Page 25

There was a sad crush at the ball that evening in one of the grandest mansions in Mayfair, and Amelia was uncomfortably aware of the pressure of bodies around her.

She could not help but fear for her silk again, and hope that she would not see another gown ruined.

It was an uneasy sensation, to suspect that people who did not wish her well might easily be close enough, in this crowd, to reach out and touch her, and cruelly ironic that their enmity was based on a false belief.

Privately, she was quite as miserable as any of them could have wished.

It was a coming-out ball: one among many, of course, but more lavish than most. Sir Humphrey Aubertin’s guests waited to be announced at the top of a broad but shallow staircase that swept down into the enormous ballroom, so that the people already present could have the pleasure of examining them thoroughly and judging them as they entered.

The powdered and liveried major-domo who called out their names seemed to take great pleasure in the task, Amelia thought, and would not be rushed.

Each party of people must descend the ten or twelve stairs completely before he would proclaim the names of the next group who stood with varying degrees of patience beside him at the top.

He dragged out each syllable for longer than one would have believed the human throat could manage; he could have been an operatic tenor.

It was all very proper, no doubt, and impressive, but it meant that a dangerous pressure built up at the head of the stair, of persons who had been admitted to the house but could not yet enter the ballroom because of this bottleneck.

And so, as the functionary intoned, ‘His Grace the Marchioness of Wyverne, Her Grace the Marchioness of Wyverne, Lady Amelia Wyverne, Lord Charles Wyverne, the Honourable Major Lord Thornfalcon, the Honourable Miss Thornfalcon…’ it was impossible to say who exactly in the crowd behind her reached out and pushed Amelia very hard in the small of the back.

Sophie later said that she had the distinct impression it was a woman – a slim hand, fast and sure.

It hardly mattered. Amelia knew she was going to fall.

Nothing could stop her. The steps were marble, highly polished, and her new silk dancing slippers with their thin, smooth soles could gain no purchase on them.

She was toppling over – she could see the horrified faces of her brothers Rafe and Charlie, and Sophie, and Helena…

but then strong arms seized her and held her. Marcus. Who could it be but Marcus?

He couldn’t prevent her from falling – she had too much momentum already from the push, and his desperate leap and the weight of him had only increased it.

But he wrapped her tight, and with reactions faster than such a big man should have been capable of, he angled their entwined bodies deliberately so that his broad frame bore the brunt of the first contact with the unforgiving stone.

They hit, with a jarring impact, and then tumbled down the rest of the steps, still joined, and came to a stop at the bottom, tangled amid a confusion of feet, which belonged to the guests who had preceded them and who had had no time at all to leap out of their path.

Amelia was not badly hurt – Lord Thornfalcon had made sure of that – but she was shocked, and all the breath had been driven from her lungs by the bone-shaking impact and, not least, by the tightness of his grip on her and his weight as they rolled.

She couldn’t see; her face was buried in his chest. But she could hear a clamour rising around them.

There had been screams, she thought hazily, but not from her.

He let her go, and she almost moaned at the sudden absence.

Opening her eyes, she saw that a dozen willing hands were reaching out to help him to his feet, voices high and deep exclaiming in shock and admiration.

But he wouldn’t go; he ignored them all.

He was kneeling beside her now, careless of what must surely be his own grave injuries, taking her hand with great gentleness and saying urgently, ‘Amelia! My dear, can you hear me? Can you speak?’

‘I’m fine,’ she whispered, her head spinning. ‘Fine. You saved me, Marcus. You must be hurt, though.’

‘I’m not. I dare say I shall feel bruises tomorrow in a dozen places, but at present, I am perfectly well. If only you are not injured.’ His tone was neither amused nor grim, but tenderly concerned, as she had never heard him.

‘I promise I’m not… They’ll have to make a print of this, you know,’ she said, arming herself with humour. ‘The Hero of Grosvenor Square.’

She tried to struggle to her feet without his aid, but he would not suffer her to do so, and although she would never have admitted it, she was thankful for his support, and thankfulness was just one of the many emotions she experienced when he insisted upon sweeping her up into his embrace and carrying her away from the scene of her humiliation.

The feel of his strong arms under her thighs, and his solid chest against her shaking body, did not make her any calmer.

A short while later – too short – she found herself lying on a sofa in some unfamiliar chamber, surrounded by people fussing over her.

Various parts of her hurt, though she could not have said which, and the brightness of the chandeliers made her wince.

Sophie, paler than she’d ever seen her, was engaged in bathing her forehead in lavender water – where had that come from?

– and making a sad mull of it; Helena was chafing her hands with equal incompetence.

Had chafing anyone’s hands ever actually worked?

‘Stop,’ she croaked. ‘I’m fine. Is Marcus well? Where is he?’

No doubt if Lady Keswick had been present, she’d have reproved her for using his first name again, and pointed out that if they’d listened to her, they’d have been wed already and none of this would have happened.

But fortunately, she wasn’t, so nobody thought to scold Amelia, for which she was grateful.

‘He is fine, or says he is,’ his sister said with fond exasperation. ‘But I am sure he will be black and blue tomorrow.’

‘I should think he must have broken half his ribs,’ Sophie put in. ‘But you have seen that he is standing and talking and declaring emphatically that he has taken no ill from the fall. He thought you might appreciate a little peace and quiet.’

And so she might, if people would stop talking so much.

‘He’s gone to fetch you some brandy. Apparently, nobody else could be trusted to do it. He’s in shock, in my estimation. And Rafe is having the carriage brought round, but people are still arriving, and so there is a great confusion in the streets. Am I babbling? I’m babbling. I’m sorry.’

