The Scandal of Lady Eleanor (13 page)

Worthing turned his head to see the other nobleman standing beside Fowler and presented the man a painful bow. “As I am sure Thornhill has done, I offer my thanks for Lady Eleanor's protection.”

“Sir Louis is the son of one of our Kent neighbors,”Velvet chattily explained. “The Leverings assumed possession of the Huntingborne
Abbey several years ago. I believe it was a little over three years since you inherited with your dear father's passing. Is that not correct, Sir Louis?”

“I could not have said it better, Miss Aldridge. You are a purveyor of the latest news in our little section of the world.” Ella heard the same derisively sarcastic tone she remembered as characteristic of Sir Louis's attitude. She noticed how her brother's and the viscount's bearings shifted as if they too heard Levering's impertinence.

“Viscount Worthing,” her brother bristled as he made the introductions, “may I present Sir Louis Levering. Levering, the Honorable Lord Worthing.” Bran, apparently, judged Levering—his first impression less than stellar, and he placed Sir Louis, a mere baronet, on the social ladder. Her brother reminded the baronet that the man spoke to a duke and a future earl. From what Ella knew of the Leverings, Sir Louis would take offense.

She noted how Levering bit back a retort. “Well, Your Grace, now that we know everyone is safe, if you will excuse me, I have appointments to which to attend.”

Thornhill simply nodded. “Of course, Sir Louis. Thank you again for your efforts.” Ella wondered what Bran really wanted to say to the popinjay.

Levering stepped forward, took Velvet's hand, and brought it to his lips for the traditional air kiss, and then he turned his full attention on Ella. Instead of a kiss several inches above her knuckles, Sir Louis brought Ella's hand to his mouth and held it there for several seconds before letting it go. “Lady Eleanor, may I call some time in the next few days to assure myself you did not suffer from this episode?” Ella cringed with the possibility. Sir Louis's acquaintance was not one she wished to renew.

“Of course, Sir Louis.” Ella discreetly withdrew her hand. She prayed she had not betrayed her anxiety to either her brother or the viscount.

Looking about him and bidding the group a collective farewell,
Levering strode to his horse, mounted, and rode away. It was a weight lifted from her shoulders.

“Let us see you home.” Ella touched Worthing's arm in an act of concern.

“I will find my own way,” James began, but a collective “No” from the Fowler party told him not to do the gallant thing.

Her brother helped Ella and Velvet to their horses. They could not discuss what had actually happened in the park's middle. “I insist,” she told James, “that I see to your injuries myself.”

“It is not necessary,” he told her.

“Lord Worthing.” A reprimand rested in her tone. “You suffered your injuries for my sake.You will not deny me the satisfaction of repaying your kindness.”

James lost himself in the glittering hope of her admonition. “I would deny you nothing, Lady Eleanor.”

 

When James and his guests entered Worthing Hall some fifteen minutes later, his staff snapped into a quick response. Ella, used to commanding her own home, demanded bandages and oil of chamomile be brought at once, while James tried to order tea and refreshments. Ultimately, Ella won out, and he sat resigned to her ministrations. Cutting away his shirtsleeve, she tended to the torn flesh of his upper arm before addressing a bruise along his temple.

A little later, once the servants withdrew, having finally brought the service for which Kerrington asked, Fowler turned to speak. “What did you see today?”

James grimaced as Ella dressed the wound behind his ear. “A man shot at your sister and me from the tree line. I saw him at the last second; I had no way of warning Lady Eleanor.”

“So you jumped in front of me?” Ella's voice was barely above a whisper.

James waited until she lifted her gaze to him. “You must understand, Lady Eleanor, I could do nothing else.” Their eyes rested on each other for several raxed seconds before he continued. “When
I remounted, I observed you closing on your sister, so I gave chase to the gunman.”

“From the looks of your clothes, I assume you found him,” the duke observed.

“I managed to wrestle him to the ground, but an accomplice pulled a gun on me. The second man left in one coach, while the gunman escaped in a small black carriage with a red stripe across the back where the luggage might be strapped to the chaise.”

Fowler's eyes indicated he filed the information away for later use. “Did you recognize either of them?”

“The accomplice wore a makeshift mask made from his cravat, but he had an unusual shade of eyes—nearly a black brown—his hair a chocolate color—and he spoke only French.”

“And the gunman?” Fowler prompted.

“I saw him when I escorted your family to the Royal Academy. I had hoped I was wrong, and he was just interested in the same exhibits; but that is why I noticed him today.When I saw him at the gallery, I thought
swarthy
—dark complected, sable hair and eyes.”

“A Baloch?” Fowler made the necessary connections.

James considered his response. “Quite likely—at least, in appearance.”

His friend stated the obvious. “Then one of us is the target, and through us, our families.”

“If one of us is the target, Fowler, then why did the gunman simply strike me down? Why not, at least, take me prisoner? And the Frenchman, his accent was more British, and he used only basic French.”

“None of it makes any sense.”

Ella ventured, “Maybe we should return to Thorn Hall until everything is safe.”

“Attacks came at Thorn Hall also,” her brother reasoned.

“What if someone is hurt next time?” Miss Aldridge ventured, although she just now began to see what the others obviously knew.

Fowler assured them, “We have contacts working on this, and we have some ideas.”

