Chapter 31

Chapter Thirty-One

" I hope you do not mind that I invited myself along on your errands, Mrs. Wood," the Marchioness of Blackwood said lightly.

"Not at all, my lady."

Despite her apprehension at being alone with her lover's mama, Xenia managed a smile. She was already on edge after Rawlins cornered her in the stillroom, where she'd been preparing more ointment for Ethan's hand. The constable had seemed friendly, but his questions about her prior employment and history had spurred her heart into a panicked gallop. She'd told the truth where she could and replied vaguely at other times.

She didn't know if Rawlins was suspicious of her. Or if Ethan was aware that the constable had questioned her. What she did know was that she felt a strong impulse to flee the manor, and she'd almost made it out when Lady Blackwood intercepted her and requested to accompany her to Chuddums.

The marchioness's carriage had deposited them at the village green. Xenia had a list of errands to run, and her first stop was at the draper's to acquire more linens for the guests. As she and Lady Blackwood strolled toward the shop, they were shadowed by a pair of footmen.

"My husband would have a fit if I did not bring an escort." Shaded by a ruffled parasol that matched her walking dress, the marchioness gave Xenia a knowing look. "The Harrington men tend to be overprotective."

Since Xenia couldn't think of a response that wouldn't give away too much, she said nothing.

"May I call you Xenia? It is a lovely name."

"Of course, my lady. Thank you," Xenia mumbled.

"In return, you may call me Pandora. Or Penny, if we are to become friends."

"Oh no, I couldn't, my lady."

Xenia glanced around nervously. She'd already waved at a few villagers who were watching her and the sophisticated lady with unabashed curiosity. The last thing she needed was to fuel the gossip mill by appearing overfamiliar with her employer's mama.

"Come, my dear. We are women of the world, are we not? As such, I hope we may speak frankly, without the pretensions of formality."

The marchioness, Xenia observed, had a talent for getting her way, but doing so in a fashion that was disarming and gracious. It was a talent that she had passed on to her daughter.

"Now, my son introduced you to us in a way that states his intentions quite clearly," Lady Blackwood said. "What remains less clear to me are your intentions."

Xenia knew the tattered brim of her bonnet didn't hide her flaming cheeks. Never in her life had she been so embarrassed—so caught in the act of wanting something beyond her reach. It was how she'd felt when Ethan noticed her eyeing the green dress, only this was a thousand times worse.

"I-I do not have any, ma'am. Intentions, I mean," she stammered. "His lordship is my employer?—"

"Dukes have married shopgirls and ladies eloped with footmen." Lady Blackwood's shoulders moved in an eloquent shrug. "Since my son does not seem to care about such things, I do not see why you should. His father and I raised him—and all his siblings—to follow their hearts when it comes to making the most important decisions in their lives. My question to you is whether you return Ethan's affections. Whether you care for him…and not just the life that he can afford you."

At the marchioness's pointed words, indignation burst in Xenia's chest.

"I don't give a whit about his money or title," she said tightly. "I've been fending for myself since the age of sixteen and getting by just fine. I do not need anyone to give me what I can earn for myself. It's a simple, peaceful life I want—the kind of happiness that, no offense, my lady, money cannot buy."

"None taken, and I happen to agree," Lady Blackwood said easily. "If it is not my son's fortune that interests you, I hope it is not his fame. As much as it grieves me to say it, Ethan is unlikely to perform again. I assume he has mentioned that his former fiancée ended things because of his injury?"

Xenia narrowed her eyes. "From what I understand, his fiancée ended things because Lord Ethan was getting better, and she could no longer play the role of nurse and martyr."

The marchioness arched her brows. "I take it that you have been talking to Gigi."

"No, ma'am. I have been talking to the person whom this concerns—the person whom you should be having this conversation with. Since you asked, however, I will say this: my only worry about Lord Ethan's injury is the pain that it causes him. Not the physical sort, which he has learned to cope with, but the emotional loss that comes from being deprived of one's art. Yet your son is strong, my lady, and he is not allowing his disability to define him. Did you know that he is now composing? Even if no one hears his beautiful piece, it will not matter because the important thing is that he is making music again. He is doing what he loves most, what he was born to do…"

Too late, Xenia realized she'd let her emotions get the better of her. Lady Blackwood was staring at her as if she'd suddenly sprouted two heads.

Blooming hell, did I just give a marchioness—and my lover's mama, no less—a blistering lecture? Must I ruin everything all the dashed time? What is wrong with me?

"I'm sorry." Xenia's chest constricted. "I shouldn't have?—"

"It is all right, my dear."

To Xenia's shock, a faint smile played on Lady Blackwood's lips.

"To be candid, I was wondering what Ethan saw in you," the lady said thoughtfully. "Now I think I understand."

"There is nothing to understand, ma'am. Believe me." Xenia was desperately glad they'd arrived at Mr. Duffield's. "Here we are at the draper's. I'll just, um, pop in. There is a dress shop across the way, if you would care to browse. Or the Leaning House offers a fine cup of tea…"

"I will amuse myself." Lady Blackwood waved her on. "Attend to your business, my dear."

Not needing to be told twice, Xenia dashed into the shop.

Mr. Duffield, a dapper blond fellow in his thirties, was the genius behind the manor's new curtains and upholstery. As he was patient, kind, and handsome, he was popular among local matrons. Currently, he was besieged by a circle of women vying for his opinion on various decorating projects.

"Good day, Mrs. Wood," he said with a flustered smile. "I'm assisting other patrons at the moment, but if you wouldn't mind waiting?—"

"I can manage on my own this time, sir," Xenia replied. "If you could direct me to the fabrics suitable for bed linens?"

