Free My Lady Rogue (A Nelson's Tea Novella Book 2) by Katherine Bone Page A

beside Garrick.
    Percy didn’t move. “The clothes do not necessarily make the man, dear boy.”
    Riotous laughter eased some of the tension building in the room.
    Simon relaxed his mouth and tested his jaw, knowing it would probably ache for days.
    Garrick didn’t blink. “I was referring to the vicar.”
    Holt’s mouth formed an O. He directed his attention to Garrick. “How dare you disparage me, you one-eyed spawn of the devil. I’m a man of God!”
    Garrick tensed. Henry put a hand on Garrick’s shoulder.
    “More like a man of mis fortune,” Whitbread added, fanning the flames.
    Holt turned on Whitbread. “You—”
    “Do remind us, vicar. Who facilitated Chester Walden’s death? I distinctly remember you were the one who delivered information about Wickham and Walden to the House of Lords. Because of you, Walden lost his head,” Whitbread accused.
    “ I-I am not on trial here, sir.” Holt’s eyes turned maniacal. “This is not a court room.”
    “Then why have you launched an attack?”
    All hope of avoiding violence fled. There was no way in hell to escape the leviathan born in the room.
     

SEVEN
    What tho’ nor friends nor kindred dear,
    To grace his obsequies, attend?
    His comrades are his brothers here,
    And ev’ry hero is his friend!
    ~The Muffled Drum, John Mayne, The Gentleman’s Magazine, LXXV July 1805
     
    A fissure of light spilled through the damask curtains, aiming an iridescent beam to the mirror above the fireplace. The reflection split the room in two. Nothing was more frightening than a house divided. Gillian suppressed a shiver of dread as bickering voices swelled around her. She’d been afraid when Lucien died, fearful of a future without her husband’s guidance, terrified of taking the steps she would have to take without the man she truly loved — Simon — in her life. Those events helped her sympathize with these men who now feared for their futures, for a country celebrating its greatest victory over Napoleon and Villeneuve. But sympathy did no one any good if Nelson’s Tea couldn’t find a way to rise above the sorrow of Nelson’s death.
    “Why have you launched an attack?”
    “Me?” Holt exclaimed, directing Gillian’s attention back to the man who had a particular fascination with the clock on the mantel. He fidgeted with his coat, pulling it closer. What was he hiding? “Whitbread, I am not the one spewing insults.”
    Melville’s low curse reached her ears as he jumped into the conversation. “Insults will get us nowhere. What we need to do is sit down like professionals and hear what Simon has to say on this matter. We owe him this courtesy.”
    Holt’s eyes rounded. “But—”
    “Excellent advice, my lord,” she said, cutting off the annoying vicar.
    He turned on Gillian, and the hair rose on the back of her neck. She scoured her mind for facts to help explain Holt’s irrational thinking and poor judgment. Why did he seem so anxious? Desperation ushered in all kinds of hell from which there was no return. What was he afraid of?
    She swallowed a lump of alarm and reached out, trying to persuade Holt against finishing whatever he’d begun. “May I suggest—”
    “No.” He shied away.
    She wasn’t deterred. “Your anxiety about Nelson’s death is completely understood. We are all shocked.”
    Holt burst into laughter. “You cannot possibly understand how Nelson’s demise complicates my existence, baroness.”
    She leaned toward him. “But I do. Four years ago, I stood on the precipice of giving up on life after Lucien’s murder. I chose to continue my husband’s work in order to carry on his legacy. We form our own destinies. We can continue protecting England in Nelson’s name.”
    Holt’s face distorted. “With respect, you are a woman.”
    Gillian could not contain her rage. Yes, she was a woman. Wasn’t that obvious? She didn’t have to prove anything to Holt or anyone else. Actions spoke louder than words. She clenched her jaw