Valor Under Siege (The Honorables) (2 page)

“Mr. Yelverton, we must leave.” Norman took the man’s arms.

“Where will I go?” the old man wailed. “This is my home!”

“It will still be your home,” Norman assured him, struggling to maintain equanimity while the fire licked steadily closer, “but we must get out of the way of the bucket line so they can do their work.”

Rheumy eyes twitched from side to side. “A captain goes down with his ship,” he said, voice tremulous with indecision.

Growling, Norman restrained himself from pointing out that this was not a ship, and Mr. Yelverton was in no way a captain. “We can always rebuild, but what would Gray’s Inn be without you, sir?”

As though insensible of the smoke curling tendrils into the air, the old Serjeant-at-law lifted his eyes to the soaring, Gothic beams spanning the hall, his gaze coming to rest on Cromwell’s coat of arms. “Rebuild?”

“Of course, Mr. Yelverton. Now, if you’ll permit me—” Norman scooped the man up into his arms, the fire leaving no time to preserve Yelverton’s dignity. Bombastic the old buzzard might be, but there was little left of his wizened form. He weighed no more than a slip of a maiden. Norman, being larger than most everyone else in existence, had no trouble carrying the old man out into the fresh night air.

Depositing Yelverton on a stone bench a safe distance from the fire, Norman returned to the hall to aid in the evacuation, plucking from the fray a lady with a snapped slipper ribbon, assisting a gentleman suffering from exposure to the smoke, and then rescuing a musician pinned beneath a table upended in the chaos.

By the time the hall was fully evacuated, the fire was out, the bucket line having efficiently put a stop to the threat.

Norman stared at the sad, soggy ruin of his Christmas revels. The hall was a mess of smoke-stained wood and charred fabrics, many of them laying in wet heaps on the floor and bearing the imprints of the feet that trod upon them in panic. There was a surprising quantity of mud, a combination, Norman supposed, of dirt tracked in by the bucket line and soot churned with the water.

Mercifully, Queen Elizabeth’s bench tables had been spared, and none of the portraits, coats of arms, or stained glass windows on the room’s perimeter had been harmed. Cleaning this mess would take some effort, but the damage wasn’t too extensive. A good scrubbing and a few new floor planks would set most of the disorder to rights. Fully cognizant that he was ultimately responsible for the fiasco, Norman was musing over where he could obtain scrub brushes and lye first thing tomorrow morning when he sensed an ominous presence at his shoulder.

“Mr. Turton,” he said to the Senior Bencher, “I was just thinking over what should be done. I think the hall is still usable—once it’s had a good airing and sweeping—so there shouldn’t be much disruption to daily life here while repairs are made. I will personally oversee the recovery.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort.”

Norman shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

“You have overseen your first and last undertaking at Gray’s Inn, Mr. Wynford-Scott.”

Two more Senior Benchers appeared, flanking Turton, making it clear he spoke for them, as well.

Norman licked his lips, found them dry and cracked. “I quite understand, gentlemen.” He bowed his head. “I beg you’ll accept my sincere apology for what has transpired here tonight and allow me the opportunity to assist in making it right again. I’m capable with a broom and a hammer and have no qualms about dirtying my hands with honest labor, if it means—”

“We insist you depart the premises of Gray’s Inn,” cut in Mr. Turton. “You will be summoned when we have decided what’s to be done with you.”

“But my rooms,” Norman protested. He’d lived at 23 Gray’s Inn Place for the past seven years. This wasn’t just the institution where he learned the King’s law and assisted barristers with their cases and debated with his fellow Fellows—Gray’s Inn was his home. Without it, he would be just as lost and adrift as Mr. Yelverton feared he would be.

“Leave an address where you may be reached.” Mr. Turton was merciless. “I expect your father has room for you. A cot in the nursery, perhaps?”

Norman’s face heated. His long-widowed father, Mr. William Wynford-Scott, third son of the Earl of Littleton, had instigated something of a scandal when he took a dairymaid for his second wife, shortly after his only child had departed for university. As if their marriage wasn’t shocking enough, the couple was persistently, almost distastefully, in love. For the past decade, Norman’s father had added to his second family with alarming regularity. After growing up an only child, Norman now had six younger half siblings.

“As you say, sir.” Norman bowed stiffly. “I expect you will be able to reach me at my father’s house. Good evening, gentlemen.”

