September Awakening Read online

  “It is not all you know, and love is fleeting,” Malcolm contradicted him, though there was a touch more understanding in his demeanor. “The skills you’ve learned through your practice are ones that can be of use in Parliament.”

  Armand made a dismissive sound and marched on. “Parliament is a Commons game these days anyhow. The House of Lords is losing its influence by leaps and bounds every year. Mark my words, by the end of my lifetime, it will be little more than a rubber stamp.”

  “But it still holds sway now,” Malcolm argued, marching deliberately beside him. “If it becomes necessary for Peter to introduce our bill advancing the rights of women in Lords—and it very well might be, if Shayles finds a fool willing to replace Turpin and block the issue in Commons—then we’ll need more than your vote. We’ll need your silver tongue and your reputation to help us in Lords.”

  “Since when do I have a silver tongue or a reputation?” Armand asked, pausing to face his friend again.

  “You always have had,” Malcolm told him, as if baffled he didn’t already know. “You explain complicated medical conditions to your patients all the time and make them understand.”

  “I would if I were in India.” Armand walked on.

  “We need someone with that knack for explanations here, to support our bill,” Malcolm insisted. “And we need all hands on deck to defeat Shayles.” His voice took on a dark edge.

  “I know your grudge against Shayles goes far deeper than bills and politics,” Armand said, patting his friend’s back. “Tessa would be proud of everything you’ve done to avenge her.”

  “It’s not enough,” Malcolm growled with equal parts hate and sorrow. “I can’t stop until Shayles is utterly defeated, humiliated, and ground into dust. If we play our cards right, we can enact legislation that will make places like his Black Strap Club illegal. Gladstone has already given his approval for us to introduce bills that curtail the financial dealings of places like that. We could bankrupt Shayles.”

  “If he isn’t already bankrupt,” Armand murmured, arching a brow. “Gladstone consented to legislation that will limit gentlemen’s clubs?” It seemed outrageously unlikely, given the mass popularity of clubs, indeed their essential nature, to an important segment of the population.

  “Shayles’s club is no ordinary gentlemen’s club,” Malcolm said.

  “I know that and you know that,” Armand went on. “Half of London knows that. But you’re never going to prove that the place is a brothel. Shayles has covered his assets, so to speak, too completely.”

  “I want that place shuttered, burned to the ground,” Malcolm continued as though Armand hadn’t just said it was impossible. “Regardless of what the rest of you say, I’m including a clause in the plan of action we’re sending to Gladstone for the investigation and dismantling of The Black Strap Club.”

  It was plain for Armand to see that he wasn’t going to get anywhere in his argument that Shayles’s club was untouchable. Instead, he sighed and said, “Have you hammered everything out, then? Is the plan ready to be sent to Gladstone?”

  “Yes.” Malcolm nodded. “We outlined everything after you left to take care of that emergency yesterday.” He sent Armand a crooked, sideways grin. By the time they’d all reconvened in the smoking room after supper the night before, the tale of Lady Prior’s “illness” and plot to throw Lavinia into his arms had reached his friends. They’d ribbed him about it all night. “Tomorrow afternoon, once we’ve all slept off the effects of this blasted ball, Marigold Croydon is going to pen the official letter, and Alex’s man, Mr. Phillips, will take the letter to London post haste.”

  “Marigold?” Armand blinked.

  Malcolm shrugged. “Alex insisted she has the best penmanship of all of us.”

  Armand chuckled. “More like he’s head over heels in love and wants his beloved wife to feel involved in the campaign.”

  “Probably,” Malcolm laughed along with him. They reached the end of the maze, and Malcolm turned to face him. “It’s not a bad idea, you know.”

  “What isn’t?” Armand asked.

  “Marriage.” Armand heaved a long-suffering sigh and rolled his eyes, but Malcolm wasn’t deterred. “Hear me out,” he said. “You hate being a viscount. You keep going on and on about how it isn’t the life for you, how you know nothing about what you’re supposed to be doing.”

  “Right,” Armand crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at his friend, dreading where he was going with his argument. “Which is why I’m taking this position in India.”

