Everything seemed to slow. Westcliffe was slow, and the duke was slow, but one of his hands was clamped right on my injury and it hurt, so I cried out with my knees buckling and my own hand coming up to pry apart his fingers—
And then Armand was there. Right there behind Westcliffe. Past her, and Reginald was pushed off me and Armand stood between us nearly as tall as his father, his fists knotted into the duke’s satin lapels.
I stumbled back, knocked into the chair. Westcliffe caught me up and released me at once, both of us panting.
“Don’t you hurt her!” Armand snarled. “Ever! Do you hear me?”
“I—I had to tell her—”
“You never hurt her, never again!” He shoved his father back, and Reginald didn’t fight it, didn’t do anything but sort of deflate, all the heat and anger and glittery conviction vanished, leaving him empty as a sack. He sagged back into his chair.
“Good God.” He lifted a hand to his face, hiding his eyes. “Good God, no. I—I—I’m …”
None of us moved. Beside me, Westcliffe stood brittle as glass. Armand had his back to us both, broad and tensed, his fists still clenched. He radiated menace.
A random wild thought came to me, burrowed in: Here is the beast. Here he is.
My arm lifted. I touched my palm to his shoulder blade, and even with his shirt and jacket between us, I felt an electric, snapping shock.
“Armand. Mandy. I’m unharmed.”
He rolled his shoulders to shuck me off, then threw me an unreadable glance.
“My lord,” pleaded Westcliffe, her words trembling. “Lord Sherborne. He meant no ill.”
“No,” the duke was muttering. “No, no, no …”
Armand dropped to his knees before his father, bracing both hands against the arms of the chair to pin him in.
“Reg. Listen to me. Are you listening?”
“Yes …”
“I’ve received news. A wire from the prime minister. I drove straight here as soon as I got it. It’s—it’s tremendous, wonderful news.” Armand’s voice was rough with emotion; he let out a shaky breath. “Aubrey is alive. He didn’t die. Dad, he’s alive.”
The duke lifted his head. His hair had fallen forward and his cheeks were mottled. He flicked back the hair, scowled at his son, and brushed both hands down his crushed lapels.
“That is precisely what I’ve been saying,” he announced peevishly. “Aubrey is alive and captured. And this thing here, this beast named Eleanore, is going to be the one who flies there and brings him home.”
Like a puppet yanked upright by a single jerk of its strings, Armand was standing, staggering a few steps toward me. Our eyes locked. I didn’t know if my expression mirrored his, but I knew my insides did: disbelief, smothered guilt.
That cold, budding fear.
He looked from me to his father to Westcliffe, who had both hands knuckled against her mouth and really, truly appeared as if she might keel over.
Armand tipped back his head and pinched his fingers over his eyes—just like his father had done. “Where the deuce is that wretched doctor, anyway?”
“Kitchens,” I whispered. “Sorry.”
Chapter 4
There was no taking tea after that. There was a great deal of fussing from the doctor when he finally showed up, and Mrs. Westcliffe attempting valiantly to pull herself together, and Armand hanging back by me, ensuring that he stood between the duke and me no matter which of us moved.
More doctors arrived, some nurses, everyone exclaiming over the news about Aubrey and worrying over Reginald’s “mild fit.” The tea service His Grace’s personal physician had carried into the cell sat forgotten on the side table by the door.
I edged closer to it. I snatched a biscuit from a plate when no one was watching and ate it in one bite.
Almost no one had been watching.
“Shortbread,” noted Armand, and grabbed two more. “How reassuringly orthodox.” He handed me one, broke the other absently into pieces in his hand. His face was still strained and white.
“Don’t destroy it.” I wiped at my lips. “Give it to me if you don’t want it.”
His palm opened. The biscuit had gone to crumbs.
“You’re bleeding,” he said quietly. “Your arm. The wound. I can smell the blood.”
Of course he could. Dragon senses, supernaturally sharp. I could smell it, too, but my sleeve was loose enough that so far the blood didn’t show.
I kept my voice as low as his. “It’s fine. Don’t say anything.”
“Lora, it needs attention.”
“Yes. Back at the school. First thing.”
His mouth tightened. “Look—”
“I’m not going to let these people touch me,” I whispered, vehement. “I’m not going to their medical chamber and I’m not letting them remove my blouse and I’m not letting them lay a finger on me, I don’t care if my arm festers and falls off, so kindly shut up.”
Mrs. Westcliffe had recovered enough to notice us standing there, our heads together, my heated cheeks. She began to approach.
“Only if you come to me tonight,” Armand said swiftly. “At Tranquility.”
“Fine!”
“Lord Sherborne—” the headmistress began.
“No,” he cut in at once, turning to her. “I’m merely Lord Armand again.”
She stopped before us, blinking. “Oh—yes! Forgive me. Lord Sherborne is—that is, I’m so pleased that your brother has regained his—er …” She flattened a hand against the base of her throat, then tried again. “Lord Armand, I fear our visit has overtaxed your father. Miss Jones and I should leave.”
He gave her a short bow. “Allow me to drive you back to the school, ma’am.”
Westcliffe and I exchanged a look; whatever our differences, we both knew how Armand drove. “A most chivalrous offer, my lord, but we couldn’t possibly—”
“I insist. It’ll be faster than the train, and I could use the companionship.”
”Oh,” she said again, defeated, and summoned a smile. “Why, then, we accept. Naturally.”
Outside the madhouse, back in the cool May air and a lemony, waning light, the lawn a sheared carpet spread before us, I waited for him to hand Westcliffe into the front seat of the auto before muttering, “The train has chocolates.”
“Surely my company is sweet enough,” he muttered in return, and helped me up into the high, uncomfortable backseat.
Armand’s motorcars tended to be roofless and very, very fast. We weren’t dressed for a drive in the open air, so his lordship had politely presented his duster to Mrs. Westcliffe, who had sense enough to accept it. I had her wrap and mine around me, but the wind was relentless, and the dust from passing horses and carriages even more so.
Armand needed the driving goggles to see; Westcliffe and I squinted at the land flying by, the outskirts of Bath swiftly unspooling into fields of grain and flocks of sheep, dogs and hedges and farmhouses.
It was quicker than the train. And it was noisy enough that I didn’t have to endure any uncomfortable questions from Westcliffe (yet), or even worry about holding up my end of a conversation. We’d have to shout to be heard, me most of all, and I had no doubt about how the headmistress of the Iverson School for Girls would feel about that.
Automobiles clearly had not been designed with ladylike sensibilities in mind.
So I sat back and held on to the strap fixed to the door, trying not to slide around too much, studying the sunset to our right, the intense red and pink of the clouds, thin streaky lines drawn just above the horizon. The stars beginning to kindle against the fading blue.