up, and the boy, after bowing his head in respect that the Duke is not worthy of, dashes off.
‘Good day,’ I say, turning on my… bare feet? I look down. Bare feet. I feel at my stomach as I lift my eyes, finding Frank and Papa, who both look bewildered and are blinking rapidly, unmoving on the steps of our house. Oh no.
I am quite indecent, standing in broad daylight on the street in only my chemise. Smiling nervously, I look over my shoulder, finding a few people have gathered, and I fear it is not to witness the trial of the stable boy.
‘Eliza, get inside the house,’ Papa hisses, but I hardly hear him. I cannot see much, either now, for on the other side of the road, standing alone, is Johnny Winters, looking absolutely magnificent in a green velvet jacket that makes his eyes twinkle. The twinkle is wicked, and he stares at me, not in shock or horror as I expect the rest of my spectators are looking at me. No. His expression is entirely different. It’s brooding. Lustful. And I am frozen.
On the street.
Half dressed.
In front of one too many members of the ton. My mind carries me back to yesterday evening, to his house, his study. To the feelings that overcame me. This man, this bold, rude, prohibited, unlawful, tainted man, makes my heart boom and my blood rush.
And it is utterly wonderful, I think, smiling secretly.
‘Eliza!’
I jump, ripping my eyes from the Duke of Chester, being brought back down to earth with an enormous wallop. It seems in my desperation and urgency to serve justice, I neglected to remember to dress myself. How unfortunate.
I drop my eyes to my bare feet and disappear into our house, passing Mother in the main hallway. I risk a peek at her, smiling my apologies, for she will not hear the last of this from Papa. She nods, holding back her own smile of reassurance – or is that amusement? – as the door slams.
‘My God, I will be a laughing stock!’ Papa cries. ‘What were you thinking? Is it your sole purpose to ruin me, Eliza?’ His head goes into his hands, his despair palpable. I find no joy in seeing my father so desolate, I must admit. ‘Good grief, how many times must I remind you that we are no longer in the countryside?’
Every hour, it would appear. ‘I’m sure your reputation will be perfectly intact,’ I say, looking at Frank, who is silent on the side-lines, but he, like Mama, is struggling terribly to hold back his amusement. Oh good. I am not the only one around here that is exasperated by the increasing need to impress. Father is worrying unduly. It is too early for many of the residents of Belmore Square to be awake, let alone dressed and out and about. With social events to attend most evenings, the nights are long and the days short during a London season. Although, admittedly, I felt the drapes at many windows twitching. ‘I think I will go to my room,’ I say, removing myself before Papa explodes with anxiety. Clara is at the top of the stairs in her nightdress, rubbing at her sleepy eyes. My little sister, since she was a babe in our mother’s arms, has always slept like a log, even through the wildest of storms. The poor, oblivious thing has no idea that I just saved the love of her life from being imprisoned.