  “No you’re not,” Malcolm said with a dismissive wave. “You’re going to stay here, do what matters to the most people, and marry a woman who knows what she’s doing.”

  “No.”

  “Lady Prior might be a pill,” Malcolm went on, ignoring him, “but I’d bet you all the tea in China that she’s raised that daughter of hers, Lavinia, to know a thing or two about running a grand house.” He paused. “Actually, I know for a fact that she’s been groomed to marry a gentleman, the higher the title the better.”

  “And how do you know that?” Armand asked, not wanting to hear the answer.

  “Her father talks about it at White’s,” Malcolm shrugged. “And Katya listens to poor Lady Lavinia fret about her mother’s expectations all the time.”

  Armand’s brow shot up. “So you’re having intimate conversations of that nature with Katya, but you can’t be bothered to dance with her and you can’t wheedle your way back into her bed?”

  “Shut up,” Malcolm growled. “This isn’t about me, it’s about you. You and your blasted stubbornness.”

  “I think it is about you, all of you,” Armand grunted. “And the fact that you can’t leave my life alone.” He dropped his arms and marched off along the perimeter of the hedge maze, heading toward the rose garden. “I’ve decided. I’ll reply to Dr. Maqsood in the morning.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Malcolm called after him. “It’s time to trade one life of service for another. So what if you aren’t doing what you thought you wanted to do? People still need you.”

  Armand made a rude gesture to his friend as he turned a corner into one of the side entrances of the maze nearest the rose bower in the center. It didn’t make him feel better. The gnawing ball of acid in his gut kept growing and growing, making him feel as lost as ever.

  * * *

  “My lady,” Dr. Miller called after Lavinia in a stage whisper. “My lady, slow down. I merely wish to speak with you.”

  Lavinia groaned and turned another corner in the hedge maze. The horrible Dr. Miller had approached her as if he’d been perched and waiting for her when she’d stepped out of the increasingly crowded ballroom to get a breath of fresh air. He couldn’t possibly have been invited to the ball, even though it felt as though most of Wiltshire had been, but that hadn’t stopped him from boldly approaching Lavinia.

  “My lady, I just wish to make your acquaintance,” he whispered on. “We have so much in common. We’re both on the rise in the world. An alliance between us would be—ouch!”

  A rustling of branches and a thump sounded behind Lavinia. Rather than stop to see what had happened to Dr. Miller, she picked up the skirts of her ball gown—a ridiculously diaphanous thing that showed too much of her bosom and shoulders, but that her mother considered haute couture, and whipped around the next opening in the maze. With an entire, thick wall of boxwood between her and Dr. Miller, she followed the maze as it doubled back.

  Dr. Miller had picked himself up and was brushing at the knees of his trousers when she reached him, just barely able to see him through the thickness of the hedge. “We have nothing in common and nothing to talk about, Dr. Miller,” she insisted in her firmest voice, which was, admittedly, not particularly strong.

  Dr. Miller made a confused noise, twisting this way and that before catching a glimpse of her on the other side of the hedge. He let out a wordless exclamation of victory and attempted to part the thick branches of the hedge.
Lavinia took a large step back, pressing herself against the opposite wall of the path, but thankfully, the hedges grew far too close together and were far too lush for Dr. Miller to squeeze through.

  With panting breaths and a sharp yelp of pain as, presumably, he was scratched, he said, “My new employer assures me that, because of his influence and power, I will be acceptable to the finest ladies of society.”

  “I don’t care what your employer says,” Lavinia told him. She swayed forward, only to realize bits of her skirt had been snagged by the branches of the hedge she’d backed into. As she tugged herself free, careful not to rip anything, she went on. “You hurt my friend egregiously. I could never, ever think well of you.”

  Dr. Miller made a dismissive sound. “Mrs. Croydon’s condition was already bad when I reached her. But these things are far too delicate to discuss with an impressionable female.”

