Valor Under Siege (The Honorables)

Avon, Massachusetts

Copyright © 2016 by Velva George.
All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

Published by

Crimson Romance™

an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

www.crimsonromance.com

ISBN 10: 1-4405-8505-9

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8505-0

eISBN 10: 1-4405-8506-7

eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8506-7

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © Inara Prusakova/123RF.

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• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Dedication
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Epilogue
  
• Author's Note
  
• Acknowledgments
  
• About the Author
  
• More from This Author
  
• Also Available
  

If you struggle with alcoholism or addiction, this book is dedicated to you. You are not alone. You are worthy of living, of loving, and of being loved. Don't give up.

December 1817, London

In every crisis, there is a moment when catastrophe can be averted, a moment when it cannot be, and an indiscernible filament separating the two. The Honorable Mr. Norman Wynford-Scott, of Gray’s Inn, feared the Christmas revels had tripped beyond that ineffable point of no return when he observed that the punch was on fire. This development was brought to his attention by the cries of fright issuing from the throat of a first-term Fellow, whose festive medieval costume of hose, doublet,
et cetera
, was somewhat spoiled by the flames crackling merrily in the plumes of his velvet hat.

Whether the conflagration began in the punch or on the young man’s head, Norman could never say with certainty, for at the moment when spark met alcohol (or ostrich feather), he’d been occupied elsewhere in the hall, coaxing a stupendously inebriated Lady Fay down from where she danced atop one of the bench tables gifted to the Venerable Society of Gray’s Inn by Queen Elizabeth.

“Elsa,” he hissed as she shimmied her shoulders and hips in time to the musicians bleating a merry, seasonal tune, “come down from there at once!” He made a grab for her hand, but jerked back when she spun and kicked up her heel, flashing the flounce of a black petticoat beneath her rose-red satin gown as she nearly sheared the nose from his face.

She might be forgiven for not hearing him, as the normally staid hall was this evening bursting with the sounds of feasting and music and laughter, but her beguiling indigo eyes cut to his, communicating defiance—and something dark—in the instant before she spun away. From the neighboring table came the sonorous drone of Mr. Yelverton, the aged Serjeant-at-law who, for the last several decades, could be found in his customary seat pontificating upon various points of legality to his nightly bottle of port and whichever wide-eyed first-termers happened to be caught within earshot. Obviously, he was not about to be put off his routine by anything as trifling as Christmas revels.

“Consult the Book!” Yelverton declared now, jabbing a gnarled finger against the table. “We abandoned these absurd revels nigh on a century ago, and for good reason. This buffoonery diminishes the dignity of this institution. You’ll not find the Fellows of Lincoln’s countenancing a strumpet like that in their midst.” Even as his condemning words were hurled in Elsa’s direction, his gaze tracked her sinuous motions, like a snake entranced by its charmer.

The venerable elder was not the only gentleman who had noticed Elsa’s display. Two barristers and a former Solicitor General gathered around, eagerly watching as the raven-haired beauty in red tossed back her head and slowly lifted her skirts.

“Elsa, stop this,” Norman demanded as her ankles appeared.

“I say, isn’t that our hostess?” asked one of the men who had joined the burgeoning throng.

“Yes, that’s Lady Fay. Used to be quite the political hostess for her late husband. No wonder her invitations were coveted.” Someone landed a friendly jab in Norman’s ribs. “Good show, sir. The old man knew what he was about, naming you master of revels.”

More than having been named
magister jocorum, revellorum, et mascarum
, resurrecting the Christmas revels had been Norman’s bloody stupid idea to begin with. Somehow he’d gotten it into his head he could leave his mark on this grand and ancient school of law not just by excelling in his studies, but by livening the place up a bit with a call to bring back some of the old traditions. He was responsible for it all, for the invitations issued to every member of the Inn and distinguished guests. For the decorations and music and food. For choosing the lady who served as hostess.

Like a curtain rising on a bawdy spectacle, red satin and black muslin inched past that same hostess’s shapely calves encased in sheer silk and revealed two pretty, dimpled knees. Appreciative whistles and hoots of encouragement accompanied every inch of progress, while appalled ladies formed a tight knot across the room, silk fans kicking up a wind of umbrage. Elsa tipped back her raven-haired head and laughed, sinful and loud.

This was hell. Like the men around him, Norman couldn’t help but respond to the slow uncovering of the luscious woman on the table. But even as his heart pumped desire-thickened blood through his body, his mind went cold with panic. Not only was this a scandal for all of Gray’s Inn, Elsa was not in her right mind, drunk beyond sensibility. She was his responsibility; he had to get her out of there.

“Lady Fay,” he said in a commanding tone, “you will stop dancing at once.”

Wonder of wonders, she did. Her skirts dropped back into place, and she lifted her head, confusion crinkling her brow. Norman’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. Now then, if he could quickly escort her from the hall, perhaps the evening could be salvaged.

