A Servant of Duty, Chapter 7
Seven:
The warm crush of bodies is nearly too much at the entrance, the delights within shadowed in mystery and the cast of a thousand lamps marking cutouts along the path. Anton tucks a finger into his collar, trying in vain to loosen it from the tight confines that his valet must have conjured during the planning of some unknown tortures. Wills is beside him, similarly attired, though just a hair short of being unkempt. Anton thinks he’s doing it just to spite him for commandeering his evenings thus, but he cannot help himself. Wills is to be his voice of reason, when his every thought threatens to lead him astray.
Once through the bottleneck at the entrance, Anton lets loose a sigh of relief. No matter how much he adores London, there is always something of a madness about its occupants that worries him. He jostles Wills to get his attention before walking back further into the benighted gardens. The paths curved round before them, traveling here and there between lawns and wooded walks. The bustle quieted the further they entered into the park, both the activities and the caliber of people. Anton had no doubt in his mind about where Emilyanne would be, spying her even as he approached the orchestra hall.
He sketches a bow, as he draws close enough to interrupt her conversation with the other young women about her.
“Good evening, Miss Doyle. Ladies,” he greets them all vaguely, biting his cheek at the titters from her companions.
“Why, Major Crosarme, Viscount Berrisford.” She drops into a slight curtsy. “How terribly fortuitous to meet here. Am I to understand you are here to enjoy some music this evening?”
“I had rather hoped to find my delights elsewhere,” Wills says, cheeky grin in place even as he eyes the group they’d so smoothly joined. “However, I’ve no doubt the exquisite company here will make this evening far more enjoyable than I had imagined.”
Emilyanne’s companions giggle again and each grasp ahold of Wills’ arms, leaving Anton alone with her. He smiles a little and sketches another bow, like they hadn’t spoken only moments before. “Miss Doyle.”
“Mr. Crosarme,” she dips in a low curtsy at his example before taking his proffered arm. “It would seem we are always meeting like this. One might begin to assume it was by design,” she adds, amusement sparkling in her eyes and a wry twist to her smile.
“Could you fault me if it were so? Any man would count himself fortunate if his company had a mere half your charms.” He takes note of her blush, sensing she does not often receive such compliments. “As it happens, I have heard the walks here lend themselves well to a stroll with such a one as yourself. Would you care to join me?”
She contemplates it for a moment. “Perhaps, the maze?” she queries, inclining her head to the hedgerow to her left.
The maze itself has many solutions, he knows, just as it has many dead ends. The creators of the garden knew well their clientele: the bored bourgeoisie, aristocrats looking for dalliance. The lights scattered about the place cast enough shadow to lend the most illicit acts a sense of privacy, as well as casting enough light to guide their way out.? He himself has been in the maze several times, thankful for a well-placed bench or shadow-cast corner with which to distract the company he keeps. It’s a foregone conclusion, however, that Emilyanne is not the type to respond to that type of advance, and such action would be wasted on her.
He keeps her arm firmly ensconced in his own, ears sharp for any situations that would be untoward for someone of her stature and age to witness. Even still, he can feel himself drifting, listening to her as she talks about her brothers’ recent efforts to curtail her time alone and have her do something more befitting a lady.
“I ask you. Do all men expect women to sit at home all day, weaving at a loom whilst she waits for a man to return to her? It really is quite ridiculous if one thinks about it. One could hardly think that a man would sit at home reading the newspapers all day if his wife were not at home.” She seems earnest in that, clearly expecting his agreement in the matter. Anton bites his lip, grunting in a manner that really leaves no doubt as to what he thinks of it. “Tony,” she says, stopping them and voice pitched with regret. “Don’t tell me you think a woman should bury her head in the sand while a man goes gallivanting across the countryside.”
He drops his eyes and gathers her hand back into the crook of his arm. “I dare not argue with you at this time, Emily. I only know that, were it in my power, I would do all that I can to make sure my wife has no need to worry for her protection. If she were to have some,” he pauses and tries to think of a way to phrase his thoughts, “some reputable work to accomplish, I am quite sure that I could see no reason to keep her under lock-and-key at the homestead.” He grimaces internally, wondering if what he’s said extends his hand too far. The sigh of relief that he hears not long thereafter tells him what he needs to know.
