Chapter 11

"My Lady, I assure you, your concerns are unfounded," Theodore said with calmness that surprised Agnes. "Miss Young and I found ourselves in an unfortunate?—"

His explanation was swiftly drowned by Lady Kirkland's raised voice as she addressed the crowd gathering around them, "I found the Marquess all over the girl!" The place was quiet as she made the pronouncement, then a series of gasps and murmurs followed like a flood. Agnes felt as though the ground beneath her was fracturing, and she was about to sink. Perhaps that would not be such a bad thing.

"Is that a rip in her dress?" The question, innocuous in any other circumstance, now felt like a verdict being passed down. Agnes's eyes darted down, her face flushing with embarrassment and fear.

But then she felt Theodore's hand on her arm, and he gently pushed her behind him, his stance protective, as if he could shield her from the scandal that threatened to engulf them. She appreciated the gesture, nevertheless.

The murmurs grew louder, and she shut her eyes, praying this was a nightmare that she would wake from at any moment. "I think we have seen enough here!" The voices quieted at that declaration, and she opened her eyes to see her father moving through the small crowd toward her.

The guests, voracious for scandal moments before, were now momentarily cowed by the gravity of his intervention. Agnes's heart clenched at the sight of him, fear and relief warring within her chest. What judgment would he pass? What disappointment would she read in his eyes? Yet, as he drew near, his arm encircling her shoulders not with anger but with an unmistakable protective firmness, she found herself leaning into his strength.

"We're going home," her mother's voice cut through the murmurs, appearing beside them with an air of quiet authority. There was a softness in her tone that was reassuring, but Agnes dared not hope.

As they made their way to the carriage through a secluded path with her father leading the way, Agnes silently thanked him for avoiding the prying eyes and whispered judgments within the manor. The relief of escaping those walls outweighed the quiet scrutiny she anticipated from her family.

The journey home in the carriage was shrouded in an intense silence that seemed almost tangible. Every sound—the creak of leather seats and clatter of horse hooves—echoed like the pounding of Agnes's heart. She sat rigidly, bracing herself for the impending confrontation that awaited them.

As predicted, upon their arrival at home, her father's urgency was palpable. He practically leaped out of the carriage without waiting for assistance from the footmen and offered his hand to Agnes with swiftness that was the opposite of his usual calm demeanor. His uncharacteristic actions only heightened her own turmoil.

"Sit down, please," he said as they entered his study, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. She obeyed, feeling the cool wood of the arms beneath her trembling fingers. Caroline sat in the chair beside her.

"What happened tonight?" he asked.

Agnes opened her mouth, but no words came. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Gillingham and I had a slight disagreement this evening, and I was trying to get away from him…" When she saw her father's expression darken, she quickly explained, "It was to avoid the any confrontation. I was not watching where I was going, and I tripped. Gillingham saved me. He did nothing untoward."

William was silent, which prompted Agnes to continue. "Father, please believe me; it wasn't what it seemed. The rip in my dress was from the thorns in the bushes. They caught when I nearly fell."

Beside her, she felt her mother's silent presence filled with worry and fear. Agnes couldn't bring herself to meet her mother's eyes, afraid of the reflection she might find there. The thought of seeing disappointment and doubt staring back at her was a weight too heavy to bear.

Standing there on shaky ground as she prepared for her father's reprimand, tears threatened to spill over despite her efforts to hold them back. Agnes had never imagined that she would be inadvertently responsible for the tarnishing of their name. Her gaze moved and remained on the floor.

"What did you and Gillingham disagree about?" he asked, and Agnes tensed. How could she tell her father the truth without exposing that her courtship had been false?

"Agnes, your father is asking to discern Gillingham's innocence," Caroline said gently, patting Agnes; hand that rested on the arm of her chair.

"I…we…it was simply and ordinary quarrel," she answered, and William's brows rose.

"What was it about?" he asked, slowly. Agnes knew she could not escape this, and her thoughts moved quicker than she thought them capable.

"Gillingham was jealous. I had just finished dancing with Lord Fairfax, and he thought the Viscount was competing with him for my affections." Forgive me, Theodore.

William leaned back in his scene and watched her, his expression unreadable. "And you were forcefully argumentative, I presume."

Agnes nodded and lowered her eyes again. "Yes, Father."

"Agnes, look at me," he commanded with an unwavering tone that brooked no defiance but lacked any harshness.

"Truly, nothing happened. Lady Kirkland is lying," she reaffirmed, her voice trembling with emotion as she struggled to maintain composure.

Feeling his gentle but firm touch under her chin urging her to look up, she met an unexpected sight: reassurance in her father's eyes that took her breath away.

"I trust you and believe nothing happened," William said with a steady voice that Agnes held onto like an anchor. Her mother's hand on her shoulder added a comforting squeeze.