That’s when the cry went up behind him, pulling Norman’s attention from Elsa to the bowl of flaming punch and equally blazing gentleman. Additional shouts of alarm joined that of the human torch.

“Oh, good lord,” he blurted. There would be no salvaging the evening now. Discarding his typical, careful manner when stepping through a crowd, Norman set his broad shoulders at an angle and plowed through revelers. The man’s companions seemed more amused than concerned, clutching their middles and guffawing at their beleaguered comrade.

Snatching a banner festooning the beverage table, displaying the Inn’s golden griffin device, Norman tossed it over the head of the
avocat brûlée
, smothering the flames. He plucked the cloth—and the burning hat along with it—off the man, threw it to the ground, and stomped his large feet upon it for good measure. The costumed man was a little crisp around the edges, but no lasting harm done.

Beside Norman, heat radiated from the still-burning champagne punch. How the hell had such an innocuous libation caught fire? Like a witch’s cauldron, blue and orange flames undulated across the liquid’s surface and set the crystal bowl aglow with eerie light. The scent of caramelizing sugar filled the air.

Curious onlookers gathered around and murmured excitedly. Many seemed to think the punch was another of the revel’s entertainments, like the dancing dogs that had performed earlier, or like Elsa’s erotic display.

Half turning, he easily looked over the heads of the crowd to where he’d last spotted her. She was no longer on the table. He’d not believed things could get worse, but now she was sandwiched between a barrister and the former Solicitor General. One of her discarded long, black satin gloves was cast around the neck of one of the men like a scarf. Elsa clasped the ends, holding herself tight to the man’s chest. His hands were upon her waist, while the other man stood behind her, trailing a finger down the side of her neck, his other resting proprietorially upon her hip.

Norman’s heart dropped. Elsa was in a mood for trouble, but in no state to engage in what those two so obviously intended. “Elsa,” he called, but his voice was swallowed by the roar of the assembly and the frenetic music still blaring from the little band in the corner.

He took two brisk steps toward Lady Fay. A hand gripped his sleeve. He wheeled around to find himself face-to-face with Mr. Turton, one of the Master Benchers of Gray’s Inn, and one of the most vocal opponents to Norman resurrecting the Christmas revels. Defying his wishes had been a calculated risk on Norman’s part, one he thought would pay off when the party’s success gave Gray’s an edge of prestige above the other Inns of Court.

“What the blazes is going on here?” Turton demanded, without a hint of irony even as the flickering punch fire reflected in his pale eyes. “I knew this was a terrible idea! You’ve turned this hall into a pagan bordello.”

There was a blast of cold air, which Norman attributed to Turton’s icy disdain whipping around the room.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Norman extended his hands in a placating fashion. He towered a foot above the Master Bencher, but Norman was intimidated by the man, nevertheless. Turton could scuttle his career as a barrister before it even began. “This wasn’t meant to happen,” he nodded to the bowl, which issued an ominous groan. He bent to pick up the banner with which he had smothered the fire on the first-termer. Turton’s eyes widened at the abused coat of arms, then narrowed dangerously as Norman assured him, “I’ll get this extinguished straightaway.”

As he moved to smother the punch, he heard a feminine battle cry. He turned just in time to see Elsa hurtling his way, clutching a bucket. He hooked an arm across her waist before she fell headlong into the fire. Her arms extended. Icy water doused the table.

The tortured punch bowl shattered; its burning contents spilled across the table and onto the floor. Greedy flames met airy buntings and lace doilies and quickly found the table’s legs. Faster than Norman could have believed possible, the entire table was engulfed in fire. The burgeoning conflagration took hold on the ancient wooden floor in several places.

Instinctively, he hauled Elsa back from the fire. “Everyone out!” he bellowed, herding panicking Fellows and their guests toward the door without taking his hands off of Elsa.

Someone else shouted for the men to form a bucket line. “Save the hall!” went up the cry.

Still sitting at his regular bench table, old Mr. Yelverton’s chin trembled, and the silvery tracks of tears stained his lined cheeks. The fire was heading right toward him.

Biting back a curse, Norman set Elsa on her feet and pointed her in the direction of the door through which she’d come with her bucket. “Go outside. I’ll meet you at the Field Court, by the garden entrance.”

She blinked glassy eyes, swayed on her feet, and swatted off Norman’s steadying hand. “Let off. ’m fine,” she scolded, taking tottering steps toward the door.

“Wait for me,” he called after her. “Field Court, in front of the garden.”

She waved a negligent hand and was swallowed up in the stream of evacuees.

Norman quickly crossed to where Mr. Yelverton sat and stared, stricken, at the fire consuming his beloved hall. His gnarled fingers clasped tightly in front of him on the dark, aged table, his bottle of port still resting at his elbow.