‘I was pushed, wasn’t I?’ Amelia said quietly. ‘I felt it.’ She became conscious that she had a crushing headache. She felt as though she had been thoroughly kicked by a horse. A very large, angry horse that hated her and wanted her dead.

They did not answer immediately, but looked at each other. Now they decided to be quiet.

‘Yes,’ Helena said reluctantly at last. ‘We think you must have been. You weren’t moving at all – none of us was – so how else could you fall? And Sophie thought she saw a hand reach out and shove you. But it wasn’t Lavinia. It can’t have been – she was already in the ballroom.’

‘Just one of her Friends,’ she said tiredly.

‘Presumably. Unless you can think of any other deadly enemies you’ve made.’

Amelia chuckled weakly. ‘Thank you, Sophie, that’s a great consolation. As a matter of fact, I can’t.’

The door opened and Marcus entered, bearing, as promised, a glass with some golden liquid in it.

Amelia became conscious that she must be enormously dishevelled, though her skirts had been smoothed down over her shaking legs by one of her attendants.

Rather than him. I’m a little hysterical , she thought.

If Aunt Keswick were here, she’d throw a jug of water over me.

He crossed swiftly to her side and offered her the brandy. She shook her head, and then regretted it. He was dishevelled too, his hair disordered and his cravat a wreck, but he didn’t look any the worse for it. Not in her eyes, at any rate.

She tried to speak in a normal, conversational tone to him, and was uncomfortably aware that she did not succeed. ‘I am quite well, sir, and do not need brandy. But thank you! Did I say that before? I don’t think I did.’

‘There is no need to thank me. If all those ridiculous rumours weren’t swirling round about me, you’d never have had to undergo such an ordeal.’

‘So it was your fault all along,’ she said, closing her eyes again. ‘And there I was foolishly blaming the creature who gave me a good, hard push.’

The door opened once more – so much for peace and quiet – and Rafe entered.

He smiled to see that she was speaking and more or less in her right mind.

He was pale too, but his habitual self-possession had come to his aid.

‘I hate to interrupt this touching scene,’ he said, surveying them all with a comprehending eye, ‘but the carriage is ready; Charlie is waiting by it lest someone should attempt to steal it or sabotage the horses or anything of that dramatic nature, and if you feel well enough, Melia, I am of the strong opinion that we should go. I have had enough of this house, if you have not. I can carry you, for you should not walk.’

‘No,’ replied Marcus with extreme and rather thrilling decision, ‘I shall carry her. It is my right.’

And so Amelia was able to experience the highly agreeable sensation of the Major’s strong embrace once again.

He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, his arms under her thighs, and – was she not unwell and shaken, so that it might be excused?

– her hand crept up and rested against his chest as he bore her out of the room.

She could feel his heart beating strongly, though she feared her own was racing.

He took her through the crowded entrance hall full of gaping strangers, down the steps and out to the carriage, where he set her down tenderly on the seat and stepped back.

It was a large house; the way could easily have been longer and she would have made no objection.

Next time I fall and he carries me , thought Amelia, still not quite herself, I shall make sure to do it at Blenheim, or Wyverne, or Buckingham House.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

‘I did not speak,’ she replied with dignity, and closed her eyes again.

‘I will come and see how you do tomorrow.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Rafe said with a touch of impatience. ‘Go away now, man. Look to your own hurts. If you can walk without wincing for the next sennight, I will own myself surprised. But I expect we shall be seeing you disgustingly early tomorrow morning nonetheless.’

They did not speak much in the carriage. Rafe and Charlie sat in the backward-facing seats, and Amelia half-lay, half-sat uncomfortably with her head in Sophie’s lap. Marcus and Helena would make their own way home, she understood.

‘Some other guests realised you were pushed,’ Rafe said levelly. ‘I heard them speaking of it, and our host Sir Humphrey mentioned it to me with great concern. Otherwise, I might have hoped to pass it off as an accident…’

‘That’s right; I am so clumsy, it is widely known,’ Amelia said with some revival of her normal spirit.

‘Of course you are not. You might have feigned a sudden dizziness, or some such, if we alone knew what happened. But others than Sophie saw the hand that shoved you.’

‘I do not suppose that anyone could identify the culprit.’ This was Sophie, anger kindling in her voice now that the shock was passing off.

‘No, my love. But there were several of those so-called Friends behind us. It would be easy enough to put names to them. They will all fall under suspicion indiscriminately, I dare say.’

‘I have no interest in attempting to identify her, whoever she was. I certainly observed nothing, and I do not see what purpose it would serve. She has only to deny it, and who could prove anything against any one person amongst others?’ Amelia was trying hard to be brave, but she was still shaking.

‘You could have cracked your head and died of it,’ Rafe said, his voice controlled as ever but with powerful emotion underlying it.

Charlie, otherwise speechless this long while, muttered in agreement.

‘Or broke your neck. It is attempted murder. Do not try to tell me that it is anything less. Only Thornfalcon’s quick reactions made sure you were not seriously hurt. We owe him a great debt, all of us.’

‘You’re right, Rafe, I could have died, or been seriously hurt, and so could he, Marcus, or any of us, or some innocent bystander we knocked down at the foot of the steps. An elderly person, a woman with child. And for what? A fantasy. A piece of foolish gossip.’

‘Hush now,’ Sophie said soothingly. ‘You need to rest. We can talk about all this tomorrow. One thing I know is that I would not care to be the person who did this, if Lord Thornfalcon found me out.’