Page 15 of The Husband Gamble
Then there was the situation with Lord Hythe. Would she be able to talk to him in the morning? Would he reject her after he knew the truth about where she had been? Did she even want to be his countess, always in the public view, always required to be on stage and perfectly dressed and behaved?
What would his sisters think of her? One was the Countess of Sutton, wife to the heir to a duke. The other had been Hythe’s hostess for years, both at diplomatic postings and at political dinners. Surely, they would not approve of Rilla, with her scandalous past, for their brother?
And yet, Hythe had spoken with approval of the Pilkingtons. He had said the missing years of her past could be managed. He implied he did not care.
On the other hand, Society had others like Miss Turnbull, who would hate her because she refused to be oppressed. Would marrying Lord Hythe mean spending the rest of her life with a target on her back?
He was a powerful man, with connections throughout the upper ton. He would be able to protect her. But would he want to marry her when he knew the truth?
The outer door squeaked slightly as it opened. Rilla froze. No one should be coming into her room at this time of night. Her first thought was that Miss Turnbull had returned, and her heart jolted at the possibility of an outright physical attack.
The shape crossing to the bed was too large to be Miss Turnbull, and the voice that called softly was male. “Veronica? Veronica, are you awake?”
Veronica was Miss Turnbull’s name. This, then, was an assignation. Or was it an assault? And what should Rilla do? Stay silent and hope he left?
Before she could decide, the man bent to put a spill to the fire, and went round the room lighting candles. “Veronica, darling. Surprise!” It was Mr. Smythe, leaning over the bed and discovering it was empty.
Rilla could not have been more than a dark shape against the window, but he suddenly started towards her. “There you are.”
“Miss Turnbull has left the house party,” Rilla told him, warding him off with one hand while the other clutched the blankets.
“Has she?” he asked, with little interest. “Who have we here? Miss Fernhill!” In the candle-light, his teeth flashed white. “You will do.”
“Please leave,” Rilla told him, doing her best to sound calm and commanding. The words came out with a quaver. She really was a terrible actress.
He caught the wrist of the hand she held out to stop him, and stepped closer. “If you scream, the whole house will know you have had a man in your room. I have come here for a tup, Miss Fernhill, and a tup I will have. Give me a good ride, and I will tell nobody. How is that for a bargain?”
Rilla began to struggle in earnest, but he was too strong.
And then he was gone, ripped backwards by a forceful arm. It was Hythe, kneeling over the cad now, laying punch after punch into the man’s face.
* * *
Hythe never lost his temper. Anger destroyed the ability to think logically and coherently, and how could one solve problems without clear thinking?
As he did his best to turn Smythe’s face into pulp, he was in a blinding rage. Somewhere, dimly, he knew part of the rage was at himself. He had seen the swine slip into Miss Fernhill’s room, and his first impulse had been to rush to the rescue. A doubt about her innocence had him stopping to observe.
He was a cad. He had told her, in essence, that he trusted her, and failed at the first test.
By the time Smythe’s own words made it clear he was there for Miss Turnbull, Hythe had decided to keep his own presence secret, for Miss Fernhill’s sake. Smythe would realise his mistake and go away without realising Hythe was in the vicinity. He would keep his own excursion quiet and would not know about Hythe’s.
Then the dirty fiend made his attempt at blackmail and even dared to put his hands on Hythe’s lady, and Hythe saw red.
Lost in the rhythm of his own blows, he was not aware that Smythe had stopped struggling, but Miss Fernhill’s gentle voice and her touch on his shoulder brought him back to himself. “Lord Hythe. Lord Hythe.”
He stood, dropping Smythe’s collar. “I beg your pardon, Miss Fernhill. You should not have been subjected to that display.”
Smythe groaned.
“Thank you for saving me,” she replied. “I thought he was going to…” she shuddered.
Hythe fought back the urge to put his arms around her. “He can’t be found here. Let me drag him out of this wing and call a footman to deal with him.”
He could not just walk away and leave her. Not after such an experience. Not with so much unresolved between them.
“Will you and Lady Barker be able to meet me in the library in fifteen minutes?” he asked. “We need to talk.”
Miss Fernhill nodded, and Hythe grabbed Smythe under his arms and dragged him from the room.
