Page 101 of A Perfect Gentleman

She wouldn’t have had to shoot Mr. Baker herself. There were people one could hire to do such things—though how a genteel middle-aged woman like Mrs. Ponsonby would know how to go about that was a mystery.

He cursed himself for not having talked to the vicar sooner. He should have made more of a push to find the man. Instead, he had focused all his attention on David Prescott. Hell, all he would have needed to do was ask his mother. Most of all, he should not have sent Abby to the estate. He should have kept her close to him, but he had let himself be ruled by his wounded pride.

His reason reasserted itself somewhat at this point, and he had to chuckle at the idea that he could “send” his wife or “keep” her as he chose. Abigail would go where and when and with whom she pleased.

If he thought about it rationally, he realized, there was no reason to think that Mrs. Ponsonby, if she was indeed the culprit, would attack Abby in broad daylight in the company of his mother and grandmother. The other attempts had been sly and secretive; she would not suddenly turn to an outright assault. They had been here for almost a month, and she had not tried to harm Abby. Indeed, maybe she balked at the idea of killing the Montclair heir. All the attempts had been before Abby announced she was pregnant.

His reassurances could not quell his anxiety, and when he reached Lydcombe, he tossed the reins to a groom and ran into the house. Since the nearest entrance was through the kitchen, he startled the servants. Fletcher immediately popped out of his butler’s pantry.

“Lord Montclair. May I help you?”

“Where’s Lady Montclair? My wife. I need to speak to her.”

“Why, all the ladies have gone into Tunbridge Wells, sir.”

“What? Why?” The anxiety he had tried to suppress spurted up in him again at full force.

The butler looked startled at Graeme’s reaction but quickly shuttered his expression. “A shopping expedition, and I believe they meant to dine at the inn the dowager countess favors.”

A curse escaped Graeme. “What about Mrs. Ponsonby? Did she go, too?”

“Yes, I believe so, sir. Shall I send a maid to see if she is here? Perhaps you’d like to sit down; I’ll fetch you a cup of tea.”

“No, no. If you say she’s gone, I’m sure she is.” Graeme turned away, then back. “The Swan? Is that the inn you mean?”

“Yes, I believe so. Also, sir . . . Miss Hinsdale called here earlier.”

“Laura?” Graeme gaped at him. “What in the world is she—no, it doesn’t matter. I can’t see her now. I have to leave; give her my abject apologies and—”

“Oh, she’s not here, my lord. When I told her the ladies had gone to Tunbridge Wells, she seemed most agitated. She said she could not stay; she had to find them. I had the carriage brought round for her; I thought you would not—”

Graeme interrupted him. “Are you saying Laura went after them?”

“That was my understanding, sir. She was, well, she was acting in a manner most unlike Miss Hinsdale, if you’ll pardon me for . . .”

He trailed off as Graeme whirled and ran back through the kitchen and out the door.

Desperation gave Abby an added burst of strength, and she shoved upward with all her might, twisting as she did so. The sudden move shifted Mrs. Ponsonby off-balance, and with another heave, Abby rolled the small woman off her. Mrs. Ponsonby scrambled to get up, but Abby swung her legs out, cutting the companion’s feet out from under her. Mrs. Ponsonby tumbled to the ground.

Abby jumped to her feet, sweeping up the parasol with her. She didn’t take the time to look back at Laura. She could hear the woman’s running footsteps and knew Laura was altogether too close. Abby would have no chance against the two of them, but her legs were decidedly longer than either of theirs and she was unhampered by a corset. Abby ran away.

Behind her she heard Mrs. Ponsonby’s enraged screech, and Abby could not keep from glancing back. The woman had made it to her feet and was turning to pursue Abby, but at that moment, Laura barreled into the woman, knocking her to the ground.

Abby was so shocked she stumbled to a halt, staring at the two women rolling around on the ground. Laura had not come to join Mrs. Ponsonby, Abby realized, but to help Abby. Lifting her skirts, she ran back toward the wrestling women.

Laura, her bonnet torn loose and hanging by its strings down her back, managed to get on top of the other woman, but Mrs. Ponsonby reached out and grasped a branch lying on the ground.

“Laura, watch out!” Abby screamed, but Mrs. Ponsonby was already swinging her hand up, and she hit Laura on the side of her head.

Laura collapsed, blood streaming over her pale hair. Abby knew she should run; her first duty was to protect her unborn child. But she could not run away and leave the woman who had tried to help her lying helpless on the ground. Lifting the parasol, Abby let out a wordless bellow and charged.

Mrs. Ponsonby came up swinging the branch. The parasol and branch clashed together like swords. The branch was stouter than the slender shaft of the sunshade, and it left a dent in the side of the parasol. Abby felt the shudder of the collision all the way up her arm. She barely managed to keep her grip on it.

It was an unfortunate reality that the branch was not only thicker than the stem of the parasol, it was also longer. Its length negated Abby’s advantage in reach, making it almost impossible for her to get close enough to hit Mrs. Ponsonby. Mrs. Ponsonby moved forward, sweeping the branch back and forth in front of her, and Abby was forced to retreat, parrying her blows as best she could.

At some point, Abby knew, the branch would break the parasol’s staff. Her only hope was to keep the woman occupied long enough that someone would come out and see what was happening.

“Mrs. Ponsonby, stop! Think about this. How will you explain what happened to Laura and me?”