  Lavinia freed the last bit of her skirt with a tug that resulted in a small ripping sound as she snapped straighter. “Your incompetence and your unnecessary intervention mangled her insides irreparably. And don’t think for a second that either Mrs. Croydon or myself are too delicate to understand the inner workings of our own bodies.”

  “Lady Lavinia,” Dr. Miller said in a scandalized tone. “This sort of talk is unbecoming. Stay where you are and I will find you. We can speak of larks and roses and kisses,” his voice took on a lascivious tone, “and if you are sweet, we can discover whether your hair is red all over.”

  Lavinia squeaked with indignation. When Dr. Miller stepped to the side in pursuit, she gathered her skirts and rushed on, turning as many corners as she could in an attempt to lose him. She wasn’t so ignorant that she didn’t know what he meant by his lewd comment. There were distinct advantages to having Lady Stanhope and women who were very happily married as friends. But her flight took her down as many dead ends as open ones.

  “Lady Lavinia, please stay where you are,” Dr. Miller called breathlessly after her, far enough away to give Lavinia hope, but close enough to fuel her sense of urgent flight. “Have I told you how becoming your gown is this evening?”

  Lavinia clenched her jaw and rushed on. What had possessed her to flee into a hedge maze when she hadn’t yet explored its paths? The only things that gave her hope were the other, male voices she could just barely make out somewhere else in the maze and the massive rose bower she discovered when she turned yet another corner. It was in the center of the maze and easily stood eight feet tall. The roses weren’t in bloom, but the massive ball of greenery was the perfect hiding place.

  As nimbly as she could, Lavinia darted toward the bushes. They were less densely packed than the boxwood hedges, but within a second of squeezing between the branches she’d parted with her gloved hands, she knew she was making a terrible mistake. Boxwood branches were like feathers compared to the thorny rose bushes. But she could hear Dr. Miller gaining on her. If she had any hope of shaking him off for the evening, she had to hide, no matter how painful the concealment.

  No sooner had she secured herself deep in the heart of the bushes, praying her tiny yelps of pain as thorns raked her couldn’t be heard, than Dr. Miller crashed into the opening at the center of the maze.

  “My lady? Where have you gone?” he asked.

  Through the greenery, Lavinia watched him step first to one side, then the other, in search of her. He frowned, the expression making his flabby face look ridiculous, then started toward one of the many openings that led to the maze’s center. But it was too soon for her to breathe a sigh of relief. He must have caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye, because he stopped suddenly and turned squarely toward the towering rose bushes.

  “My la—”

  “Miller,” a louder, masculine shout cut him off. Two seconds later, Dr. Pearson marched into the clearing, fury making him look like a demon straight from Hell. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was…I….” Dr. Miller’s jaw flapped as he wheeled back from Dr. Pearson. “I’m here with Lady Lavinia,” he insisted, thrusting a pointed finger toward the rose bushes.

  Dr. Pearson turned toward the bush with a puzzled expression, searching her out. Lavinia’s stomach twisted, and when he finally spotted her, caught up on the thorns as she was, her heart sank all the way to her slippered feet.

  “What the devil?” Dr. Pearson began. He shook his head and turned back to Dr. Miller. “You have been banned from this property, sir,” he said.

  “Well, yes, but—” Dr. Miller stammered.

  Dr. Pearson took a threatening step toward him. “Do you want to leave on your own or would you like me to call for my friend, Mr. Croydon, to escort you out?” The way he asked the question made it clear that if Mr. Croydon became involved, it was likely Dr. Miller would leave in a box.

  “I’ll leave, I’ll leave,” Dr. Miller said, dancing back as though he were on the verge of soiling himself. “Any girl who would be foolish enough to hide from a legitimate suitor in a rose bush isn’t worth my time anyhow.”

  “Did you do something that made her choose thorns over you?” Dr. Pearson demanded.

  Dr. Miller didn’t stay around to answer. He whimpered, then turned to flee down one of the maze paths.

