washstand. Grasping at her torn
gown, she dragged herself from the entrapment of the feather mattress and
groaned as she tried to straighten and stand.
She could hear him staggering to his feet. It was too late
to salvage the evening. Far from being rational, her husband was more animal
than Duncan, and with a greater power to harm than her brother had ever
possessed. It was late to learn that, but with the feral caution of a cornered
creature, Cassandra ran.
There were servants clearing up the wreckage of the public
rooms downstairs, but none stood in her way as she fled down the stairs in her
tattered wedding remnants. Without orders to the contrary, they merely gaped as
she struggled with the huge front door. A tall, cadaverous man stepped out of
the shadows to wrench it open for her. With gratitude, Cass fled into the
night.
The cold evening air struck her with the same force as
Rupert’s blow, tearing her breath away. She had no wrap to protect her bruised
flesh, but already she heard Rupert’s furious shouts behind her. With frantic
speed, she raced down the empty street.
Her only goal was to lose Rupert. Unfortunately, these were the
broad gaslit streets of Mayfair and not the narrow alleys of the East End.
Rupert’s shouts echoed eerily between the tall brick
edifices, as out of place in these elegant environs as a jaguar’s cry. He was
drunk enough to beat her right here on the street, and not a single window
would open to investigate her cries for help.
Her breath hurt in her chest as she raced faster. The pain
in her jaw ached, but not so much as the rasping gasps for air and the sharp
pangs in her side as she fought to outrun her pursuer.
She would never make it. Her narrow skirts hindered her pace
despite the tear that had ripped one seam and left the hem flapping. Her thin
slippers were already destroyed by the rough stones.
When she stumbled, she could hear Rupert’s leather shoes clatter
close by. If only there were a hackney, some innocent passerby, some witness to
protect her from his fury. She took a breath, righted herself, and ran on.
And collided with a solid masculine chest that teetered,
then caught her as he fell back against the gate from whence he had just exited.
“Dashitall!” The words emerged in a whoosh as they struggled
in a dance for balance.
The curse sounded hazily familiar, and Cassandra dared to
look instead of run. In the darkness, she could see little more than a blond
halo and broad shoulders, but that was sufficient to jog her memory.
“Thomas! Thank God, Thomas! Help me. Hide me. Please.” The
grating gasp of her own voice terrified her, and Cassandra clung unsteadily to
the youngest Scheffing’s coat front.
“Lady Cass?” Thomas barely had time to identify her before
the shouts and pounding footsteps approached.
Cassandra squealed and tried to break away from the young
man’s steadying embrace, but it was too late. Rupert’s ragged curses breached the
air. Faint with fear and pain, Cassandra still attempted to seek the gate that
Thomas had come through.
“Let her go.” Rupert almost managed the tone of cold
authority that normally served him.
Cassandra felt more than observed Thomas’ puzzled glance, but
the state of her gown told the tale that she could not. He placed her firmly
behind his broad back.
“You’ve insulted a lady.”
Cassandra shuddered at this dangerous approach. All she
needed was the bulk of his physical protection. But Thomas was young and
hotheaded and not very sensible.
Before she could disentangle herself, she heard Rupert
chuckle drunkenly, and she cringed.
“Damned young puppy, that is my wife you’re holding. I ought
to call you out for this.”
“You ought to be shot for what you’ve done to her!” Thomas
replied belligerently, even as Cassandra reached to cover his mouth with her
hand.
Realizing that she was acquainted with the young
knight-errant, Rupert smiled smugly. “I’ve pistols back at the house. Shall
gown, she dragged herself from the entrapment of the feather mattress and
groaned as she tried to straighten and stand.
She could hear him staggering to his feet. It was too late
to salvage the evening. Far from being rational, her husband was more animal
than Duncan, and with a greater power to harm than her brother had ever
possessed. It was late to learn that, but with the feral caution of a cornered
creature, Cassandra ran.
There were servants clearing up the wreckage of the public
rooms downstairs, but none stood in her way as she fled down the stairs in her
tattered wedding remnants. Without orders to the contrary, they merely gaped as
she struggled with the huge front door. A tall, cadaverous man stepped out of
the shadows to wrench it open for her. With gratitude, Cass fled into the
night.
The cold evening air struck her with the same force as
Rupert’s blow, tearing her breath away. She had no wrap to protect her bruised
flesh, but already she heard Rupert’s furious shouts behind her. With frantic
speed, she raced down the empty street.
Her only goal was to lose Rupert. Unfortunately, these were the
broad gaslit streets of Mayfair and not the narrow alleys of the East End.
Rupert’s shouts echoed eerily between the tall brick
edifices, as out of place in these elegant environs as a jaguar’s cry. He was
drunk enough to beat her right here on the street, and not a single window
would open to investigate her cries for help.
Her breath hurt in her chest as she raced faster. The pain
in her jaw ached, but not so much as the rasping gasps for air and the sharp
pangs in her side as she fought to outrun her pursuer.
She would never make it. Her narrow skirts hindered her pace
despite the tear that had ripped one seam and left the hem flapping. Her thin
slippers were already destroyed by the rough stones.
When she stumbled, she could hear Rupert’s leather shoes clatter
close by. If only there were a hackney, some innocent passerby, some witness to
protect her from his fury. She took a breath, righted herself, and ran on.
And collided with a solid masculine chest that teetered,
then caught her as he fell back against the gate from whence he had just exited.
“Dashitall!” The words emerged in a whoosh as they struggled
in a dance for balance.
The curse sounded hazily familiar, and Cassandra dared to
look instead of run. In the darkness, she could see little more than a blond
halo and broad shoulders, but that was sufficient to jog her memory.
“Thomas! Thank God, Thomas! Help me. Hide me. Please.” The
grating gasp of her own voice terrified her, and Cassandra clung unsteadily to
the youngest Scheffing’s coat front.
“Lady Cass?” Thomas barely had time to identify her before
the shouts and pounding footsteps approached.
Cassandra squealed and tried to break away from the young
man’s steadying embrace, but it was too late. Rupert’s ragged curses breached the
air. Faint with fear and pain, Cassandra still attempted to seek the gate that
Thomas had come through.
“Let her go.” Rupert almost managed the tone of cold
authority that normally served him.
Cassandra felt more than observed Thomas’ puzzled glance, but
the state of her gown told the tale that she could not. He placed her firmly
behind his broad back.
“You’ve insulted a lady.”
Cassandra shuddered at this dangerous approach. All she
needed was the bulk of his physical protection. But Thomas was young and
hotheaded and not very sensible.
Before she could disentangle herself, she heard Rupert
chuckle drunkenly, and she cringed.
“Damned young puppy, that is my wife you’re holding. I ought
to call you out for this.”
“You ought to be shot for what you’ve done to her!” Thomas
replied belligerently, even as Cassandra reached to cover his mouth with her
hand.
Realizing that she was acquainted with the young
knight-errant, Rupert smiled smugly. “I’ve pistols back at the house. Shall
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