Page 67 of The Trouble with Tweed

Claire frowned. She was close enough to recognize the male’s voice, at least. It was Lord Nelson, who, only perhaps an hour prior, had again asked Claire for a dance. She’d said no, of course, and he’d gone away with a sour look on his smarmy face.

“I really think I should be going.”

“Not at all, my dove. I have waited a long time to tell you how beautiful you are. Your skin is like alabaster. Your hair is…radiant.”

Claire held back a snicker, thinking that perhaps Lord Nelson and Beatrice had studied at the same school of poetry.

“No, I don’t think so,” the young lady said more stoutly. “I should like to go back inside now.”

With the slight increase of volume, Claire was able to discern who the young lady was—Sylvia. Claire hurried around the corner, her heart pounding, just in time to see Lord Nelson take hold of Sylvia’s waist and try and kiss her. Sylvia craned her neck and lifted her hands to push his face from hers, but Lord Nelson was much stronger.

Claire hardly knew what she was doing as she stooped and picked up a palm-sized stone from the garden floor.

“No,” Sylvia cried, struggling. “Stop.”

Perhaps if Lord Nelson had stopped, Claire would have let the stone slip from her fingers and simply escorted Sylvia back inside. But Lord Nelson didn’t heed Sylvia’s protests; he didn’t stop his attempts to kiss the girl.

Claire strode forward, her skirts whispering about her ankles. When she was right behind Lord Nelson, she demanded, “Stop.”

He whirled, snarling, one hand still cruelly gripping Sylvia’s waist. Claire had already wound back. Lord Nelson only had enough time for his eyes to go wide before Claire struck him in the face with all her might. There was a crunch and a spurt of blood, and Lord Nelson toppled backwards into a large shrub, which neatly swallowed him whole.

“Are you all right?” Claire asked, laying a hand on Sylvia’s trembling shoulder.

Sylvia’s hand was at her throat. Her chest heaved. It took her several moments to recover enough to speak. “I hardly know. I suppose I am now. Thank you for…er, that.”

Claire peered at the bush, trying to get a view of Lord Nelson, but the shrubbery concealed all but one of his booted feet.

The next moment, Claire’s heart rate jumped again—she heard multiple pairs of footsteps crunching towards them on the gravel. She quickly ducked down and hefted Lord Nelson’s booted foot further into the shrub.

“Is he dead?” Sylvia whispered.

There was no time to respond, for suddenly three young ladies appeared at the far end of the garden room.

“Miss Preston, Miss Barrows,” the lady in front of the grouping said. “We thought we heard a dreadful shout.”

It was Miss Patricia Bates, one of the most fashionable young ladies of the current Season. Claire didn’t know the names of the young ladies flanking her, but they were equally popular this year.

“That was me,” Claire admitted, even as Sylvia shot her a wide-eyed look of terror.

“Whatever was the matter?” Miss Bates inquired, her head tilted at an elegant angle that best displayed her swan-like neck.

“Sylvia strayed too close to the shrubbery and became ensnarled. I’ve only just freed her this moment.” Claire smiled as if they were all friends. “Though I certainly didn’t mean to disturb your walk.”

“Not at all. We ladies must stick together. After all, one would want to avoid scandal at all costs.” Miss Bates’s eyes drifted toward Sylvia’s messed hair. “Any number of sordid things could happen if one were to wander in a garden alone.”

“Which begs the question why you’re out here, if you believe such?” Claire asked lightly. “Besides, if it’s scandal you’re looking for, I’ve already happened upon all the scandal available this evening.”

“Oh?” The lady to the right of Miss Bates leaned forward. Her thin nose twitched in anticipation—she rather reminded Claire of a very pretty vole. “Do tell.”

“The state of the gardens themselves.” Claire swatted at the bush. “Why, it’s so unkempt, it nearly tore my skirts. Sylvia and I were engaged in our conversation and it snagged us both before we were aware of it. Your poor coiffure,” she said to Sylvia, reaching out and plucking a leaf from her lavender hair. “Your maid should really be using the bent pins instead of the straight.”

“It is especially wild in this garden room,” Miss Bates said, looking about.

“Indeed,” Claire said. “That particular bush could be hiding any number of reprehensible persons, and we’d never even know it.”

Sylvia gave a rather hysterical laugh and cut it off immediately.

Miss Bates nibbled her lip. “Quite right. We should be getting back indoors.”