The Scandalous Lady Sandford (Lost Ladies of London 3)

“Please, Vane,” Lillian cried, gripping Fabian’s forearm. “I beg you. If you care for me at all wait downstairs, and I shall explain everything.”

“Lillian?” Panic and relief clung to that one word.

A heavy silence ensued.

Fabian’s racing heartbeat filled his ears. This was what he’d been waiting for: a chance to confront Vane, the opportunity to get him on a side. He sensed Vane retreat before he heard the clip of booted footsteps on the stone floor.

Mackenzie must have trailed after the lord, for when Fabian peered through the gap in the curtain the room was empty.

They set about dressing quickly. Neither spoke. The stillness belied the internal roar of minds bombarded by questions, of a growing unease that made their limbs work clumsily.

Once ready, Lillian stopped and stared at him. From her ashen face and rapid blinking, he knew fear filled her heart. He stepped towards her and drew her into an embrace.

“Vane’s anger will abate once he hears my story, once he sees that you’re happy here.” He cupped her cheeks and kissed her tenderly on the mouth. “You are happy?”

“Ecstatically so.” She glanced briefly at the floor. “But I cannot bear to see hurt and disappointment in his eyes, Fabian.”

“It will pass. Tomorrow we will look upon a bright sky absent of clouds, but for now, we must ride the storm.”

Lillian nodded weakly. “Then let us go and find him. Patience is not a trait Vane has mastered.”

With a firm grip of Lillian’s hand, Fabian led her downstairs. Some of his men were standing in the corridor outside the great hall. They shuffled back sheepishly upon his approach.

“The man has pistols, m’lord, and he ain’t afraid to use them.”

“Return to your work,” Fabian said with an air of confidence. “It is nothing I cannot handle.” Fabian opened the old oak door and gestured for Lillian to enter. “Regardless what you hear, you’re to remain outside.”

Mackenzie sat on the bench, watching Vane pace the floor in front of the dais. Both pistols lay on the table. Dressed in black, the man had the menacing aura of the Devil. Vane turned to face them. Were it not for his glacial stare, Fabian could have believed the lord had risen from the fiery pits of Hell.

Mackenzie came to his feet. “I’d give Trevane a wide berth. The man is madder than a wet hen.”

Lillian ignored Mackenzie’s advice and rushed forward. “Vane! I’m so glad to see you.”

Her brother embraced her, stroked a hand down her loose hair and examined her face. He took hold of her chin and tilted her head to better study the cut above her eye.

Fabian groaned inwardly.

Vane moved Lillian aside. “What the hell have you done to her?” Deciding not to wait for a reply, a guttural roar pierced the air and he charged forward.

Fabian braced himself for an attack. Vane had broader shoulders, was an inch or two taller, but had not spent years sailing the harsh seas.

Vane lunged and tried to take Fabian down to the floor but even in the lord’s rage he struggled to unbalance the Raven.

“No man is steadier on his feet than me,” Fabian mocked. The skill came from clinging to the rigging during high winds, from trying to steer a ship through turbulent waters.

With his jaw clenched so hard one could hear the grinding of teeth, Vane threw a punch that landed on Fabian’s cheek and almost knocked his head off his shoulders. An uppercut to the ribs stole Fabian’s breath.

Fabian stumbled, but as a participant in many brawls in the seedier ports dotted around the West Indies, he knew how to take a hit.

“Fight back, you damn coward.”

“Stop this,” Lillian cried.

By rights, Fabian deserved a beating. He would thrash Vane to within an inch of his life were the roles reversed. “Don’t think I can’t take you. I’ve fought fiercer men than you and lived to tell the tale,” Fabian goaded him. The sooner Vane achieved satisfaction and his anger subsided, the sooner they could converse like mature, rational men.

Vane took the bait and charged at Fabian again, this time swiping his leg from undern

eath him while gripping him around the waist. They wrestled on the cold flagstones. Vane came above him and gripped his shirt.