The Honourable Fortune Hunter (Scandalous Miss Brightwells 5)

“And I do not welcome yours, McAlister.” Stepping back, Dalgleish aimed a blow at the side of Theo’s head.

He caught him full on the temple, but as Theo went down, he managed an uppercut that split Dalgleish’s lip before colliding with his nose.

“Stop!” screamed Lizzy, scrambling up from the bed and regaining her power and energy. “Stop it, both of you!!”

And, as Theo looked up, he saw she was brandishing a heavy candle sconce, and that from her standing position, she posed a fearful threat to both of them now grappling with each other at her feet.

The fulminating fury that radiated from her was impressive. “Just leave! Both of you!”

Theo rose shakily from where he’d been thrown by Dalgleish’s backhander. The throbbing under his right eye was making him feel ill, and his vision was blurred. Dalgleish had aimed well.

Dalgleish, also rising, breathed heavily. “Lizzy? No need to be upset.” He reached out a hand which she swatted away, once again raising the heavy stone sconce with fearful intent.

Clearly,

Dalgleish perceived it safer to beat a hasty retreat, for he deftly avoided the heavy object as he stumbled out the door.

But when Theo made a similar attempt to comfort Lizzy or at least assure her safety, she was equally unforgiving.

Unyielding, her dignity was impressive. “Why did you come here, Theo? It wasn’t to ask me to be your wife; I know that. But thank you for rescuing me. Now go and be with the woman you love and let me be.”

He tried to speak, but she dropped the candle sconce and put her hands to her ears. “Just go, Theo. You can’t help me anymore.”

Chapter 20

“You look supremely pleased with yourself, Antoinette.” Fenton, who was reading the news sheet looked up, asking slyly, “Does that expression not foment a certain degree of alarm, Fanny, my dear?”

Fanny, who’d been engrossed in the latest fashion plates in Ackermann's Repository glanced up from the sofa as Antoinette removed her bonnet and shawl, shaking off the snow before she sat down beside her.

“Where have you been, Antoinette?” Fanny understood exactly what Fenton meant, however she was prepared to give her sister the benefit of the doubt. “You’re not one for lonely rambles in the snow.”

“I’ve just come back from helping our Lizzy discover what she really wants before I then chanced upon a friend of mine, and we found a lovely little spot for an aperitif.”

Fanny regarded her sister with suspicion. Antoinette’s hair was a little disordered, leading Fanny to suspect her friend was the rather handsome and well-made Italian visitor who seemed to know no one, but whom she’d observed Quamby salute with surprising equanimity when he passed him in the corridor. Antoinette was in the habit of inviting all manner of strangers to events like this. As was Quamby.

“Not in the drawing room, obviously. And furthermore, a rather unusual hour for an aperitif,” she said. “Quamby was lamenting your absence at luncheon. He wanted to discuss the accommodations made for Lord Leighton’s arrival.”

“That’s days away,” said Antoinette with a dismissive wave of her arm. She peered over Fanny’s shoulder at a fashion plate of a smart red-velvet spencer and gown of grey wool and sighed. “I can’t say I like Lord Leighton very much. I am surprised Miss Harcourt has agreed to marry a man who must be at least fifteen years older than herself.”

The news sheet Fenton was reading in his wingback chair by the window alcove rustled, and his face appeared over the top. “Perhaps she’s marrying him for the same reasons you married Quamby, who is more than thirty years older than you, sister-in-law.”

“I shouldn’t think so for a moment.” Antoinette peeled off her gloves. “Miss Harcourt appears perfectly innocent of men, and hardly in need of a hasty marriage to legitimise—”

“I think Fenton was referring to a proclivity for older men and their steady natures and ability to provide security that some younger women find attractive,” Fanny said, cutting Antoinette off before one of the servants should enter the room.

Antoinette’s mouth curved into a smile, and she was about to answer when there was a knock on the door, accompanied by the parlourmaid’s announcement, “Mrs 'Odge would like an audience an’ says it can’t wait a moment, ma’am.”

The gorgon-like look on their visitor’s face as Mrs Hodge marched into the centre of the Aubusson rug made Antoinette’s answer redundant, and raised to high alert Fanny’s suspicions as to what her sister had been up to.

It would appear, she feared, that Antoinette’s meddling had resulted in something catastrophic, and now all three of them were about to hear the worst of it.

“I demand that your guest…that…that…gentleman—nay, thug, for that is what he is!— should be given his marching orders upon the instant!” Mrs Hodge’s anger was so great she was all but incoherent. The green-velvet toque upon her head trembled like a jelly—or a rather large toad, Fanny thought, as Antoinette asked with sudden concern, “Surely not Mr Dalgleish?”

Fanny darted a suspicious look at her. Antoinette looked distinctly pale, but immediately coloured with relief as Mrs Hodge snarled, “No, Mr McAlister!”

There was a silence at this until Fenton, always the last to be stirred out of his often-laconic calm, asked, “And what is Mr McAlister’s crime, pray tell?”

“Where do I begin?” Mrs Hodge took a few steps to stand in front of the fireplace then swung round to face them all—her hands on her hips and her small eyes glittering with outrage. “You need only look at him to see the stain of his misdemeanours. A cut lip and a bruised jaw.”