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“Mr. Thompson,” he says coolly. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“I’ll ask again, who the hell are you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. Cyrus’s unfocused gaze wanders about the room. “Damn, but I forgot what good style your family lives in. You must pass my compliments on to your mother on her very fine housekeeping.”
My blood is boiling and I want to wipe that smirk off Cyrus’s face. But John grips me by the arm, slanting me a warning look.
“Look, Lyd, you flew off from Boston in such a rush we didn’t have time to settle any of the arrangements. The thing of it is, I’ve had some dreadful bad luck at the club, and owe a bit to some of the other fellows for cards.”
I ignore Cyrus’s lament. “Ada, go upstairs and make sure Catherine stays with Mother.” I don’t need Catherine to come down and get involved, giving Cyrus more fodder for his accusations. And I certainly don’t need Mother knowing that he’s in the house, agitating her and risking a relapse. Ada shoots me a grateful look and then flees.
I’ve never seen John angry before. Outwardly he’s calm and composed as ever, but the slight quiver of his jaw belies the fury simmering just beneath the surface. His nostrils flare as he turns the full intensity of his gaze on Cyrus. Cyrus swallows, taking a wobbly step back.
“Miss Montrose has nothing to say to you.” John’s eyes are hard as they meet Cyrus’s bloodshot gaze. “You can consider the engagement null, and if you find your eye even so much as landing on her in the street, I’ll know about it. I have rich friends who would be most interested in a piece of your debts.”
“Rich friends, oh my.” He swaggers up to John. Side by side they’re a study in contrast; one dark, the other light, one disheveled and clumsy, the other neat and cool. “I’m afraid you don’t understand the particulars of the situation, my good fellow.” Cyrus slaps him on the shoulder, leaning in conspiratorially. “You see, Lydia and I have so much more than just an ordinary engagement. We have an...understanding.” He looks over John’s shoulder at me and winks. “Isn’t that right, Lyd?”
Oh God, please don’t let him tell John about Tommy Bishop, or my ancestry. Don’t let him tell John about what happened in Aunt Phillips’s parlor. Those are my secrets, and I’ll share them with John someday, but not today. Not like this.
John removes Cyrus’s hand with a contemptuous curl of his lip. “I assure you, you’re mistaken. There is no understanding, and she owes you nothing.”
My temple is throbbing, John’s and Cyrus’s voices fuzzy and far away. Does it really matter anymore? Emeline is dead. Mother is clinging to life. Catherine and Father are shadows of their former selves. What’s left to hold together? But they’re still arguing, John’s voice rising.
Let Cyrus spread whatever story he wants. Let him rant and rail over what he no doubt sees as an injustice in our broken engagement. I don’t care. His words can’t hurt me or my family anymore. Let him feed the flames of rumor, maybe it will assuage him enough from divulging my secrets.
“Please, John, you don’t need to save us. Just send him away. Let him say what he wants back in Boston, only don’t let him draw you into anything foolish.” I just want this to be over, and for John not to have to be wound up in our family’s sticky web of deceits and dramas.
Cyrus sneers, turning his attention back to me. There is little that I recognize anymore in his dark eyes. They are wild and mad. Hungry. But when he speaks is voice is cocky and imperturbable. “Are you sure that’s what you want, Lyd? Don’t forget, I have more than one Montrose story to peddle.”
“You wouldn’t,” I whisper. John might forgive Catherine her sins, but he would never want me if he knew what was inside of me, what I’m truly capable of.
“I don’t want to,” Cyrus says like a petulant child, throwing himself down in a chair and crossing his arms. “But what choice do you leave me? You really are the most capricious of women. One moment you’re in my arms, agreeing that you want nothing so much as to be my wife, and the next you’re running off in a flutter back to New Oldbury. If it’s a case of the nerves, then I assure you nothing will snap you out of it like a good dose of the truth.”
My jaw is set so tight that it aches. “Cyrus...”
“Whatever it is, we don’t want to hear it,” John snaps. “Lydia,” he says, turning to me, “go upstairs while I settle this.”
“I will not!” He must be mad if he thinks I’m going to leave the two of them alone down here, snapping and snarling like a pair of dogs fighting over a bone, possible coming to blows.
With a fatigued sigh, John rakes his hair back, clearly vexed that I won’t listen to him, but unwilling to try again. Cyrus looks on with unmasked amusement. He has John right where he wants him: flustered and roused.
“Oh yes,” Cyrus says, picking up where he left off. “Lydia and I shared something quite unusual, quite...special, in her aunt’s parlor when she was in Boston.”
Misgiving flickers across John’s face and he goes white. “What are you talking about?” he asks roughly. His gaze swings back to me, his voice lowering to a hoarse whisper. “Did he force himself on you? Because I’ll kill him if he so much as laid afingeron—”
“What? No, but...what I mean is, it was nothing like that. I...” But I can’t bring myself to tell John what I did, even if it means leaving him with the wrong impression.
Cyrus feigns surprise, sitting up in the chair and looking between John’s bewildered face and my red one. “Oh, did she not tell you? Lydia has the most unique talent, and she was gracious enough to give me a demonstration. In fact, she—”
I close my eyes, bracing for the damning words to fall from his lips. But they don’t come. Instead there’s a crash and a scuffling, and I open my eyes to see John throwing himself at Cyrus, lifting him by the collar and slamming him up against the wall. I jump as a picture falls to the floor, the glass shattering.
“Goddamn you!” John’s face is aflame, just inches from Cyrus’s nose. Cyrus’s eyes bulge as he gasps for air. “I won’t listen to this slander for a moment longer!”
Cyrus struggles in vain to free himself, but his toes barely graze the floor, and his thrashing doesn’t budge John. I hover behind them, wringing my hands uselessly. “John, stop it! Put him down!”
“My God, what is this?” All heads swing toward the door where Father has been standing for I don’t know how long. Hands on hips he glares at us, taking in John’s hands at Cyrus’s neck and my useless efforts at pulling John away. Then he raises an accusing finger at Cyrus. “My wife is ill upstairs! Howdareyou come here with your threats and accusations?”
John abruptly lets go of Cyrus, who yanks away and straightens his collar. Cyrus doubles over, hands on knees as he struggles to catch his breath. “Is she, now?” he gasps. “You would never know by the way these two were carrying on when I came in.”
That was the wrong thing to say. Although Cyrus is a full head taller, Father strides up to him, grabs him by his newly straightened collar and pulls him down to eye level. “Get out,” he growls.