The maimed invalids, missing arms and legs, were becoming a nuisance in the city. They were everywhere, begging for coins and scraps of food, and the rich were discomfited by having to view their condition.
The remarks being bandied were crude and stupid, and Nicholas was at the limit of what he’d listen to without responding. Didn’t the bloody snobs remember who he was? For pity’s sake, he was a captain in the army! He was wearing his uniform! Could they be anymore condescending?
They had to assume he was deaf. Or perhaps they thought, once he’d accepted the title of earl, he’d lost his compassion for ordinary citizens.
He hadn’t.
Behind him, a man claimed, “I’ve heard some of them do it intentionally.”
“Do what?” someone asked.
“They allow themselves to be injured so they may return home and not have to work again. They enjoy being on the public dole.”
“I’ve heard the very same,” another agreed, and there was a second murmuring of, “Here, here!”
“They’re general rabble who have some nerve, demanding that we—”
“That’s it,” Nicholas grumbled.
He threw his glass on the floor and whipped around. Three men gaped at him. Not certain which one had been the most insulting, he honed in on the fellow in the middle. He was short, fat, and ugly, and he had a vapid expression.
“Enough!” Nicholas bellowed.
“Really, Lord Stafford,” the imprudent oaf jeered, “I haven’t said what we don’t all know.”
Quick as a snake, Nicholas seized him by the throat and lifted him up so they were nose to nose.
“Shut your rude mouth,” Nicholas ordered, “or I’ll shut it for you.” He squeezed his fingers, cutting off air.
“I . . . I . . . argh . . .”
“If you utter one more disparaging word, I’ll beat you to a pulp—right now with all your snooty friends watching.”
“Nicholas!” Veronica’s father scolded. “Honestly! Let him go! Let him go!”
Numerous hands reached out to pry them apart, and Nicholas was yanked away. His victim staggered and was caught by his companions.
The room had grown deathly still. Everyone was gawking, as if a barbarian had been loosed in their midst. It was the exact type of reaction he’d always dreamed of wringing from them, but as he faced them down, their collective disdain was infuriating.
He felt young and foolish and out of his element, as if he’d entered the wrong party by mistake.
Veronica’s father was hissing in his ear. “Your behavior is most inappropriate. Step outside and compose yourself. Do not return until you are able to conduct yourself in a suitable manner.”
He shoved Nicholas away and, like a chastened boy, Nicholas left without argument. He went into the hall, then headed to the foyer and out the door, curious as to whether he might keep on going. What was preventing him? He didn’t want to speak to any of them ever again, didn’t want to pretend they were cordial or that they had anything in common.
Why was he hanging on through such a nightmare? The only logical decision was to cry off. Why couldn’t he? Why? Why?
The questions nagged at him, but he had no answers.
He stood on the stoop, gulping in fresh air, and he stared out at the dark sky, hating that he couldn’t see the stars.
His thoughts wandered to Emeline, and he wondered how she was faring. Was she gazing up at the same sky? Could she see the stars that were hidden from him in town?
That last morning, when he’d talked to her in his library, she’d been so quiet. He’d done what he could for her, his every choice designed to make her happy, but she hadn’t seemed to be.
He knew he’d hurt her, and he hoped his parting gifts—the house, school, and stipend—would show her how sorry he was.
He liked to imagine her at Stafford, ensconced in her new home, sitting in the schoolroom and preparing her lessons. It was a pretty picture, one that soothed him enormously. Someday, he would visit the estate, and he’d find her settled and content. She wouldn’t be angry anymore; she’d thank him for the life he’d given her.
He peered down the drive, and out on the street, there were hoards of people huddled by the gate. They were gaping up at the mansion, eager to catch a glimpse of London’s famous and infamous. He walked over and strolled among them, and they removed their hats and curtsied as if he should be exalted and admired.
Money could do that for a person, he’d found. Money could make a man into someone he wasn’t.
When he might have continued on, a coach swept into view, halting any escape. An old-fashioned pair of trumpets blared to announce its approach. On noting that it was his betrothed, having orchestrated a flashy entrance, he rolled his eyes.
Why didn’t he slip into the crowd and disappear? He was naught but an emasculated eunuch, good for nothing but obsequious bowing to the wishes of others.
If Emeline could see me now, he glumly pondered, what would she think?
He pushed her out of his mind. He’d made his choice, he’d picked his path, and it didn’t include Emeline Wilson. He could have stayed at Stafford, could have married her and built a family with her and her sisters, but he hadn’t. It was no use regretting.
The coach stopped next to him, and he waited forever, gnashing his teeth, as the step was lowered and the door opened. Finally, she emerged to the oohs and aahs of the assembled throng—many applauded—and Nicholas couldn’t blame them for being agog.
She looked like a fairy princess, attired in a gown so shimmery that the fabric might have been spun from gold. Perhaps it had been. The skirt had a long train, and four maids alighted behind her to carry it as she promenaded into the mansion.
She knew how to amaze and dazzle, how to get others to worship her. Too bad they were the sorts of characteristics he loathed in a
