Page 53 of A Lady of Conscience

Fennick remained standing beside the curricle as James took the reins from his tiger. “Miss Heywood is a queer little creature,” he said.

James outwardly stilled, even as a frightening surge of rage ignited in his veins. It took the whole of his faculties to master it. Once he did, he handed the driving reins back to his tiger, and slowly turned to face Lord Fennick.

The blackguard’s lip curled with satisfaction at having successfully hit his mark. “Not anything special, I thought,” he continued unrepentantly. “But your interest encourages me to give her a second look.”

“Is this what you’ve been reduced to since Oxford?” James asked in a voice of perilous calm. “Threatening respectable young ladies?”

“I’m a man of property, with a title to my name, and an unsullied bloodline to match—unlike some other gentlemen I could mention. The suggestion of paying my addresses to Miss Heywood can hardly be construed as a threat.” Fennick smirked. “She colors up prettily, doesn’t she? One might almost be willing to overlook her peculiarities.”

“Stay away from her,” James said.

“And there are several. Miss Heywood appears to⁠—”

“Don’t even speak her name.”

Fennick broke off. “Why not? She’s just the diversion I need to amuse me this season. More amusing still, now I’ve discovered she’s your little pet. I predict I’ll be speaking her name frequently.”

“You won’t,” James assured him.

“Or what?”

“Or your unsullied bloodline will end with you.”

Fennick’s satisfied smile froze on his face. His eyes narrowed. “Now that sounds like a threat.”

Bill’s gaze darted between the two men as he listened with rapt attention. He would doubtless be providing a detailed report of the entire exchange in the servants’ quarters this evening.

“It’s not an idle one,” James said.

Fennick uttered a snort of disbelief. “You’re bluffing.”

James took a menacing step toward him. He had ignored countless remarks from Fennick and his kind over the years. Snide comments about James’s grandfather having been a highwayman, about the legitimacy of James’s father’s birth, and about James’s own questionable claim to the earldom. Never once had James succumbed to the impulse for violence, despite the urge for it being baked into his bones.

But this was different.

This was Hannah.

She wasn’t like Ivo, Jack, or even Kate, who could brush off vile gossip and mean-spirited whispers as effortlessly as if they were swatting away a troublesome gnat. Hannah was gentle. Sensitive. Exceedingly precious to him.

James wouldn’t permit anyone to threaten her, even if it meant dispatching the threatener himself.

He loomed over Fennick. “Try me,” he said softly, “and find out.”

Chapter Seventeen

“Your note said it was urgent,” Hannah said. She sat across from Mattie in the vicarage’s small parlor. Her maid, Ernsby, was disposed near the window, having accompanied Hannah to Locksmore in the Heywoods’ carriage.

It was the first time Hannah had been invited to the Winthrops’ modest home. Located but a few miles from Camden Place, it was a thatch-roofed structure, with a neatly arranged interior, furnished in dark wood and overstuffed chintz. Two aging wolfhounds were stretched out at odd angles on the worn carpet, and a well-fed black cat was curled up in a wingchair.

A grandmotherly-looking housekeeper had brought in the tea tray the moment Hannah had arrived.

Mattie was unusually somber as she lifted the white porcelain pot to pour out their tea. “It is urgent.” She passed Hannah a cup. “Though not, perhaps, as dire as I made it seem.”

“Is it about my cat article?” Hannah had posted the piece to Mattie several days ago and had yet to hear back from her.

“No, no. That is…it does concern your essay, but not for any reason you might think.”

“Then you approved of it?”