Page 14

Violet found the source of the wheezing in just a few moments. A young miss had been escorted out of the ballroom and onto the garden landing by an older woman.

“I’m okay, Mama,” the young woman was saying as her mother manhandled her out of the line of sight of the other partygoers. “Let me be.”

“That’s enough, Sarah. We must get you somewhere private to rest.” The elder woman spoke in a low but urgent voice. “Back to the carriage. Preferably through the garden where no one can see you like this.”

“Mother, I’m fine. Leave me be!”

Violet watched the young woman as she tried to withdraw her arm from her mother’s grasp, while also trying and failing to catch her breath. The more agitated the young lady became, the more trouble she seemed to have breathing.

“Now!” her mother practically growled and began to physically pull her away from the ballroom doors. “I will not have you cause a scene.”

“Mother, I—” but she could no longer get the words out. “I—”

Violet stepped forward then. The young woman’s face was rapidly turning a ghastly shade of white.

“My name is Violet Goodwin,” she said. “And I must ask you to please stop moving.”

The young woman opened her mouth again and her wheezing grew violent as she gasped for air.

“I believe you may be an asthmatic,” Violet continued, “and it is imperative that you stop moving at once. Please stay absolutely still.”

Violet’s focus was entirely absorbed by the young miss now, as it had been moments ago absorbed by Alistair. She was so caught up in her work that she hardly noticed as Catherine exited the ballroom doors with Pembrooke’s father, the Viscount Waverley; Somerville; and a great many other guests.

Catherine immediately joined Violet in easing the young asthmatic to the ground, while Violet muttered curses under her breath at the constricting nature of evening wear.

“Well,” Catherine whispered, “I suppose I was wrong about you being a nurse this evening. Perhaps your blue gown would have been better after all.”

Violet shot her cousin a look before she said, “Go calm the girl’s mother, would you please? My hands are too full at the moment for her to have apoplexy.”

“Gladly. I have no interest in ruining my lovely ball gown if I can help it.”

Catherine patted the young woman reassuringly on the hand before she left. “You’ll be just fine, Miss Jenson. Violet is my cousin and quite knowledgeable about medical matters.”

Violet knelt beside Miss Jenson, ignoring the rip she heard in her own gown as she dropped to her knees. She had to stabilize the girl’s breathing as quickly as she could, then get her somewhere indoors and private where she could unlace her stays.

Miss Jenson’s diaphragm was far too tightly constrained, a corset being the worst possible mode of dress for an asthmatic. Violet was uncomfortable in her own corset too, and there was nothing at all wrong with her diaphragm.

“Slowly breathe in,” she coached the girl while holding her hand. “And slowly back out. Close your eyes and don’t see anything else. Don’t hear anyone else. There’s nothing in the world but you and me, breathing in and breathing out. There you go.”

She’d noticed the presence of the elder Mrs. Jenson made the younger woman’s symptoms worsen and was endeavoring to keep them apart. But the young woman had her eyes glued to her mother and continued to struggle for air.

“Close your eyes, Miss Jenson. Right now.” The young woman obeyed, and Violet carried on. “There you go. Just like that.”

The spasms began to ease, and Violet rubbed her back in slow, comforting circles. “Breathe in and out. You and I are the only people here. Don’t worry about anything else. That’s good. That’s perfect.”

The elder Mrs. Jenson stood a few feet away from Violet, her eyes shooting daggers, while Catherine stood beside her, valiantly trying to keep the woman at bay through conversation.

Violet glanced up, for once grateful for Catherine’s place in the aristocracy as an earl’s daughter.

Despite the poisonous looks Mrs. Jenson shot in her direction, she could hardly give Lady Catherine West the cut direct by walking away while she was talking.

“Keep going,” Violet said to Miss Jenson. “Keep your eyes closed. Don’t think of anyone or anything else but your breath. In and out. There you go. Good girl.”

Alistair stood, startled and alone, looking at the empty place where Violet had just been. She’d been such an enthusiastic, passionate partner in their embrace.

Not partner. Instigator.

It was thrilling. And then she was suddenly gone. It was usually he who departed, not her. He found he disliked it immensely when the tables were turned and had been about to chase after her when he heard the gathering commotion outside of the balcony doors.

Blast.

He couldn’t follow her now. It would not do to arrive on Violet’s heels, her disheveled and he at half-mast. So, he hurried deeper into the dark gardens and crossed over the mews so he could re-enter the ball from the side door.

He was certain he could fall into a crowd headed outdoors to see what the commotion was, and sure enough, the partygoers that had been surging into the ballroom earlier were now surging back out.

