Chapter Nine

Smoke, lit by the Bengal lights, hung heavy and noxious in the air as above Annabelle, fireworks burst and glittered in a shower of sparks. Directly ahead, a tightrope walker made his precarious way across the rope. So confident was he in his ability, nothing had been placed underneath to catch him if he fell. Annabelle stared at him in mingled horror and wonder.

With every bang, Lady Windermere tittered, and Theo looked into the air with a rapt expression. To her, it was probably deeply romantic, and Annabelle noticed the way Nathanial's arm curved around her waist.

Now she had come to an agreement with the Marquess, it felt as though there was a weight off her chest. She'd explained the situation to Theo, and although it hadn't solved the question of who had attempted to force them into matrimony, it had at least posed an immediate solution.

She was not to be married.

Relief made her giddy, and she found she didn't mind the noise as much as usual. As they walked, their little group becoming somewhat less tightly knit, Annabelle trailed her fingers along the freshly budding leaves of the hedges. May had come fast, and the nights were warming.

She was not to be married. What was more, the Marquess had no desire to marry her. A little too vehemently, perhaps, but better be too vehement than harbouring a secret desire to be her husband.

With a sigh, she tipped her head back to the distant stars. The fireworks continued, their bangs and pops combating the orchestra playing in the pit, and she took a deep breath of the smoky air, savouring the unexpected sense of freedom the night had brought her.

Perhaps now she would be seen to turn down the Marquess of Sunderland, no other gentlemen would ask for her hand.

When she looked up again, her party had vanished.

The sense of peace she'd been nurturing faded away on the breeze. All around were the bustling figures of strangers, and when she hurried forwards, all she could see were strangers. Panicked now, she pushed through the crowd, searching for Nathanial's tall frame or Theo's dark hair. All she saw were strangers. The smoke was acrid, cloying in her throat, and she coughed, her eyes watering.

Air, she needed air.

Her heart pounding, her vision blurring, she turned in a full circle, searching blindly for someone she knew. An acquaintance, any acquaintance. Theo would be preferable, but she would have even taken the Dowager Duchess.

A hand clamped on her arm. "Lady Annabelle," Lord Helmsley said with a smile like a shark scenting blood. "Are you lost?"

Jacob was drunk. Not surprising, given this was his preferred state of being every time he came too close to feeling something. It allowed him to forget.

For Jacob, forgetting was a necessity.

Villiers and his companion for the night—he had already forgotten her name and it wouldn't matter come morning anyway—talked in low voices beside him, probably debating what dark corner they could hide in. He smiled suggestively at a courtesan in a revealing dress, and was contemplating drawing her into a less crowded area when he saw her.

A flash of gold hair. A dress that, in daylight, might have been a pale powder blue, and in this light looked more like white or grey. A pale face with too-large eyes and a nose that was a fraction too small. She looked like a lost fairy, and over her, looking more like a goblin king, loomed Lord Helmsley, one hand at her waist, the other gripping her hair.

Jacob hesitated. Villiers paused and shot him a frown.

"Everything all right, Barrington?"

He was not a knight in shining armour and he certainly did not possess a horse. But the sight of Helmsley pushing the fairy against the hedge was displeasing enough that he shook his head at Villiers.

"You go on."

Villiers shrugged and continued, more interested in the beauty by his side than Jacob's noble-adjacent intentions.

The dark anger in Jacob, the one he usually released in the boxing ring, bubbled up inside him. Not for Annabelle—he didn't care about her in particular. But Helmsley, with his wandering hands and greasy smile, was the kind of man it was Jacob's pleasure to hate.

No, he was definitely not a knight.

But if there was one thing that went against his blackened, blood-stained moral code, it was to force oneself on an unwilling woman.

"Stop struggling," Helmsley spat as he hauled her into a dark, quiet path, away from the lights and the crowds. No one stopped or gave them a second glance. Pickpockets weaved through the crowd, and the later the hour became, the rowdier Vauxhaul was likely to get.

"Let go of me!" Annabelle's voice was too quiet, deathly afraid.

"Hide from me, will you?" he sneered. "I know you were out in the garden that night."

Annabelle shook her head, eyes wide, terrified. She locked eyes with Jacob and recognition flooded her gaze. Please, she mouthed.

"I had it all planned," Helmsley said, roughly dragging her another few feet. "I spread the rumour that you were in the gardens with the Marquess of Sunderland. That should have ruined you nicely. And then I hear you're engaged to him?"

Tears streamed down her face as she shook her head again.

"You were supposed to be engaged to me."

Jacob stepped into the deserted path after them, letting the darkness cloak him. "Do you know," he said conversationally, "I rather suspect she was trying to avoid you in those gardens after all." Then he grabbed a handful of Helmsley's coat, hauled him back, and planted his fist in Helmsley's face.

Annabelle attempted to scream, but no sound came out. Her hair was half undone, falling from its pins, the soft weight of it brushing her neck. Her hands shook. She wanted to vomit.

Lord Helmsley was on the floor. The Marquess of Sunderland, his breath smelling of wine though his posture was perfectly steady, stood over him.

She was definitely going to vomit.

"A word of advice," the Marquess said, his voice deadly soft. Lord Helmsley spat a tooth onto the grass. "Touch another lady without her express permission again, and I will put a bullet through your worthless heart. Do you understand me?"

Lord Helmsley swallowed, his expression half hidden in the darkness. But there was defiance mingled with the fear in his voice as he said, "You would not dare."