Time slips away from them, lanterns and lampposts allaying the dark. It's with surprise, then, that he finds the orchestra closed and the pink light of dawn upon them. He curses under his breath, wondering what the whispers shall say this time when his carriage returns her home at the hour of mistresses. He smiles tightly as she glances concernedly at him, hurrying her as he can towards the entrance.
Half the lights on the footpath have dimmed and extinguished, not meant to burn the entirety of the night away. Even as dawn approaches, he can see only shadows and hints of light in the shade of trees and shrubbery. She’s shivering beside him, a soft gasp escaping as someone steps into their path and pulls them up short.
“Woll, wot ‘ave we got ‘ere, lads?” The chorus of chuckles later leaves no doubt in their mind about just how surrounded they are. Anton pulls Emilyanne tightly to him, trying to keep the majority of the footpads in front of him.
“Gentlemen, I scarcely think we have anything to offer you, but please name your price to let us pass,” he implores, unwilling to see this come to fisticuffs.
The leader steps forward with a sneer, rubbing at one of Emily’s curls that lay on her shoulder. Anton grits his teeth against the curses on the tip of his tongue and jerks her slightly away. The mob cackles at the powerless gesture before a pistol is pointed in Anton’s face.
“I’ll take wot I loike. Yer wallet, sir,” he snidely drawls before fingering the necklace about Emilyanne’s neck familiarly. “And yer jewels, missus.” Her hands are shaking as she reaches back to undo the clasp of the necklace, and the leader of the group crudely rubs his hand down her side, stepping in close to whisper in her ear. “Don’t be afeared ‘o me, poppet. Hiffin you’ll be wantin’ real man to take care ‘o yer needs, I can take care ‘o that, too.”
She lashes out and lands a solid punch in his eye for daring to encroach on her person. Spitting, he rises, backhanding her across the face and drawing blood at her lip. She crumples to the ground, and Anton makes an aborted step forward to defend her, drawn short by the sound of 7 other guns being drawn. “You’d best keep that whore under lock and key, yer Lordship. Else she may not come off so lucky, hif you catch my meanin’.”
Anton crouches down beside Emilyanne only seconds before he feels the butt of the pistol against the crown of his head.
The warm crush of bodies is nearly too much at the entrance, the delights within shadowed in mystery and the cast of a thousand lamps marking cutouts along the path. Anton tucks a finger into his collar, trying in vain to loosen it from the tight confines that his valet must have conjured during the planning of some unknown tortures. Wills is beside him, similarly attired, though just a hair short of being unkempt. Anton thinks he’s doing it just to spite him for commandeering his evenings thus, but he cannot help himself. Wills is to be his voice of reason, when his every thought threatens to lead him astray.
Once through the bottleneck at the entrance, Anton lets loose a sigh of relief. No matter how much he adores London, there is always something of a madness about its occupants that worries him. He jostles Wills to get his attention before walking back further into the benighted gardens. The paths curved round before them, traveling here and there between lawns and wooded walks. The bustle quieted the further they entered into the park, both the activities and the caliber of people. Anton had no doubt in his mind about where Emilyanne would be, spying her even as he approached the orchestra hall.
He sketches a bow, as he draws close enough to interrupt her conversation with the other young women about her.
“Good evening, Miss Doyle. Ladies,” he greets them all vaguely, biting his cheek at the titters from her companions.
“Why, Major Crosarme, Viscount Berrisford.” She drops into a slight curtsy. “How terribly fortuitous to meet here. Am I to understand you are here to enjoy some music this evening?”
“I had rather hoped to find my delights elsewhere,” Wills says, cheeky grin in place even as he eyes the group they’d so smoothly joined. “However, I’ve no doubt the exquisite company here will make this evening far more enjoyable than I had imagined.”
Emilyanne’s companions giggle again and each grasp ahold of Wills’ arms, leaving Anton alone with her. He smiles a little and sketches another bow, like they hadn’t spoken only moments before. “Miss Doyle.”