Like moths to the flame, the members of the ton were drawn to scandal and incident, and their faces were gleeful as they made their way outside toward the latest event. Each of them hopeful for a first-person glance at tomorrow’s on-dit .

Alistair slipped through the smoking room and joined several gentlemen who were making their way out to the gardens. He looked around for McGann, who he hadn’t seen since he’d abandoned him to the dance floor, but caught sight of the son of the hosts, his old friend from Eton instead.

“Pembrooke!” Alistair called, falling into step beside the man. “What’s happening?”

Pembrooke grinned at the site of Alistair. “Crawford! It’s been an age. Where have you been?”

“Recently?” Alistair asked as they crossed through the ballroom. “Out having a stroll in the gardens.”

Pembrooke laughed. “I meant for the last decade, you devil. But really, Crawford, the gardens? Did you bend some poor chit over a garden hedge? Be more careful or you’ll be married off before me.”

“I did nothing of the sort,” Alistair said, although he had of course. Or almost had. The way he’d acted around Violet was exquisitely stupid. “What’s the rush to the altar?”

Pembrooke sighed. “Father’s orders, not that you would care anything about that. Last I heard, you’d run off and joined the Navy. And then something or other about the Company. Is it true that women love the uniform?”

He nudged Alistair in the ribs. “I’m sure they do. They’ve always had a tendre for you. But no need to settle down yet. That’s my motto. Not if you don’t have to, that is. Unfortunately for me, I have to.”

Those were the last of Pembrooke’s words that Alistair heard, for as soon as they stepped out of doors and onto the garden landing, the sight before him froze the reply on his tongue. His eyes widened in alarm, and his heart began clanging against the inside of his chest cavity.

Violet!

He didn’t immediately notice she was kneeling next to Miss Jenson, holding her.

That it was the young miss in trouble and not Violet herself.

Alistair pushed his way through the crowd, leaving Pembrooke to follow behind.

He reached Violet in just a few strides and before either of them knew what was happening, he’d dropped to his knees beside her, panic in his eyes.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded of her, reaching for her hand. “Violet, are you hurt?”

She didn’t struggle against him immediately. He felt her squeeze his hand for a moment, but only for a moment, before she pulled away.

“Let go of me.” She tried to wiggle her fingers free from his.

He only held her hand more tightly still, his heart hammering through the skin of his palm.

“Unhand me,” she said, and when he still didn’t respond, she forcefully ripped her arm away from his.

And then realization after realization thudded into his mind, as it began to make sense of the situation.

He was holding Miss Goodwin’s hand.

On the ground.

In the middle of Pembrooke’s garden.

In the midst of a ball.

Surrounded by half of the ton .

Who were staring .

He rose as formally as he could muster and gave her a slight bow. “I apologize, Miss Goodwin,” he said. “I thought you needed assistance.”

“I do not need assistance. I was providing assistance, as you can see.” She gestured to Miss Jenson, who was still seated on the ground, practicing the breathing exercises Violet had been showing her. “Miss Jenson is an asthmatic.”

“Oh,” Alistair said. It was all he could think of to say at the moment.

“Oh, indeed.”

Violet smoothed out her skirts with as much dignity as she could muster. She sounded like an extremely competent governess then, which he found arousing in a way he knew he probably shouldn’t, given the situation.

“Lord Alistair Crawford.” Mrs. Jenson said finally broke away from Catherine and cornered him. “I am glad to see you here. Have you had the opportunity to meet my daughter, Miss Sarah Jenson?”

Alistair looked at the woman, startled. Was she truly trying to introduce her daughter to him now? When the poor girl’s lips had turned blue?

“I don’t believe now is the time,” he said firmly, casting an eye at the crowd that was gathering.

Somerville was there and McGann was too. Alistair groaned inwardly. Somerville would repeat the whole incident to his father and McGann… hell, McGann ought to serve him with that facer after all.

He’d denied before that there was anything between him and Violet, and he’d just proven that to be a complete falsehood. He just hadn’t been able to help himself when he saw her there on the ground, and he thought she’d been hurt.

Help her was all he could think or say or do.

“Now is certainly the time,” Mrs. Jenson said, her voice growing louder. “You must do something, my lord. This… this…” She looked at Violet in disgust. “This person is causing a scandal, and I will not have her ruin my daughter’s chances.”

Violet was gently rubbing the young woman’s back again and murmuring to her, seemingly oblivious to the antics of her mother.

“And which chances might those be?” Alistair asked icily.

“Why,” Mrs. Jenson replied, her voice going quiet again. “Her chances of making a match, of course. It is her first season, you understand. And it is,” she paused for emphasis, “the Waverly Ball. I saw you approaching with Pembrooke. He is on the hunt for a wife, is he not?”

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.”