Outside, Norman was suddenly struck with a wave of dizziness and exhaustion. Bracing hands on his knees, he coughed, back heaving, eventually bringing up thick, gray phlegm. His temples throbbed, and his eyes were gritty. It was like the worst morning-after head he’d ever experienced, without the consolation of at least having enjoyed a night of carousing.

Speaking of drunken nights, he must meet Elsa and see her home. Straightening, Norman took a deep breath of the cold night air and winced at an ache in his lung. Clutching a hand to his ribs, he slowly made his way through Field Court. Most of the evening’s guests had departed, but a few stragglers and many students still milled about.

“Excuse me,” Norman said, gently pushing past bodies blocking his way, careful not to tread upon toes with his oversized feet. “May I get by, please? I beg your pardon.” He stopped only once, when he was waved down by the old Serjeant-at-law. “Yes, Mr. Yelverton, the fire has been extinguished. The hall survives. Oh, don’t weep, sir. There, there. Keep it, please; I’ve other handkerchiefs.”

At last, he reached the entrance of Gray’s Inn Gardens. Elsa was nowhere to be seen. Exhaling wearily, Norman craned his neck, peering into the dark garden. The mid-December night was cold; surely she hadn’t wandered in there? Perhaps she’d grown tired of waiting and had summoned her carriage.

But no, that was preposterous. When last Norman had seen Elsa, she was swaying on her feet, her words beginning to slur. She was wickedly drunk. Besides drinking who-knew-how-much of the devil’s brew in the punch bowl, Elsa kept a flask about her person at all times and, usually, a reserve in her reticule. If she’d consumed any more liquor after leaving the hall, she’d likely lost consciousness somewhere. She might be behind a hedge, being nibbled upon by an opportunistic fox. She might be drowning facedown in a puddle. She might be in the garden after all, he mused, insensible of the temperature and at risk of death from exposure.

Norman’s weariness slid away. He turned in a circle, his eyes darting to every shadow and crevice. No Elsa.

“Have you seen Lady Fay?” he demanded of a passerby. The man shook his head. “About so tall,” Norman pressed, his flattened hand extended at his lower chest. “Dark hair, red dress.” The man shook his head once more.

“Lady Fay, have you seen her?” he asked of whomever he intercepted. No, no one had seen her. One lady even berated Norman for daring to mention
that Jezebel’s
name in her presence. At last, he cornered the young Fellow whose hat had caught fire. Still sporting their silly medieval costumes, Human Torch and his friends looked anomalous slouched against a wall of the kitchen behind the great hall, puffing on cigarillos, as if they hadn’t had enough smoke for one evening.

“Have any of you seen Lady Fay, our revels hostess?”

At his anxious query, one of the gentlemen snorted; another snickered. Human Torch elbowed his companion and cast a guilty look at Norman. “It’s not our place to tell tales about a lady, Mr. Wynford-Scott.”

Norman swallowed, his throat tight. “Lady Fay is ... she’s ill. I have reason to believe she needs help, may even be in danger. If you know where she is, for the love of God, say so.”

One of the men coughed and looked at his toes. Another regarded Norman with a mocking smile. “She has the kind of sickness a man likes, hasn’t she? I shouldn’t worry too much about her, old man. She’s in good hands. Lots of them.”

“Lots of ...” His lips tingled, then numbed. Those men, the two who’d been groping her brazenly in the hall before she’d made her foolish attempt at dousing the fire. “Where is she?” he ground out.

“Well, if I know Brograve,” said the insolent bard, or whatever he was meant to be, “she’ll be on her hands and knees, taking it—”

A fist Norman didn’t remember making landed on the side of the man’s face with the satisfying
snap
of something giving way in his jaw.

Good.
Good.
Norman, who had never—not once—struck another man, hoped to God this one would be a long time in regaining the use of his odious mouth.

The man slid along the wall as he collapsed, velvet doublet rasping over the brick. When he’d come to rest on the ground, a brief, shocked silence fell over the scene.

“She’s in there, Mr. Wynford-Scott, sir,” blurted Human Torch, pointing to the kitchen door. “And thank you, sir, for coming to my aid this evening, sir. If there’s anything I can do for you, sir, you’ve only to say the word. Sir.”

