They all turned to admire their hosts. Violet had to admit, they were a splendid couple.
“It’s so romantic, the way he keeps touching the small of her back. And the look in his eyes…” Kate sighed wistfully. “He’s devoted to her. And Susanna is the picture of bliss.”
“Of course she’s happy,” Violet said. “Lord Rycliff is a very honorable, very decent man.” Unlike some so-called gentlemen. “We all should be so lucky.”
“Perhaps,” Kate said. “But what if luck has nothing to do with it? This is Spindle Cove. Who says we must stand about waiting on the men? Perhaps we should stop hoping to be noticed and do some noticing ourselves.”
What Violet noticed was a shriek. The startled cry pierced the crowded ballroom, freezing them all in place.
“Dear Lord,” she muttered. “What was that?”
“What is that?” Kate asked.
The other guests pressed to the edges of the ballroom, revealing what Violet could not see. A set of doors that opened onto the garden had been flung open.
A figure stood silhouetted in the entry. Tall. Dark. Menacing.
The militiamen reached for the sabers slung at their sides. Violet would have felt more reassured if she didn’t know they were ornamental blades, better suited for slicing soft cheese than running an intruder through.
As the host, lord, and commanding officer, Lord Rycliff stepped forward. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you want?”
No answer.
But one thing was obvious, immediately. The man was not from Spindle Cove. This was a small village, and all the residents knew one another—by sight, if not by name. This intruder was a stranger to them all.
He was also large. Streaked with grime. Dripping wet.
And moving. Staggering, stumbling…directly toward her alcove.
The men drew those sabers now, and some of them rushed forward. Corporal Thorne looked fully prepared to skewer the man—dull blade notwithstanding.
But the intruder did not pose a threat for long. Before any of the militiamen could reach him, he collapsed.
Right at Violet’s feet.
“Oh, goodness.”
As he slid to the floor, he clutched at her skirts, tangling with them. By the time the man’s head met parquet with a heavy thud, a long streak of blood marred her watered silk.
Violet sank to her knees. She hadn’t much choice. She pressed her gloved hand to the intruder’s neck, searching for his pulse. Her satin-sheathed fingertips came away bright red. And trembling.
Kate and Sally crouched beside her.
“Dear heaven,” Kate breathed. “He’s just covered in blood.”
“And dirt,” Sally said. “But cor, he’s gorgeous anyhow.”
“Sally, only you could think of such a thing at a time like this.”
“You can’t tell me you didn’t notice. Just look at those cheekbones. That strong jaw. Pity about the nose, but those lips are made for sin. He’s like a fallen angel, isn’t he?”
“He’s fallen,” Kate said. “So much is certain.”
Violet removed her soiled glove and pressed her bare hand to the man’s chilled, dirt-streaked face. He moaned and tightened his grip on her skirts.
Sally gave her a sly look. “Whoever he is, he seems to be rather taken with Miss Winterbottom.”
Violet’s face heated. She never knew how to act at a ball, but this situation was entirely missing from the etiquette books. When a man lumbered across a ballroom and collapsed at a lady’s feet, shouldn’t the lady offer him some comfort? It seemed the only decent thing.
Then again, she’d made that error in the past—offering comfort to a wounded man, and letting him take too much. She’d spent the past year paying for that very mistake.
“Pardon me. Let me through.” Susanna, Lady Rycliff, pushed through the crowd and knelt at the man’s side. “I need to find the source of his bleeding.”
Lord Rycliff joined her. “Let me check him for weapons first. We don’t know who he is.”
“He’s someone who needs help,” Susanna answered. “Without delay. He’s chilled through. And he has a nasty gash to his head, see?”
“Susanna—”
“Look at the man. How can he be a threat? He’s barely conscious.”
“Lift your hands from him,” Lord Rycliff demanded in a low, stern voice. “Now.”
With a tiny huff of breath, Susanna raised both hands to shoulder height. “Fine. Do it quickly, please.”
“Thorne, see to his boots. I’ll take the pockets.” Lord Rycliff patted the man’s chest and waistband and riffled through the pockets of his simple dark-blue coat. “Nothing.”
“Naught here, either.” Thorne turned the man’s weathered, hard-toed boots upside down and shook them.