Page 28 of The Lady of the Lamps (Vows in Vauxhall Gardens #1)

T he first thing Beatrix knew of the events at the club was when she was startled awake by the front door, which happened to be directly below her chamber, being slammed shut. The house seemed to shake for a moment, and she sat up in bed, her heart racing in panic. What on earth is going on?

When she heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, she wondered if she ought to defend herself, in case it was an intruder or a burglar, and so she dashed to her dresser to find her sewing scissors. They weren’t particularly sharp, but they were surely better than nothing.

In the dim light of the moon, which peeked into her room through a gap in the curtains, it was hard to find them, and before she was able, her bedroom door flew open.

She jumped and gasped at the sight of Thomas in the doorway, holding a candle, his face furious.

“Thomas! Are you well? It is very late—”

“What relationship do you have with Lord Leighton?” he asked, slurring slightly.

A shiver went down her spine. She and Thomas’s relationship so far had been awkward, but not particularly contentious—mainly because Beatrix never argued back.

But now he was storming into her bedchamber at past midnight, when she was in only her nightdress, demanding an answer to a ridiculous question.

“We are friends,” she said, the irritation rising up her in voice. “You met him when he came to give his condolences, remember? I do not know what has prompted this, but you should not be in my bedchamber, so please—”

She squeaked as he reached out and grabbed her forearm, dragging her towards him. His grip was tight enough that she thought it might bruise, and for the first time she was scared of the man.

“I have defended your honor tonight,” he said in a low whisper, the alcohol on his breath making her want to gag. “Do you know what they say about you and a man called Ambrose Trentham?”

Beatrix blanched. She had not expected to hear his name tonight, from Thomas’s lips. She knew that her relationship with the notorious rake had caused whispers among the ton—but nothing beyond a few kisses had ever occurred between them.

It seemed rather unfair that his reputation with women was still impacting her, long after he was dead. And she struggled to understand how this was related to Lord Leighton, whose name still set her heart racing.

Surely Thomas couldn’t know about the kiss?

“We were betrothed, I’ve told you that. Years ago. But he died in a duel.”

“No one believes you could have associated with such a cad and remained virtuous.” He squeezed her arm so hard that tears began to well in her eyes. He was clearly drunk, and angry, and all she could think was to placate him and get him out of her chamber.

“I swear to you, on—on my father’s grave, that nothing happened between Ambrose and me.”

That seemed to mollify him a little, and his grip on her arm loosened. “Well. That is what I told them. But you understand that I expect my wife to have a spotless reputation, do you not?”

“Of—of course, Thomas,” Beatrix stuttered. How could she marry this man?

And then his grip on her arm tightened once more. “And Leighton? He is not some betrothed from years ago. He is here now, and he has far more interest in you than he should, interfering busybody.”

What happened tonight? Beatrix wondered desperately, as she tried to twist her arm from his grip to no avail. Had he seen Lord Leighton? What had been said? Thomas surely didn’t know about the kiss, or it would have been mentioned already… “We are friends. He knew my father. That is all.”

“You swear?”

“I swear,” she said, holding back tears and hoping God would forgive her for swearing when she felt something towards Lord Leighton that did not belong in friendship.

Her feelings didn’t matter now. She had agreed to marry Thomas, and she had nowhere to go if she did not.

She was truly trapped.

“You do not need male friends,” he said, letting her arm go suddenly. It ached as the blood returned to its normal flow, and she held back tears. She would not cry in front of him. “I will not have you bringing shame on the Haxbury name.”

Beatrix shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. She had been a daughter of the Earl of Haxbury her entire life, and yet this man thought he could lecture her on not shaming his precious new title?

If she hadn’t been scared of him, she would have been furious. But instead she kept her feelings inside, and when he finally left, stumbling down the corridor, she closed her door and barricaded it with her chair.

And then she let the tears fall, as the reality of the situation sank in. Not only was she marrying a man she barely knew, a man she did not care for—she was also marrying a man of whom she was afraid.

And she had no idea how to get out of it without ending up living on the streets.

*

Spencer sat on a bench in Putney Heath, a pistol in his hands, and waited for dawn.

He had not slept all night. What was the point? He would only have nightmares, and this day would quite possibly be his very last on Earth.

He watched the sun begin to rise as he waited for the man he had called out to arrive.

His hands shook to hold a pistol once more, and he knew that as soon as one of them discharged their weapon, he would be right back on the field in France, watching his brother die.

And yet, this was different. He couldn’t find it in himself to care that much that his life might soon be taken by the new Earl of Haxbury.

He had been defending Beatrix’s honor, and he would do so again, no matter the consequences. Even now, in the darkness before dawn, he could not bring himself to regret his actions.

And perhaps he would not die. Perhaps he would be victorious, killing Haxbury, or at least drawing blood.

He did not want to take another man’s life, especially in such circumstances and not as a consequence of war, but equally, he could not stand by and watch the woman who had filled his dreams marry such a scoundrel.

She deserved better. Not that he thought he was the right man to marry her, but Lord Haxbury certainly wasn’t.

He just hoped that this duel would put an end to their marriage plans.

As the sky began to lighten, he prayed to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in anymore.

And then he spoke to the ghosts who had haunted his dreams, who had affected his decisions every day since they had passed.

“I’m sorry, Father. Jack. I’m sorry I could not be the marquess that you were, that you would have been, brother.

But if we meet again this morning, please know that I tried my best. In everything. ”

He did not have a second. There was no man in town that he could possibly ask to do such a thing. But he would happily stand opposite Haxbury with no witnesses, no adjudicator—to ensure Lady Beatrix’s honor was restored.