Page 32 of How to Best a Marquess

Lady Willoughby continued to shake her head and weep. A glint of candlelight from the cracked door illuminated her face, and Hugh hissed at the sight of her bruises. “He did this to you?”

Lady Willoughby didn’t answer, but fresh tears started anew. “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters now.”

Hugh reached into his coat, withdrew a handkerchief, and handed it to her. “Here. Let me see. I’m a pugilist. I know bruises.” He pulled up a wooden stool and motioned for the lady to sit.

To Ellie’s surprise, Lady Willoughby didn’t protest but sat on the stool and allowed Hugh to squat before her and study her injuries.

“There, now. Blow your nose. I will not think you unladylike,” he said.

Lady Willoughby obliged and wiped her eyes, then loudly blew her nose.

Ellie watched as Hugh calmed the woman and examined her bruises with gentleness. “If it is any consolation, he will have blackened eyes himself tomorrow.”

A small smile turned the corners of the lady’s lips. “This may sound shocking, but I’ve often wondered how he would feel if he was the one bloodied and bruised.”

Ellie stared, fascinated, as Hugh cared for the lady like a bird with a broken wing. Never had she dreamed he could be this way. This was the Hugh of her youth, only better.

In control, yet caring. Fiercely protective, yet gentle.

Her heart pounded an erratic rhythm.

“Excuse me a moment, my lady.” He stood and took Ellie’s arm and led her away. She followed him to a corner, far away from where Lady Willoughby sat perched upon the stool.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” Hugh looked down at her, and his green eyes seemed to glow in the dim lighting.

She knew he’d have questions. She’d hidden a beaten wife in the boxing room, then unsuccessfully confronted the woman’s furious husband at the door to the Raven Club. Once again, the thought of lying crossed her mind, then fled. Dishonesty seemed wrong now.

“No,” she said. “I’ve never had to deal with an angry, drunken spouse in the past.”

He glared at her like he wanted to throttle her. “Not that. You help these women. That’s what the hidden room is for, the bed?”

Silence. Her thoughts scampered like leaves in a strong wind, and she struggled with what to say.

“Isn’t it?” he demanded.

“Yes,” she blurted out.

He hesitated, then his gaze changed to something she was hard-pressed to identify. “I admire you.”

Admire? She’d expected many responses from Hugh, but not that.

“You seek to give them a few hours of refuge,” he said.

She sought to do much more, but she held her tongue. She still couldn’t trust him completely. If he knew of their plans—to fake the woman’s death and squirrel her away in the country—there was a good chance he would disapprove. She couldn’t take the risk. Too much was at stake, including Lady Willoughby’s life. She was grateful for his assistance with the baron, but she could not afford to lose focus of her goals. They were too important.

The women were too important.

She needed to lie now, to look him square in the face and suppress the twitch of her lips that he seemed to identify as no one else had.

“Yes,” she said. “A few hours of respite. Lady Willoughby never made it that far.”

Hugh took Ellie’s arm, and together they returned to Lady Willoughby’s side. The lady wrung Hugh’s handkerchief in her fists. The cotton square would surely be ruined.

“What Lady Ellie has said is true,” Hugh said. “The baron was drunk. He is also nursing a broken nose tonight. He will not recall everything that has occurred.”

“Then will you take me home?” Lady Willoughby asked, her voice laced with desperation. “Time is of the essence. If the baron finds me in my bedchamber, then he will assume he was wrong and that I was not here tonight.”

Ellie didn’t want the lady to return home, but she hadn’t yet heard from Violet Lasher. Until they had a solid plan to arrange for her escape from London, they had little choice. She looked to Hugh for confirmation, then nodded.