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“It matters not to me. Now, please remove yourself. I need to have a discussion with Dalton.” Aircourt walked up to her chair, grasping Francesca by the wrist and attempting to yank her up from her seat.
James rose from own his chair and was proud of the fact that he didn’t stumble. “How dare you insult the lady.”
“The only lady being insulted is Eliza. I am glad she had the temerity to see through your schemes, even if only just in time.”
James’s mind whirled, fuzzy recollections of the morning and Eliza’s words coming to mind. “You,” he breathed, realization dawning. “You were the one who told her such lies.”
“Lies?” Aircourt tilted his head. “I only told her what I saw last night, what you told the others you were about to do.”
“You told her a twisted version of what you saw, nothing more.” James took a step forward, rage boiling in his blood. “You’ve destroyed everything.”
“No, I’ve saved it from your grubby hands. Now all that’s left is for me to swoop in and… comfort her in her time of need.”
The last, tiny shred of his temperance shattered, and James launched himself at Aircourt. Caught off guard, the earl staggered back and left himself wide open to James’s fist. He felt the satisfying crunch of the man’s nose under his knuckles and watched as Aircourt tumbled to the floor.
James took a step towards the crumpled man, but Francesca slid in front of him. “Calm down. He isn’t worth a brawl.”
“He broke my nose!” Aircourt whined from the ground.
“And I’ll break worse than that if you don’t shut the fuck up, Aircourt.” Lord Clifton came striding towards them, face pinched with thinly veiled aggression.
Aircourt shakily rose, clutching his bleeding nose. “I demand satisfaction!”
“And you won’t get it,” Clifton replied, unruffled. He turned to James. “I’ve sent a note to Amberwood’s home. He and your sister will be here shortly. I suggest you go with them.”
James could only nod, already embarrassed at his impulsive behavior. Though, he thought with a content look at Aircourt’s bloody face, he wasn’t sorry. It was a balm on his melancholy, at least temporarily. Despite Aircourt’s falsehoods being at the root of Eliza’s rejection, James knew that she didn’t trust him enough to believe that to be the case. She’d believed the lie so readily, after all. And none of it mattered anyway, for she didn’t even love him in the first place.
“We are sorry to have woken you, my love,” Francesca said with a smile.
“It is no bother. I’m glad you did.” Clifton began to return the expression, but then his eyes darted to the wrist she held at her chest. The pale skin was already bruising. “What is that?” he inquired, his voice lowering to a dangerous octave.
“Ask Aircourt,” James answered for her. He looked at said earl, pleased to see him turning a ghastly shade of grey. “Yes, that was Lady Clifton you attempted to manhandle so viciously.”
“Darling,” Francesca said with a gentle pat on her husband’s arm. “Calm now. We have an audience.” In all the ruckus, James had barely noticed the small but attentive crowd gathering about. More fodder for the papers, he supposed.
“I am perfectly calm,” Clifton replied with a tight smile. “Dalton, do let my wife escort you to a private parlor. Aircourt and I will be having a discussion regarding his credit in my office.”
James sorely wished to be a part of that talk, but the room was swaying again, and he was growing weary of the entire affair. The longer he stayed in Aircourt’s presence, the more he was reminded of the futility of it all. No, best to move on. He had other things to worry about. Francesca gingerly took his arm. “How about some tea and sandwiches, My Lord?”
“That sounds lovely.” He allowed her to lead him away, and didn’t take another look at Aircourt for the entire trek across the floor. It was done. All of it.
**
A knock on her bedroom door startled Eliza from her turbulent attempts to sleep. She’d spent most of the day alternating between hurling things against the wall and sobbing into her palms. The staff must believe she’d gone completely mad. Not that she’d know, for they’d wisely kept their distance with the exception of her maid, who had gently brushed her hair for the evening and left a warm up of chamomile tea at her bedside before leaving. Eliza wasn’t sure if the kind pity of the staff made her humiliation better or worse.
“Milady,” the gentle voice of her maid sounded through the door. “Are you awake?”
Eliza cracked open her wet, swollen eyes. “What is it?”
“There is a, how do I even put this, a… situation downstairs.”
She sat up and glanced out her darkened window in confusion. It couldn’t be later than midnight from the look of the moon high in the sky. Eliza swung her legs over the bed, padded to the door, and pulled it open. “Whatever do you mean?”
The maid, herself dressed for bed, peered at her anxiously. “The Earl of Clifton and The Duke of Ashford are here with Lord Aircourt. They came inside and wouldn’t leave. Mr. Jennings showed them to the parlor and had me find you.”
“I… I beg your pardon?”
“It is most strange. No one knows what to do.” The maid’s voice lowered to a whisper. “Lord Aircourt is in quite a state, I heard.”