He pointed her to the right section of the shop, and she took refuge among the bolts of white fabrics. Focusing on a mundane task was a relief after the tension-fraught day. She was stroking a fine Irish linen when she felt a presence behind her. She spun around.

"Alice?" She kept her voice low, thankful that the surrounding bolts provided shelter from curious eyes. "What are you…are you all right?"

Getting a closer look at her former colleague, she saw the bruising around Alice's right eye, which the artful application of paint did not completely conceal.

"The Abbess sent me to find you." Alice's voice had an uncharacteristic quiver. "She ain't happy and says she wants to discuss your future employ."

"I already sent her a message and returned her money?—"

"You ain't got a choice, Mary. None o' us do." Shadows flitted through Alice's gaze. "The Abbess 'as found 'erself a new place 'ere in Chuddums. By the docks, wot used to be the Rope and Anchor. You're to meet 'er there tonight."

"And if I don't?" Xenia said coldly.

"She said to give you this." Alice took out an envelope, pressing it into Xenia's unwilling hands. "Be smart. You're a good girl, and I don't want to see you get hurt. Midnight—don't be late."

Then Alice was gone.

Xenia, casting a furtive look around, broke the seal, and her heart shot into her throat at the message scrawled in a spidery hand.

I know who your mother is…and the world will too unless you do as I say.

Dazed, Xenia stumbled out of the shop. She heard Mr. Duffield calling after her, asking if he could help, but she didn't reply because no one could help. Panic gripped her as she stepped into the street, the hustle and bustle of everyday life a jarring juxtaposition to her inner chaos. She'd imagined exposure so many times, yet somehow she was still unprepared. She didn't know what to do next.

You know what you must do. Run.

Yet how could she leave Ethan, the man she loved?

A commotion on the corner distracted her from her turmoil. It was Mr. Bailey, and he was surrounded by three ruffians in front of his shop. Xenia recognized the leader of the brutes immediately.

Patrick Harlow.

"I paid you back what I owe and plenty more besides!" Mr. Bailey shouted, his eyes wild and nose bleeding into his dark moustache. "Borrowing money from you was the most foolish thing I've ever done, but I'm finished. I ain't giving you another farthing, so if you want to take your pound o' flesh, you're welcome to bloody try."

He raised his fists, his face pale but determined.

"If it's a public lesson you're wanting," Harlow sneered, "then that's what you'll be getting."

He took out a cosh, metal studs gleaming on the wide head of the weapon.

Xenia's insides clenched. Members of her mama's gang used a similar instrument, and she knew the damage it could do. Spectators gathered, horror on their faces as they watched the unfolding violence. The cutthroats closed in on Mr. Bailey, who bravely stood his ground.

All Mr. Bailey had done was try to get by. To keep his business afloat and support his loved ones. Why did brutes and villains always win?

Why is life so blooming unfair?

A dull roar filled Xenia's head. It drove her to the nearest weapon she could find. Grabbing it, she let it fly, and her aim hit true.

Harlow jolted as the potato struck him between the shoulder blades. Onlookers gasped as he whirled around, his eyes glittering with menace when he saw her.

"You again," he snarled. "What do you think you're doing, you little bitch?"

"Leave Mr. Bailey alone." Xenia grabbed another potato from Mr. Pickleworth's cart. "He's paid you back, fair and square. You have no business with him any longer."

"My business ain't none o' yours. Lads," Harlow barked at his two comrades, "you take care o' the butcher while I put this stupid wench in 'er place."

The brutes smiled evilly as they cornered Mr. Bailey. But Xenia couldn't help him, her own focus on the rapidly advancing Harlow. She gripped her makeshift projectile, ready to pelt him again…

Splat.

A tomato caught him in the face, exploding with juicy red gusto.

Stunned, she turned and saw Mr. Pickleworth standing close by.

The greengrocer lifted his brows. "I told you the tomatoes were ripe."

Beside him, his wife Loretta held a cabbage the size of a cannonball. "Don't make me use this," she called.

Harlow bared his teeth, advancing.

"Stand back," Xenia said to the pair.

She threw the potato, and Harlow ducked. He grinned, then yelped as something slammed into his jaw, knocking him to the ground. A rock?

Turning, Xenia saw Mr. Khan, who gave her a nod of support…and he wasn't alone. Mrs. Pettigrew, Mrs. Sommers, Mr. Duffield, and a dozen other villagers were there, all armed with makeshift weapons. Mrs. Thornton wielded a cast-iron frying pan while her husband carried a cricket bat. Similarly equipped residents of Chuddums had gathered behind Mr. Bailey as well. The two brutes backed away, helping their leader to his feet. The Corrigans were surrounded.

Harlow looked wildly around the circle of resolute faces. "You are going to pay for this! No one crosses the Corrigans."

"Leave our village," someone shouted. "We don't welcome the likes o' you!"

The words became a war cry, and suddenly the crowd began to chant.

"Leave Chuddums! Leave Chuddums!"

Harlow's eyes darted, and like the bully he was, he knew when he was beaten. He fled, followed by his lackeys, the three of them stumbling and running as the townsfolk chased them out of the village green.

When the last Corrigan disappeared from sight, a wild cheer erupted.

"Well, my dear."

Xenia spun around to see Lady Blackwood. Her footmen had their weapons drawn, eyes scanning the square. But there was only the boisterous celebration of ordinary folk discovering their own power.

"Have you completed your errands?" the marchioness inquired. "Or do you have other villains to expunge?"

Now that the peril was over, Xenia felt dazed. "I'm done."

"Splendid. If the men return in time from Cookham, we can all reconvene for tea." Lady Blackwood looped an arm through Xenia's, adding in a confiding tone, "I must skip the scones, however, having overindulged in Mrs. Pettigrew's delectable pudding."