Page 61 of The Devil in Oxford
My amusement at my own little joke withered when I spottedFrederick Reaver standing at the far end of the room boasting all his characteristic swagger and greeting a middle-aged scholar seated by the fire. Reaver was dressed impeccably, but no matter how fine the cut of his coat, there was no hiding the newfound dark circles beneath his eyes and the wariness in his step. Both of which gave me pause. For a man who showed so little emotion this morning, to be this visibly affected had to meansomething. I settled myself back into the plush cushions of the sofa and waited.
“I cannot believe he dares show his face here.”
I bit down hard on my tongue, startled by the sound of Jonathan Treadway’s slurred voice. The young scholar had also arrived without my notice and had taken up a position behind me, his hand resting intimately on the back of the sofa drawing unspoken battle lines across Lord Amberley’s decadent blue ballroom.
“You scared me out of my skin,” I hissed, the words escaping my lips without a thought. “Leona’s missing. Did you know?”
He didn’t answer. But from the stains on his jacket—and the distinct smell of sweat, smoke, and alcohol radiating from him—he certainly must. Lord Amberley had not been exaggerating when he said that Treadway was out of sorts. My champagne-addled mind struggled to make sense of his current state. Had he swum across town on a river of cognac? “Do you have news of Leona?”
He made a loud harrumph, garnering the attention of the other guests.
Apparently not.
“Treadway, my boy!” Lord Amberley’s voice was cheerful—though his expression grew wary as he took in Treadway’s disarray.
Professor Reaver’s head shot up at the sound of the other fellow’s name, and he swung his sharp predatory gaze around the room before settling on Treadway, who placed his clammy hand upon my bare shoulder.
I shimmied away from his touch, skin rebelling against the unwanted contact.
“Good God, man, I can smell you from here,” Reaver muttered. “Have a bit of dignity.”
“Dignity?” Treadway slurred. He started toward Reaver, whacking his hip on the back of the sofa as he made the corner. His hand grabbed wildly onto the corner of the delicate piece of furniture to keep his balance. “Dignity? What dignity is there in your nonchalance? You did this to her! You are the reason she is gone. I know who you are, you cold-blooded fiend! You have poisoned her mind against the rest of us and this is the result!”
Reaver’s focus drifted between me and Treadway. “I would appreciate you keeping your tongue firmly between your teeth before you further embarrass yourself.”
Jonathan swore, muttering to himself about ill-bred bullies. He struggled to shed his threadbare jacket, hopping about. The scene might have been comical were the situation not dire. Frederick Reaver was built like a stevedore—muscled and strong from the rigors of fieldwork—whereas Jonathan Treadway looked as if he’d blow over in a stiff breeze. I’d thought Treadway birdlike at first, but seeing the two men together truly underscored their differences.
“I’ll put something betweenyourteeth.” Treadway strutted across the drawing room with the bravado of a fighting cock.
I darted between the two of them, extending my arms in each direction. “Gentlemen, perhaps we could—” A foolish attempt, for Reaver could toss me to the side without even a second thought if he aimed to do so. I was scrappy, yes, but the man had a good fifty pounds of muscle over me.
“I see nogentlemanhere! Only a murdering bastard masquerading as one.” Treadway pressed his bony chest into my outstretched palm. I curled my fingers into his soiled shirt, as he took me by the waist and shoved me aside. I stumbled backward, only to be steadied by a pair of unseen hands.
Ruan’s green scent invaded my senses as he leaned close to myear, humor lacing his voice. “I cannot leave you in a drawing room for five seconds without a barroom brawl breaking out, can I?”
I remained transfixed by the veritable train wreck unfolding upon Lord Amberley’s Aubusson rug. “Do something,” I whispered.
I could feel his movement against me as he tapped his fingers slowly on my hip—the gesture intended to get my attention and have me watch the scene ahead, but it had an entirelydifferenteffect upon my poor body.
I swallowed hard.
Ruan lowered his head. “There’s something happening here…”
Treadway took a swing at Reaver, which the latter dodged.
“What do you mean,happening?”
I started forward, back to the fray, when Ruan’s hand drifted from my waist to the back of my hand, covering it slightly, his fingers lacing through my own as he held it there, closing his fist over mine.
Do you hear something?
“Mmm.” The confirmation was little more than a rumble from his chest. I caught the faintest scent of electricity in the air, as Treadway took another teetering swing. Ruan waslistening, or whatever it was he did. Why was no one stopping them? Reaver was going to brutalize poor Treadway. Yet everyone was rapt upon the two men dancing around on the rug like a pair of prizefighters.
A footman thundered down the hall, rousing another to try to control the fracas.
Behind us, the antiquarians began wagering on Reaver coming out the victor. It was the most excitement they’d had in years.
Poor Jonathan Treadway.