“Who are
we
exactly?” Ella inquired, realizing belatedly how her brother and the viscount would feel about exposing their loved ones to danger.

Fowler caught James's eye for approval before continuing. “The men with whom I served during my private service: Lord Worthing, of course; the Marquis; Carter Lowery, second son of Baron Blakehell; Baron Swenton; Marcus Wellston, third son of the Earl of Berwick; and Viscount Lexford. All have been alerted to the possibility that someone seeks revenge for our previous life.”

“But why now?” Unsurprisingly, Ella's quick mind already accepted her brother's assumptions and moved on to the matter's crux. “It has been five years since your service.”

James answered, “We are coming into our estates or our governmental positions, as with Lowery. Our names and wealth are more well known.”

“So no matter what—all seven could be targets?” Both her eyes and her voice indicated her mood had taken a downward turn.

“Exactly, my Lady,” Worthing summarized, but he watched carefully as Ella's expression became a mask of cautious reserve.

Fowler knew that any other information would have to wait until he and Worthing could speak privately. “I shall escort my family home, Worthing. We have experienced enough excitement for one day.”

“Thank you, Lord Worthing.” Ella dutifully joined her brother.

James followed her to his feet. “I should be thanking you, Lady Eleanor, for tending to my wounds.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly; he found he most thoroughly enjoyed the flush of her skin as his lips skimmed her fingers. “Hopefully, next time, our ride will be less eventful.” James reluctantly let her leave him alone in a house that should be hers to command.

 

Ella wanted to ask if there would be a next time, but instead she followed Bran and Velvet outside to where the groomsman held their horses. They had said their good-days in the drawing room,
but she knew she could not leave him without a private word. She still needed to tell him she would welcome his plight. Suddenly, she grasped Bran's hand to secure his attention. “I have left my gloves in Lord Worthing's drawing room; I shall be right back. Help Velvet up. I shall only be a moment.”

Before he could object or send a footman instead, Ella quickly scurried up the steps and tapped on the door. The butler opened it immediately. “I apologize; I left my gloves,” she mumbled her excuse and entered the drawing room without his permission. His Lordship was where she hoped he would be.

His voice rose with surprise as he stood to behold her. “Lady Eleanor?”

“I left my gloves.” She lost her courage before she could say more.

He retrieved them from a nearby table and carried them to her. “These gloves?” he said smoothly—a chuckle, which she thought sounded of seduction following.

“Yes.” Her body melted when he came near—his intensity holding her with his gaze.

“Anything else, Lady Eleanor?” He pushed back her curls, and Ella turned her cheek into his touch.

Ella swallowed her fears and breathed her answer. “Yes.” Her eyes did not shift from his even for a second.

The viscount's eyebrow rose in question. “Might I say you look well in my home, Eleanor?” he whispered close to her ear. She could feel his heat along her front.

“I need…I must go. Bran and Velvet wait for me.” She loved the desire she saw in his eyes—that heavy-lidded look; yet, she hesitated.

“Certainly.” He knew he affected her, but he stepped away. From where the freedom came, Ella could not say, but, miraculously, she grabbed his open shirt and kissed him—a full-mouthed kiss that spoke of anticipation and hope. His arms pulled her closer; she quickly realized how much she had missed his touch—being in his arms. When their lips separated, he murmured, “I would take a bullet every day if you would continue to kiss me so.” Seductively,
he licked the seam of her lips teasingly with his tongue. “I want to taste you, Ella; I want you under me in my bed.” His lips brushed against her cheek in a soft caress. His words brought an unfamiliar ache between her thighs.

Her bravery waned, and Eleanor shot a glance at the door, expecting to see her brother bursting through the portal. “I must go,” she mumbled, and then she was out the door before he could stop her and before she could observe disappointment in His Lordship's eyes.

 

Through the window, James watched the groomsman help her to the saddle.
Did Ella purposely leave her gloves? She had kissed him—of her own free will; Eleanor Fowler had kissed him.
God, he hardened with the memory. A smile opened across his face. Had he gone too far by telling her he wanted to make love to her? Truthfully, he did not think so. Ella would not readily come to him, but he would have her, nonetheless.

 

Riding the mile to Briar House, Ella's mind drifted to Viscount Worthing. The heat of his mouth remained on her lips.
I want to taste you, Ella. I want you under me in my bed.
His words shocked her—thrilled her—scared her beyond belief.
Could she let any man touch her in an intimate way again? Would Worthing even want to touch her if he knew the truth?
Ella nearly moaned out loud with desire and with frustration.

“You will not, at least, thank me for saving your life?”

“Thank you?” the dark-skinned man exclaimed. “I should throttle you! I followed Worthing and the women the day the Fowlers arrived in London. It was all planned. I would take one of the women and use her in exchange for the emerald. But before I could act, you fools shot at them again, placing the gentlemen more on guard.You are not even a good shot; you missed by a mile.
If Worthing had not jumped to save Fowler's sister, you would not have hit anything.”

The Englishman disliked the foreigner, but he hid it well. He wanted his share of the prize the tawny-complected man offered. “We did not know you planned your own attack.We simply wanted to create a situation where Thornhill might need a new ally. I had thought you were to keep us informed.”

“I report to no one,” the intruder protested. “My orders give me the freedom to make my own plans.”

The Englishman looked away in annoyance. “Then do not blame us if your plans cross with my friend's.”