Page 100 of Not a Fine Gentleman

The normally reticent Duchess of Suttenberg, Alicia’s younger sister, said to the duke, “My love, I do believe I will be unable to attend the new Lord Hennessy’s house party next month.”

He took her hand and kissed it. “I do believe we both will be unable to attend.”

The duchess smiled fondly at him. “Furthermore, I plan to cut him if I ever have the misfortune of crossing paths with him.”

“Yes, that is only fitting.”

A chorus of agreements went around the table, as society’s most influential members vowed to cut Lord Hennessy. He’d never be accepted in the levels at which he’d no doubt pictured himself.

It served the blackguard right. However, it was a pity poor Jane would suffer such a collective snub.

The second course arrived with Pheasant a la Braise, Ragoo of celery, wine-roasted Gammon, and other mouth-watering dishes. Conversation flowed once more. Yet, occasionally, even from those whom she’d always considered friends, came a cautious, wary glance. Did they wonder about her innocence as well? Or was it kindly meant to gauge whether she was overset due to the intrusion?

Though all the food looked delicious, Margaret’s appetite had fled. Not even the tempting smells created a desire to eat. Instead, she picked at it, managing a few bites.

She ought not let Francis’s intrusion bother her; she’d never cared for her brother-in-law, and his social punishment ought to be a balm to her bruised feelings. Still, his open hatred left her shaken.

“You were splendid in the face of such a vile scene,” Lord Bradbury murmured from his seat next to her.

She looked up into a pair of kind eyes.

A faint smile touched his mouth. “I do believe you’ve quite choked the fight out of your serviette.” He gestured at her hands in her lap.

With a shaky laugh, she released her death grip on the cloth and sipped her wine. “A pity I didn’t do the same to Francis a moment ago.”

“Most of us here share that sentiment.” His gallant words, though genuine and kindly meant, fell short of the power they might have had if Connor Jackson had uttered them. A hopeless sentiment. He could not, would not, live in her world.

Could she live in his?

Did he even want her there with him?

Upon completing dessert and after-dinner conversation, they piled into their carriages for an evening at the theatre. Margaret had never heard of the play, but a comedy might be just the thing.

The elegant Michael Cavenleigh appeared next to her and offered his arm. “If I may?” It seemed Alicia had arranged for Margaret to spend time with as many eligible gentlemen as possible.

She murmured a fitting response and let him help her into the carriage. He took a seat across from her. Naturally a man of few words, he made a worthy attempt at small talk. Fortunately, the other couple in the carriage did most of the talking, thus sparing them any awkwardness.

When they arrived at the front steps of the theatre, a group crowded the steps to the opera house entrance. She looked back, but none of her brothers’ carriages came into view. No matter. She refused to be cowed by a mob.

The moment she stepped foot out of the carriage, the mob erupted into chaos with shouts.

“Murderer!”

“Liar!”

Even worse insults speared the night air. Objects hurtled toward her. She hurried toward the steps of the theatre, but the crowd closed in around her, cutting her off from her escort, the way to the theatre, and even a path back to the carriage. The ragged, angry, and foul-smelling throng pressed closer, slapping, pinching, pulling, and unleashing a vile stream of names.

She lashed out, fighting back the only way she knew how, but that only incited the crowd. They shoved her to the ground and tore at her clothes, punching, kicking, and clawing at her neck. Someone slammed her head down. Pain and jagged flashes of light erupted. Small rocks bit into the side of her face.

Heaven help her; they were going to kill her!

The ruffians suddenly parted, or rather, their bodies were cast aside. A dark form tore into them, and more of her attackers were pushed aside. Booted feet came into view, and the rest of her assailants fled.

“Oh, Meg.” Connor Jackson knelt and pulled her up into a seated position.

All her humiliation and frustration, rage and fear, and pain burst out of her in an agonizing sob. Connor gathered her into his arms. Faintly familiar voices edged through the din, but she lacked the energy to identify them.

Margaret sobbed against Connor in noisy, messy wails that sounded like a wounded animal and shook her body. Without a word, he scooped her up. After barking something beyond her comprehension, he bore her into a coach. Whose, she had no idea. Nor did she care. Inside the coach, she burrowed into him and bawled like a lost soul.

Silently, he held her, strong and brave, and without any sign of judgment. His scent and the safety of his arms soothed her. He murmured comforting words but mostly just held her. Eventually, her weeping ebbed. She leaned against him, hiccupping, clutching his coat.

The coach stopped, but Margaret made no move. She could not, for the world, leave this cocoon of safety.

After taking a deep breath, he gently set her away from him and stepped out of the carriage, but immediately reached for her. She climbed down, hissing at a sharp pain in her ribs and ankle. Her knees wobbled. Connor lifted her again and carried her inside an unfamiliar building. She didn’t bother to look at it long enough to identify the place. Nothing mattered now that Connor was here.

He carried her through a series of doors and corridors. Finally, he laid her on a lumpy sofa. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back. She was safe here. With Connor. Nothing else mattered.