“Hm.”
She blinked, watching him as he appeared to be gathering himself for something. Then he turned back to her, and his gloved hand seized her throat and squeezed. She tried to say she was sorry that she lied, but then she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. She was going to die here, now, and no one would know what happened to her or why.
Blood pounded in her head as she struggled frantically, trying to prize his fingers away from her throat, but it was a futile endeavor. As the room went dark and she lostconsciousness, she thought she heard a very faintly whispered “I’m sorry...”
She had woken in a backstreet in a pile of filth, her throat bruised and her head aching. Retching from the smell, she staggered to her feet and out into a street she recognized. Weeping and shivering from shock, she ran, limping. She had lost a shoe somewhere. She ran until she reached the seminary in Queen Square, Bath.
Circling to the rear entrance from the mews, she waited until she was sure there was no one about and dashed in the rear door and up the servants’ stairs to her room on the second floor. Reaching the sanctuary of her room, she locked the door, stripped off her clothes and washed them and her body and hair, before slipping on a nightgown and sliding under the covers, where she lay shivering and shaking for a good hour before sleep finally overtook her.
Even now, after seven years, the memory made her shudder. Driven from her bed to get away from the clinging fingers of fear, she plunged her face in cold water to clear her head and sponged herself down thoroughly, enjoying the cold shock of the water on her skin driving out the past.
She put her hand to the chain round her neck where the ring hung suspended. No one knew she had it, for she always wore it hidden beneath the high necklines of her gowns. She touched the ring and tried to breathe through the tears that threatened.
She had been offered the opportunity by the owners to take over running the seminary on her mother’s death, but the incident with the man in the mask had made her so terrified, she declined it and left Bath soon after the attack, driven by terror to put the whole episode behind her. She’d soon got another post in London with Lord Dowton’s family, quite a step-up for a Bath seminarian. Her fears continued to plague her, though,and she sought some way to learn to protect herself. It was a conversation overheard between two of the footmen that had given her the idea.
“How much you gonna bet on Bloody Mary to beat Saucy Sue?” asked one.
“Nothin’” retorted the other. “Saucy Sue’ll do fer ’er in five minutes flat!”
The other guffawed, “Not on yer life!”
The conversation had continued, but Annis wasn’t listening anymore, the notion of a fight between two women for money was so fantastical she couldn’t credit it. Yet further investigation proved it to be true. In the seedy backstreets of Cheapside, one could witness pugilistic events where the combatants weren’t men, but women.
On her day off, Annis had gathered her courage and ventured into the area to find one of these fights. The noise, the smell, the coarseness of the audience, and the raw brutality of it all sickened her. But she screwed up her courage and watched an entire bout, trying not to flinch. At the end of it, she’d waited until the winner had received her accolades and payment and retired to the bar for a drink before approaching her. The winner’s name was Brutal Betty. When she heard what Annis was proposing, she spat out her beer and laughed until the tears ran down her grubby cheeks.
But when she’d realized Annis could pay, she grew canny and demanded up-front payment. Annis offered half before and the rest at the end of the lessons. Much haggling later, they reached an agreement and Annis had begun visiting Betty weekly on her day off for a lesson in fisticuffs and knife fighting. She practiced each day and slowly improved.
If her mysterious attacker came for her again, she would not be helpless this time.
After a year in the Dowtons’ employ, she saw the Duke of Troubridge’s advertisement for a governess for his sisters. She applied for and miraculously was hired for the post with the Laynes and escaped to the country in a household that treated her with kindness and respect. She loved her charges and began to relax and feel safe.
As safe as anyone could with her history.
Lingering weariness and the cobwebs of the past made her slow, and she took her time dressing and rang for a tray in her room. When the maid came, she asked after Master Ewen and was told he was sleeping. She wanted to ask after the viscount, too, but that would not be proper. The governess had no business asking after his lordship. And if she did, it would be all over the house in five minutes.
Having eaten, she felt fortified enough to venture out for a stroll in the rose garden. It was another fine day, so she put on her broadest brimmed hat and took a basket and some pruning shears outside with the intention of picking some blooms for the duchess’s drawing room. She wandered about the rose beds smelling blooms and selecting a range of different colors. Bees buzzed and the sun shone gloriously, its heat tempered by a nice breeze. Another perfect summer day. They were really most fortunate with the weather this year.
“You make a picture, Miss Pringle,” said the viscount behind her, making her start and almost drop the basket. She flushed remembering her illicit thoughts about him earlier this morning.
“Are you fully recovered?” he asked, coming level with her.
“Yes, I am. Thank you,” she said, attempting to cover her discomposure. “And you? And more importantly, Ewen?”
“Ewen is sleeping, I’ve just come from his bedside. The inestimable Mrs. Green has him in hand and the other children also. She appears to be highly competent.”
“That must a big relief for you.”
“It is. I must thank you again—”
“It is unnecessary—”
“No, it is not! Your quick action saved his life. I was moments behind you, that is true, but in a situation such as that, moments count!” He took the basket from her and set it on the ground. “You must allow me to thank you, to express my gratitude, although I am at a loss as to how to do so. Nothing I can say or do would ever be enough!” The rough emotion in his voice threatened to overset her, and when he captured her hands and brought them to his lips her heart flipped over in a cascade of beats that set her pulse racing.
She gazed up at him startled. His eyes were a stormy green, his expression quite anguished. “My lord—!”
“You don’t understand, Miss Pringle. If I had lost him”—his throat worked—“I don’t know that I would have been strong enough to withstand it!”
Her heart clenched in sympathy, and she leaned forward, seeking some way to comfort him. “I do understand! You have already suffered a terrible loss. To lose a child as well would be unthinkable.” She freed a hand from his grip and touched his cheek.
