Page 30 of Again, Scoundrel

Alistair stared down his nose at the revolting woman. She embodied everything he hated about the ton. She was without moral compass, placing her daughter’s social standing and chance at making a match above her own health. It was abominable.

“Madam,” he all but growled, “it appears to me that the only chances of your daughter that Miss Goodwin has ruined are those of her suffocation. Now if you’ll excuse me,” he stepped around the woman, “I do plan to render assistance where it is most needed.”

“At least call a surgeon, Lord Alistair,” Mrs. Jenson said rather too loudly so that the gathering crowd would hear her. “Or has she…” her eyes flew to Violet with a look of pure contempt, “somehow enthralled you so you cannot see good sense?”

Alistair stilled at the insinuation. He knew instantly what the harridan was doing, deflecting the scandal away from her own daughter by pinning it on Violet. And him.

He looked around at the staring eyes of the ton. If only he hadn’t rushed to Violet and grabbed her hand. If only he hadn’t made himself the center of attention.

Hell’s teeth!

Thankfully, Pembrooke stepped forward.

“I’ll call a surgeon, Mrs. Jenson. Calm yourself.” He winked at Alistair. “And give our friend a break here. He’s had a touch too much whisky this evening whilst in the card room with me. Nothing more than that.”

Alistair looked gratefully at Pembrooke. Everyone would believe he’d been drinking, even if he hadn’t been. It may be all that was needed to stay the gossip, about Violet at least.

Except she had risen to her feet, fire spitting in those deep blue eyes of hers.

“Please carry Miss Jenson inside,” she announced to Pembrooke. “And do not, under any circumstances, call for a surgeon.”

All heads swiveled toward Violet. Her gown was torn and stained, and her hair was falling out of its pins. She looked completely bedraggled, but her hands were placed on her hips, and she held her head as high as the Queen herself.

My queen, Alistair thought out of nowhere and then shook his head ruthlessly to divest himself of the idea.

“I beg your pardon?” Pembrooke said.

“You will not call a surgeon,” Violet repeated slowly, as if he were a small child. “Not unless said surgeon has read the latest Henry Hyde Salter on asthmatic breathing, which he almost certainly has not.”

She turned to Alistair. “Tell him,” she demanded. “The surgeon will not do. He’ll give her laudanum instead of coffee, and that may very well set off another attack. Her breathing is stabilized but still precarious.”

Pembrooke looked to Alistair, as did all those in the crowd. He glanced at Violet, who was staring at him impatiently, waiting, and then at Miss Jenson, who was pale and blue-lipped there on the ground. And, finally, to McGann, who arched a single eyebrow at him.

Blast!

He sighed. The situation was impossible. Back Violet and she was grist for the rumor mill. Call for the surgeon and she’d never speak to him again. Neither seemed like a particularly good choice.

He had no idea if Miss Goodwin was a competent nurse. He had no idea what Mrs. Jenson was planning to say or do next. He had no idea what McGann was thinking, watching silently in the crowd.

What he did know was that while surgeons were a bloody, barbarous lot, calling one probably wouldn’t kill the young woman. And it would assuage any gossip about he and Violet that Mrs. Jenson may try to spread. Gossip that would pulverize Violet’s reputation and any chance of his father supporting his plan to start a trading company.

“Call the surgeon, Pembrooke,” he said swiftly. “I’ll help you get her inside.”

Chapter

12

Violet stared at the retreating back of Alistair Crawford as he and Pembrooke helped Miss Jenson into the grand townhouse, before closing her eyes in dismay. She’d made a fool of herself this evening, and possibly one of Catherine too. It hadn’t even occurred to her that Alistair would disregard her directions, not after the way they had been in sync in the gardens.

But that was just our bodies, she reminded herself. And she knew that bodies could be untrustworthy. Look at Miss Jenson, whose asthma attack had brought her to her knees on an evening when she should have been dancing and flirting and making merry.

Or her own, which had led her straight into the arms of a scoundrel when her mind knew well enough to stay put. Her body had endangered her heart when it should have protected it. Her heart had suffered enough.

“Come,” she heard Catherine whisper to her as she slipped her arm in Violet’s. “Let’s go home.”

The two women wound their way slowly back through the crush of carriages. Violet was silent, running through the evening’s events over and over in her head.

“Are you alright?” Catherine asked.