“Go away.” Celia was shivering too hard to talk, too hard to think.
“Is that really the best idea, my darling? What will happen when they find you looking like this? Much better to be caught in deshabillewitha man. A gentleman will have to marry you, my sweet. The matrons will trot the parson out before you can blink twice. You’ll besafewithin holy matrimony.”
“Go away.” Celia tried to kick, but the change of balance scraped at her shoulders and her slippers did no more than muddy his pants. “Go—away—!”
Lord Edmund laughed.
“You heard the lady.” It was a new voice, masculine and calm.
Celia jerked, trying to see. The voice was not Lord Francis. It was not her brother or her uncle.
Lord Edmund also jerked, scraping Celia’s arm against the stone. She gasped in pain.
“Unhand the lady,” the man said. “There is a gardeners’ path through the far hedge. Leave.”
“And who the bloody hell are you?” Lord Edmund swung around, pinning only one of Celia’s arms against the wall, clearing her view.
It was Peter Hughes. He was real, silhouetted in the moonlight, swinging his right hand slowly at his side.
Celia caught her breath on a sob—knowing she would be safe—mortified to be laid out like a moth pinned to the wall. Celia was relieved he was here, and buffeted by waves of shame that made her wish desperately he had never come.
Peter walked slowly towards them, his steps steady, his eyes on Lord Edmund.
“Pardonyou, sir,” spat Lord Edmund, “but I am just enjoying a little rendezvous with my sweetheart and—”
“You are not, and she is not.” Mr. Hughes was so autocratic and cold that Celia had not recognized his voice. “The path is there.” Now facing Lord Edmund, he pointed to the corner of the hedge, a darker gap in the branches. “Take it, Hargreaves.”
“I think not!” Lord Edmund drew himself up, releasing Celia to flex his hands into fists. He had considerable height and weight on Mr. Hughes, and grinned as he settled into a fighting stance.
Before the big man was quite ready, Mr. Hughes spun like a cat and slammed his fist into Lord Edmund’s face. Edmund was too much of a boxer to go down with one blow, but he staggered backwards, squelching steps in the mud, both hands held to his face.
Lord Edmund swore, and swore again. His voice was muffled.
“Want another?” Peter asked.
Celia flattened her hands against the wall behind herself, pushed away. It was almost colder in the open air, the wind finding her bare skin and hot scrapes, her shoes deep in the mud they had churned up. Maybe she could run away while Edmund swung at Mr. Hughes.
Lord Edmund bent over his knees, a dark shadow against the darker hedge. Mr. Hughes remained poised, fists closed, shifting slightly from foot to foot.
Celia didn’t dare move, hardly dared breathe. Shivered.
Lord Edmund stood up, shook spatters from his hands, his neckcloth dark with blood. How had one blow done so much?
“The path is just behind you.” Mr. Hughes spoke firmly.
Celia waited for Lord Edmund to lunge. She hated fighting, all the thuds and gasps; didn’t want to see Mr. Hughes go down, didn’t have air to scream. Her shame overtook her terror and she didn’t want to return to the party, even if she could find it, even if she could run. She would dive in the sea, fly with the sidhe, to her own castle room—
Lord Edmund clenched his fists, then shook them out. Wiped his face with his neckcloth.
“Go,” Peter said.
And Lord Edmund went.
The dark spot in the hedge opened into a door-shape, closed with a thump. Celia stared, unbelieving.
“How did you do that?” she whispered, as though her eyes and ears deceived her and Edmund was still there.
“I don’t fight fair.” Mr. Hughes opened his hand, revealing a black bar. He slid it into his coat pocket.