"Wouldn't I?" He leant forward, one foot coming to crush Lord Helmsley's chest. Annabelle let out a squeak. "Do you think yours would be the first body I've left behind me? Do you think I have any qualms about squashing you like an ant?" He pressed and the air visibly left Lord Helmsley's chest. "Believe me when I say you have no comprehension of what I'm capable of."

Annabelle pressed her palms into her eyes. Seconds later, she heard Lord Helmsley climb to his feet and flee.

Then she was alone with the Marquess. Equal parts fear and relief flooded her. Fear because she believed every word he'd said—she had no comprehension of what he was capable of—and relief that at least he wasn't Lord Helmsley, whose capabilities she fully comprehended.

Warm fingers wrapped around her wrists, drawing her hands down from her eyes. "Did he hurt you?" the Marquess asked flatly. She would have thought he hadn't consumed any wine at all except for the smell of it on its breath and the dangerous glitter in his eyes.

"No, but I—"

"Good. Now pull yourself together." He dropped her hands like she had burnt him.

She raised her gaze to his shadowed face. The urge to vomit was replaced by the urge to cry. They were trapped. If Helmsley had spread a rumour they were in the garden together, she had to marry him or she truly would be ruined forever.

"This changes everything." She pressed a hand to her eyes. "We can't just end the engagement as though it never happened."

"On the contrary."

"But I will be ruined," she said helplessly. "And I wouldn't care so much for myself, but my family—they don't deserve this. Theo is a duchess and my mother—my father."

"Will he disown you?" the Marquess asked, and there was something in his voice—unarticulated hurt, the kind of deep pain that punctured through to the marrow.

"I–I don't think so." Hopefully. She wasn't entirely sure what her father would do if she was ruined. Certainly, it would mean she was unlikely to ever marry, which would displease him, but would he care enough to take action?

Theo, at least, would protect her. But at what cost? A woman with a ruined reputation could not mingle in Society, and her family would be tainted by association. Yes, she would finally see her dream to remain unmarried, but she had wanted that decision to be her own, not forced on her by the actions of others.

"Can you not tell everyone that we were never in the garden?" she asked desperately. "Or perhaps something else to avoid scandal?"

He gave a short, hard laugh that dispelled the last of her hope. "Do I strike you as the sort of man who avoids scandal, little bird?"

"Please."

"Please what? Marry you?" He shook his head. "I'm afraid I'm not the marrying sort."

"There has to be some way to convince everyone nothing happened."

"I'm all ears."

She desperately cast around for a way out of this mess. Lord Helmsley had been the one to spread the rumour, and if it was known that she had slighted him, perhaps some people would believe he had done it out of spite, but the engagement notice only confirmed the situation.

"I would have thought you were an expert on avoiding marriage."

"Oh I am," he said, the glitter turning to a gleam. "But I achieve that by not involving myself with unmarried ladies. You were a mistake."

The words punched the air from her lungs. "Then you have nothing? No solution?"

"Scandal doesn't last forever. Ride it out, and once it's over, people will have forgotten."

"Hardly reassuring given the way they will treat me in the meantime," she said, hating the way her voice broke. "And what about my family?"

"So long as they will not turn you out, that is all that matters."

"That is not all that matters!" She touched a hand to her tangled hair. Everyone was going to see her and make an assumption about what she had been doing. The moment she stepped back into the light, she would be even more ruined. They would assume the worst because that was what people loved to do—they loved to make the worst of every given situation.

They would stare at her. Whisper. Already, the prospective weight of their attention made her want to sink into the ground. And they would assume, again, that she had been with the Marquess of Sunderland, who was well known for having a different woman for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Her lip quivered. And the Marquess, damn him, was just staring at her, his face impassive, nothing moving but those eyes as they travelled across her face.

She sniffed, valiantly holding in her tears. When she was home and it was all over, then she would cry.

"You look dishevelled," he said as she turned, steeling herself to enter the fray once more.

"No, I—" Her protest cut off as he took hold of her shoulders and turned her to face the hedge. He gathered the hair that had fallen loose across her shoulders and repinned it with fingers that had no right being so nimble. "My lord," she said, her voice uncertain. "What are you doing?"

"Rendering you slightly less dishevelled, my lady," he said. "Fear not—I have some experience in this area."

"Dishevelment?"

"And the aftermath." His fingers trailed along her neck and she had to bite back the urge to shiver. It made no sense how Lord Helmsley's touch made her want to gag, and the Marquess's made her skin prickle with sensitivity.

"I wasn't aware debauchery had this sort of aftermath," she said.

"Of course you weren't." He stepped back and when she turned, he offered her his arm. "Allow me to assist you in finding your party."

She gaped at him, and he tucked her hand in his arm, flashing her a brilliant smile.

"I don't understand," she said weakly.

"I'm escorting you."

"Why?"

"Because much as your reputation may suffer from being with me, I didn't punch that man merely so another could assault you." His tone was very slightly bored, and she peeked into his face to get an idea of his expression. Blank.

So, he wouldn't consent to marrying her—which was both a relief and a travesty—but he was insisting on escorting her. She couldn't quite work him out. It seemed he had a trace of conscience, after all.

A thought that seemed to plague him as much as it did her, by the brief flash of irritation across his face as he led her back into the crowd.

"Never mind a knight," he muttered, more to himself, it seemed, than her. "I'm an upstanding bloody saint."