Human Torch and his friend made good their escape, deserting the one Norman had pummeled. A soft groan arose from the unconscious blighter. A twinge of guilt pricked Norman’s conscience, but it was quickly wiped away when a woman screamed inside the kitchen.

“Elsa!” he roared, bursting through the door. The glow of banked coals on the brick hearth provided the room’s only light. He turned in a circle, desperate to find her. “Elsa, where—”

He heard her again, not a scream, but a laugh. “Here, Misser Wynfor’-Scah. Join us, do.”

Rounding a preparation table, he found her. Them. On the floor.

In short order, he’d plucked Elsa from the floor and tossed her, kicking and hissing like an angry cat, over his shoulder.

“Put me down!” she demanded, the toes of her little red slippers thrumming against his sternum.

“I think not, my lady.”

 Her fists drummed his back. Over the last ten years, Norman had grown adept at ignoring infantile tantrums.

Just outside the hall, Norman flagged down a servant and summoned Lady Fay’s carriage. Then, heedless of gawking onlookers, he strode swiftly across Field Court to his rooms at Gray’s Inn Place. Bringing a woman to his chambers was strictly forbidden, but he’d already been evicted; what worse could the Senior Benchers do?

He kicked the door shut behind him, locked it, and pocketed the key. Then he deposited the screeching Fury on his worn old sofa, from which she continued her angry diatribe. “Wha’s the matter wif you, Misser Wynfor ... Misser Wyn ... Norm? Do you’ve some problem with
fun
? Are you a ... are you a
monk
?”

Through his friend Lord Sherian Zouche, Norman had been acquainted with Elsa Fay for years and had appreciated her beauty and vivacious spirit from afar. His direct dealings with her had been limited until last year. At the betrothal ball honoring Sheri and his lovely bride, Norman had been called upon to assist with a powerfully intoxicated Lady Fay, who was wreaking havoc at the ball (a truth he should have, perhaps, taken into consideration when choosing a hostess for the Christmas revels; but there exists no system of logic powerful enough to overcome the heart’s desire, he had lately discovered, to his eternal regret). Though she was as lovely as ever, it had become evident to Norman at that time that Elsa was deeply troubled: Her lively behavior had turned manic, and what was once an infectious joie de vivre now manifested as recklessness bordering on self-destructiveness.

On that night, Norman’s admiration had shifted to something else. He’d lifted her into his arms (well, slung her over his shoulder) to see her safely home, and some protective instinct had emerged. No one else in Elsa’s sphere—not even Sheri—seemed to notice how frequently she overimbibed on spirits or how her previously circumspect affairs had become more and more indiscreet. Norman had despaired to witness such an intelligent, sparkling woman throw herself headlong into ruin. He’d wanted, powerfully, to help, to save her from herself.

It was that chivalrous streak that had prompted him to invite her assistance with the Christmas revels. Once, Elsa had been the toast of London’s political circles. While he’d never attended one of her suppers or soirees, he’d often overheard barristers and judges bragging at having received an invitation or rhapsodizing about the glories of an evening spent at her table.

These days, a man was more likely to rhapsodize about the pleasures of an evening spent in her bed.

Naively, Norman had hoped that reminding Elsa of her glorious past would nudge her in the direction of more moderate living. Greater fool, he.

Norman dragged his traveling trunk from a closet and quickly filled it with clothes, other essentials, and, after a brief, tortured moment at his bookshelf, a history of the Roman Senate and the latest edition of
British Courts and Law: A Quarter in Review
.

After donning his frock coat and hat, Norman deposited the trunk outside, then returned to his small sitting room. When Elsa spotted him, she fell silent. Her hands curled around the edge of the cushion, and she glowered up at him, her eyes fathomless pools of deepest blue.

“Can you stand, my lady, or shall I carry you?”

“’Course I can,” she muttered. Her full lips puckered in concentration as she shoved to unsteady feet. Norman wrapped her in his own cloak. The dark wool swallowed her and dragged on the floor. He lifted the hood, covering the shining silk of her mussed hair. Her delicate features looked small and frail in the immense garment.

Lady Fay leaned heavy into Norman’s side as they made their way outside. When she stumbled over a loose paving stone, he tucked her against his side; his large hand fit neatly in the curve between her ribs and hip. They walked in silence, he guiding her toward the waiting carriage while she doggedly fought for every listing step. Unbidden, he found himself remembering the vision she’d been dancing on the table, powerfully alluring even as she’d maddened him.