  Lavinia let herself breath half a sigh of relief before pivoting and trying to make her way out of her hiding place. But it was apparent within two seconds that she had a problem on her hands. “Oh, dear,” she said, inching her way toward freedom. If she’d been tempted to think catching her gown on a few boxwood branches was a sticky situation, she’d underestimated the meaning of the term. Her billowing skirt was snagged in at least three dozen places. Thorny branches raked at her gloved arms and the exposed parts of her chest and shoulders. The height of the bushes meant that her hair was caught as surely as her clothes. She could barely raise an arm to shelter her face from the scratching thorns. “Oh, no.”

  “Here, let me help you,” Dr. Pearson said, striding toward her.

  Lavinia’s heart beat double time as he drew near. She would have sagged in mortification if it weren’t that the slightest bit of movement dug thorns into her. “You must think me a right ninny,” she said, her voice tiny and pitiful.

  “What did he say to you that was so offensive you would jump into a rose bush?” Dr. Pearson replied.

  She had to admire him for understanding and not judging her, but the anger that laced his words set her to trembling. He reached into the bush, his hands gently brushing back branches and untangling her as best he could. Together, they managed to free her enough that she could begin to inch into the clear, but it would take far, far longer to get out than it had to get in.

  At last, their eyes met. The question about Dr. Miller was still sharp in his exasperated expression. She only hoped it was still all for Dr. Miller and not for her stupidity.

  “His comments were unrepeatable,” she said at last, when she could bear his censure no longer. She lowered her eyes and tilted her head. As she tried to free her hair, it pulled loose of its careful style, sending pins flying.

  Dr. Pearson made a noise that sent shivers down Lavinia’s spine. He was furious. His arms slipped farther around her, plucking at thorns and branches and doing his best to free her, but it was like being rescued by a ravenous tiger, and with all the pricks the bushes had given her, she must have smelled of blood.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, barely above a whisper, as he shifted her farther into the clear. At least her face and arms were extracted from the thorns.

  “It’s not your fault,” he snapped, sounding aggravated all the same. “Miller is a bounder and a charlatan.”

  “I can’t disagree with you there,” she said. A loud rip sounded as she tilted toward him. “Oh!”

  One strong arm closed around her waist, supporting her. “You certainly have landed yourself in a muddle.”

  “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Miller is the one who should be sorry,” he insisted.
r />   He shifted his weight, sliding part of his body between her and the bushes, and reached around to tug the snagged parts of her skirt free. Rip after rip sounded, making Lavinia wince. The heat of his body wrapped around her, blocking out the chill of the descending evening. His crisp, masculine scent filled her nose. It struck her in a rush that she was tangled in him now as much as she was tangled in the bushes. One of her arms was slung over his shoulder as he bent around her, his face closer to her shoulder. If she wasn’t mistaken, he drew in a long breath. She shivered, heating even more.

  He shifted positions, positioning his foot between hers, which curled them closer together. “Almost there,” he said, voice strained. The hand around her waist moved lower, and he lifted her slightly as another loud tear rent the air. She gripped his lapel with her free hand to keep her balance. “We’re almost—”

  “Lavinia!”

  Her mother’s shout caused both Lavinia and Dr. Pearson to jump. He closed his arms around her as he jerked away from the bushes. Her skirts were torn to shreds and her hair tugged and scattered around her as she burst free of the bushes. She was forced to lean against Dr. Pearson or crumble to the ground at his feet.

  “You bounder,” her mother continued to shout, her eyes bright with excitement. “You cad! What have you done to my precious little girl?”

  “Mama,” Lavinia hissed, attempting to right herself. Torn pieces of her gown had snagged on the buttons of Dr. Pearson’s coat, and somehow he’d gotten a mouthful of her hair that he was having a hard time wiping away. “Keep your voice down.”

  “Rape,” her mother shouted instead, her face positively glowing. “My dear girl has been compromised. Oh, rape! Rape!”

  “Lady Prior, if you would please keep your voice down,” Dr. Pearson hissed. “Nothing of the sort has happened. I was simply assisting Lady Lavinia in—”

  “Her reputation is ruined,” her mother bellowed on, louder and with even more excitement in her eyes. Not excitement, glee. “You’ve soiled her beyond repair.”