Ruined By The Reckless Viscount

Lord Winterton had not seen her for six years and even then in the brevity and tenseness of the whole situation he probably had not observed her closely. These clothes would maintain her anonymity, she was sure of it.

As an added insurance she had placed a small paper knife in her left pocket wrapped in leather and within easy reach.

She knew she would not use it on him, but it was a protection to keep him at bay if all else failed. She would avoid confrontation if she could, but if it was impossible she at least wanted to have a weapon in order to escape.

Her sister knocked on the door and came in, her face set in an expression that told Florentia she was not pleased.

‘I think you should reconsider this whole mad scheme of yours, Flora. This may be the last chance for you to do so for once you are in that carriage—’

Florentia interrupted her. ‘I shall be fine. Winterton is hardly going to jump on a young and sickly artist. He is from society, for goodness sake, and a product of years of manners and propriety.’

This observation did not seem to alleviate her sister’s worries whatsoever, nor her own, in fact, given what had already transpired between them.

‘Manners and propriety are not words that come easily to my mind when I think of Winterton, Flora. I could come with you?’

‘No.’ They had had this conversation a number of times. ‘I do not need you there and from what I have read of the workings of a private commission it would be very odd to take an onlooker.’

‘But the whole thing is odd and you should not be risking the chance of discovery. There might be others there.’

‘He has said there would not be.’

‘He might be able to see through your disguise.’

‘Can you?’

‘Well, no. If I did not know any of this, I would barely recognise you myself.’

‘The painting shall take at the most four mornings. Twelve hours. After that I’ll have a good amount of money for Papa and Mama and me to live on. My reputation with Mr Ward will stay wholly intact as well and so hopefully more sales of work will follow.’

And I will know exactly what I am facing, for better or for worse.

‘I have already said to Papa that I can help, but he won’t accept it.’

‘Because it would be Roy’s money, Maria, and Papa is too proud a man to take it.’

‘Proud and foolish and if any of this leads to a problem for you I shall berate him for ever. I do hope you are not late back and if you need me at any time...’

‘I won’t.’

‘Roy said if Winterton hurts even one hair on your body he will kill him.’

Privately Flora wondered if her sister truly believed in this absurdity. Roy was slight and short whereas everything she remembered of the Viscount was the exact opposite. ‘I will bear that in mind.’

There were tears in her sister’s eyes.

‘Trust me, Maria. Please.’

The brown curls jolted up and down as she nodded and then the butler was there with Florentia’s coat and hat and she simply followed him out.

* * *

Winterton’s town house on St James’s Square was far grander than any she had ever seen before. Certainly the Viscount must be somewhere at the very top of the social tree and climbing higher by the moment if the tales Maria told were anything at all to go by.

Suddenly Flora felt less certain, the clothes she wore that had seemed like a shield at home were now only thin layers over the heart of her deceit. But it was too late to back out and when the man waiting at the bottom of the wide steps leading up to the house asked her to follow him in she did so.

Once at the front door a different and even sterner-looking servant indicated a chair just inside the reception hall and, taking her prepared canvas and the small satchel filled with paint and charcoal, Flora sat down to wait.

* * *

Thirty minutes later she was still there and the bravery garnered over years of hurt had dissipated into a much lesser force beneath the heavy ticking of a clock in the corner.

The same servant finally returned, his face as dismissive as before. A mere artist was not to be bothered with or coddled, she supposed. She was surprised she had not been dispatched around to the back door when first she had come, reasoning it would be the carriage, no doubt. Anyone who arrived in his lordship’s own conveyance was probably to be treated with some amount of care.

The room she was now taken to was darkened, the curtains pulled and a single candle glowing on the desk behind which a figure sat quite still.

‘Thank you for coming, Mr Rutherford.’ A hand gestured to the seat in front of him but he did not come to his feet.

Florentia sat as carefully as she could and as her eyes became accustomed to the dimness she saw exactly what she had hoped...and feared.

James Waverley, Lord Winterton, was indeed her kidnapper.

Still undeniably beautiful, but dishevelled somewhat, one pale and clear green eye wholly shot with red and his bottom lip split at the corner.

Her heart began to thump rapidly and she hoped the movement did not show through her clothing. The cloth at her neck felt as if it might rob her of all breath with its tightness. Please God let the asthma stay at bay, she found herself thinking, the catch in her throat worrying.

‘I have been indisposed, Mr Rutherford, and I apologise for keeping you waiting.’ The Viscount said this quietly and the voice was nothing like the one she remembered. It was hoarse and scratchy and deep.

Tipping her head by way of response, Florentia sniffed without decorum. The lump in her throat was so large she thought suddenly that she might just begin to cry. In deliverance? In shock? In the solace of seeing that he was alive and that her father had not killed him after all.

Years of guilt and anger melded into this one moment of utter relief. She swallowed a number of times to try to find a balance, uncaring as to what the Viscount might think of her and glad for the dimness in the room.

Another clock above the mantel beat out the seconds. This house was full of clocks, she thought, the sound of time passing, life disappearing by the second. Or rediscovered, she mused, the stoppage of life between them now running on again with a different rhythm, another truth?

The hand nearest to her lying on the table held deep bruising, the fight echoed on his face. The violence of such lacerations made the room seem smaller. Last time she had met him there’d been blood, too. And force.