"I'm sorry," Agnes whispered tearfully. She had expected reproach but found understanding and support instead. He left his seat and embraced her warmly as she allowed herself to cry, overwhelmed with relief and gratitude.

"No, dear. We are sorry," came her mother's soft voice. She joined the embrace.

As they stood united, Agnes found courage to speak again. "Lady Kirkland thrives on rumors; it's not your fault."

When she locked eyes with them once more, an unspoken understanding passed between them—support not just for this moment but for all challenges ahead. "I'll be more cautious," she muttered to herself, reflecting on past events.

Her father's next words held wisdom and kindness. "Can you promise me something, Agnes?" he asked earnestly.

She looked at him attentively. "Yes,"

"Never blame yourself—not now, not ever," he implored gently yet firmly with eyes full of compassion.

Overwhelmed by the depth of her parents' love and the strength of their support, Agnes felt a fresh wave of emotion tightening her throat. She nodded, her voice lost to the tears.

"Society is never worth the heartache," Caroline said. "She seems to harbor some sort of grudge, though. I've felt tension from her since the caterpillar incident."

Her father, who had been silent in his contemplation, looked up, a hint of amusement in his eyes despite the gravity of their situation. "Oh come now, Caroline. What woman would harbor a grudge against a foolish little boy?" he asked.

"Lady Kirkland most definitely would, William," her mother countered without missing a beat, her fact tightening with displeasure. "So much so that she has now brazenly taken it out on his family by spreading a false scandal. That woman is as petty as she is a gossip."

"Well, whatever her reasons are, we must find a way to rectify what we can," her father said. The determination in his tone suggested he was already strategizing, pondering their next moves in the game of their social standing.

Agnes felt an overwhelming surge of guilt and despair wash over her. Despite the warmth and support radiating from her parents, the stark reality of the situation pressed heavily upon her. She couldn't escape the nagging thought that she had irrevocably tarnished not just her own reputation, but her family's good name as well. Watching her mother and father deliberate over potential solutions, a poignant realization struck her—her heart fracturing anew with the weight of her perceived failure.

What had she done? The question haunted her, echoing through the recesses of her mind like a persistent shadow. And, perhaps more painfully, what had her actions forced her parents to endure? They had done nothing to deserve a daughter who would inadvertently cast them into the midst of scandal and societal scorn.

She should never have agreed to the arrangement with Gillingham. Her father had advised her not to let society push her to desperation. But she'd done just that. At great cost, too.

His life felt like an atrocious joke, and he wandered the lamp-lit streets aimlessly. The lamp lights flickered, casting shadows that danced mockingly at his every step. The very air he breathed felt like poison. Theodore's mind was a tempest, churning with the shocking, unbelievable events of the evening—a scandal, of all things, when his reputation hung by a thread.

A reputation he'd been painstakingly mending. And then there was the deal with Asmont, critical beyond measure, now teetering on the brink of collapse. Glancing up to confirm where he was, he opened the door and went inside.

"Ah, Lord Gillingham, I'd despaired of seeing you again in this lifetime," came Gentleman John Jackson's familiar, buoyant greeting the moment Theodore stepped into the establishment.

Boxing at Gentleman Jackson's had long been a favored diversion of Theodore's, and tonight, he was hoping it would be a balm to his restless spirit. Yet, it felt like it had been ages since he last donned boxing gloves—and not mere weeks.

He had every intention of fully indulging in the sport tonight. Albeit for all the wrong reasons, he mused miserably. "Do you have an empty room?" he inquired, his voice devoid of any warmth or jest.

"Oh—ah, just a moment, My Lord," Jackson replied, a hint of stutter in his voice, taken aback by Theodore's uncharacteristic brusqueness. Jackson studied him for a moment, his gaze flickering with concern and curiosity. It seemed he yearned to inquire about Theodore's distress, but he wisely held his tongue. With a nod, he turned, retreating into the deeper recesses of his establishment, leaving Theodore to his brooding silence.

"Must feel good, Gillingham," a voice nearby taunted, almost too quietly, breaking through his reverie.

Theodore turned, noticing a man seated at a table in the corner, diligently tying strips of linen around his knuckles in what appeared to be preparation for a boxing bout. The man's focus seemed intense, yet there was an unusual ease in his posture, a contradiction that caught Theodore's attention just as the man's words reached his ears.

"I beg your pardon?" Theodore found himself momentarily taken aback by the intrusion, his brows knitting.

"Must feel good to be strutting brazenly about Town after ruining an innocent young lady," the man repeated, his voice carrying an unconcerned yet piercing edge. As he spoke, he paused his actions to pick lint off his colorful waistcoat. "But then, the young lady's reputation was already questionable." The corners of his mouth twitched and he let out a mocking chuckle.

Theodore's vision grew red—figuratively—and something hot and overwhelming surged through him. His hands clenched at his sides as every last bit of composure he had broke.