Page 72 of Only a Mistress Will Do

Before Harper could straighten, Tris slammed his fist into his face.

He flew backward into the tattered remains of the curio cabinet and lay still.

Tris started toward him again, and Violet gasped, certain he meant to murder the wretch. He stopped and whirled around, seemed to see her for the first time.

“Violet.” In two strides, he reached her, dragged her out of the chair. He clutched her to him. “My God, are you hurt?”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. She hung her head, weeping with shame and joy and relief. It was over.

“Violet, my love. Please. Tell me what did he do?”

The horror in his voice brought her head up, her gaze riveted to his as he took in her disheveled hair, torn dress, tear-stained face. She clasped her arms across her ripped bodice, and her breasts ached at the slight pressure. God knew she looked like a strumpet and worse. “He tried to make me his mistress.”

Tris’s blue eyes darkened, his nostrils flared and his jaw tightened so hard it creaked. Death looked out of his face as he stalked over to the still form. He stood over him, chest heaving, hands opening and clenching. “Had I a sword or a pistol this piece of filth would never rise from this spot. He’s nothing more than a rabid dog that wants killing.”

“What in hell is going on here?” The imperious tones of Lord Downing sounded from the doorway.

Violet froze.

His lordship stood half over the threshold, his eyes popping out of their sockets. Standing behind him, Lady Downing, the Duchess of Ostroda, and Dora, all wide-eyed and white faced, stared silently at the carnage.

Chapter 28

The women’s shocked faces, carrying almost the exact scandalized expression, made Violet want to giggle hysterically.

In an instant, Tris appeared beside her, doffed his coat, and wrapped it around her. He stood in front of her, shielding her from their prying eyes.

Gratefully, she sank into the warmth of his steel-gray velvet jacket, even more comforted because it enveloped her in the fragrance of bergamot, citrus, and him. An overwhelming sense of safety settled over her and her tears renewed, although now they were tears of joy.

Lord Downing stumped into the library. “What have you done to Harper? Eccles!” he bellowed. “Eccles.”

The butler appeared at a sedate trot, but skidded to a stop at the bloodbath before him. Simon Harper lay bleeding from a dozen tiny cuts.

“Fetch the surgeon at once.” Downing gazed around, helpless. “Harriet, for the love of God, do something. Harper may be dying.”

“I sincerely doubt that.” Flexing and shaking his hand, Tris twisted his mouth in disgust as he viewed the moaning man. “Only the good die young, so they say. By that reckoning, your son will live to see one hundred.”

“How dare you.” Lady Downing knelt beside her son, patting his hands and face. “Eccles, fetch my reticule. It has smelling salts.”

“Oh, I have some here.” Dora darted forward to offer the vial. She stared first at Tris, then at Violet. Then more decidedly at Violet’s dishabille.

Heat touching her cheeks at her friend’s scrutiny, Violet pulled the coat more securely across her chest. Oh, why must Dora see her like this? Bad enough to be disgraced in front of her employers, but for her friend to be part and parcel of her ruin was another stinging blow.

Lady Downing applied the smelling salts to Harper’s nose.

From the floor he sputtered, gasped, and sat up. He pushed his mother away, knocking the vial from her hand, and it spun across the room. “What in damnation is that? Get it away from me before I choke to death.”

“Simon. Thank God you’re alive.” When Lady Downing tried to grasp him around the neck, however, she was soundly rebuffed, and promptly burst into tears.

The duchess, who seemed made of sterner stuff, helped her sister to her feet. “Come along, Harriet. Let’s get you a good strong cup of tea.”

“I demand to know what is going on.” Lord Downing planted himself in the doorway. With his cravat askew, his jacket pulled open, and his wig cocked at an impossible angle, he could have been mistaken for an inmate escaped from Bedlam.

“A gross deception, Father.” Easing himself up off the floor, Mr. Harper winced when his hand crunched on a piece of glass. He sidled over to a long sofa and sank onto it.

“A deception? What do you mean?” Wide-eyed, Lord Downing glanced from Tristan to his son to his wife.

“I mean Trevor here has perpetrated a fraud upon us.”