“Mr. Crosarme,” she dips in a low curtsy at his example before taking his proffered arm. “It would seem we are always meeting like this. One might begin to assume it was by design,” she adds, amusement sparkling in her eyes and a wry twist to her smile.
“Could you fault me if it were so? Any man would count himself fortunate if his company had a mere half your charms.” He takes note of her blush, sensing she does not often receive such compliments. “As it happens, I have heard the walks here lend themselves well to a stroll with such a one as yourself. Would you care to join me?”
She contemplates it for a moment. “Perhaps, the maze?” she queries, inclining her head to the hedgerow to her left.
The maze itself has many solutions, he knows, just as it has many dead ends. The creators of the garden knew well their clientele: the bored bourgeoisie, aristocrats looking for dalliance. The lights scattered about the place cast enough shadow to lend the most illicit acts a sense of privacy, as well as casting enough light to guide their way out.? He himself has been in the maze several times, thankful for a well-placed bench or shadow-cast corner with which to distract the company he keeps. It’s a foregone conclusion, however, that Emilyanne is not the type to respond to that type of advance, and such action would be wasted on her.
He keeps her arm firmly ensconced in his own, ears sharp for any situations that would be untoward for someone of her stature and age to witness. Even still, he can feel himself drifting, listening to her as she talks about her brothers’ recent efforts to curtail her time alone and have her do something more befitting a lady.
“I ask you. Do all men expect women to sit at home all day, weaving at a loom whilst she waits for a man to return to her? It really is quite ridiculous if one thinks about it. One could hardly think that a man would sit at home reading the newspapers all day if his wife were not at home.” She seems earnest in that, clearly expecting his agreement in the matter. Anton bites his lip, grunting in a manner that really leaves no doubt as to what he thinks of it. “Tony,” she says, stopping them and voice pitched with regret. “Don’t tell me you think a woman should bury her head in the sand while a man goes gallivanting across the countryside.”
He drops his eyes and gathers her hand back into the crook of his arm. “I dare not argue with you at this time, Emily. I only know that, were it in my power, I would do all that I can to make sure my wife has no need to worry for her protection. If she were to have some,” he pauses and tries to think of a way to phrase his thoughts, “some reputable work to accomplish, I am quite sure that I could see no reason to keep her under lock-and-key at the homestead.” He grimaces internally, wondering if what he’s said extends his hand too far. The sigh of relief that he hears not long thereafter tells him what he needs to know.
Time slips away from them, lanterns and lampposts allaying the dark. It's with surprise, then, that he finds the orchestra closed and the pink light of dawn upon them. He curses under his breath, wondering what the whispers shall say this time when his carriage returns her home at the hour of mistresses. He smiles tightly as she glances concernedly at him, hurrying her as he can towards the entrance.
Half the lights on the footpath have dimmed and extinguished, not meant to burn the entirety of the night away. Even as dawn approaches, he can see only shadows and hints of light in the shade of trees and shrubbery. She’s shivering beside him, a soft gasp escaping as someone steps into their path and pulls them up short.
“Woll, wot ‘ave we got ‘ere, lads?” The chorus of chuckles later leaves no doubt in their mind about just how surrounded they are. Anton pulls Emilyanne tightly to him, trying to keep the majority of the footpads in front of him.
“Gentlemen, I scarcely think we have anything to offer you, but please name your price to let us pass,” he implores, unwilling to see this come to fisticuffs.
The leader steps forward with a sneer, rubbing at one of Emily’s curls that lay on her shoulder. Anton grits his teeth against the curses on the tip of his tongue and jerks her slightly away. The mob cackles at the powerless gesture before a pistol is pointed in Anton’s face.
“I’ll take wot I loike. Yer wallet, sir,” he snidely drawls before fingering the necklace about Emilyanne’s neck familiarly. “And yer jewels, missus.” Her hands are shaking as she reaches back to undo the clasp of the necklace, and the leader of the group crudely rubs his hand down her side, stepping in close to whisper in her ear. “Don’t be afeared ‘o me, poppet. Hiffin you’ll be wantin’ real man to take care ‘o yer needs, I can take care ‘o that, too.”
She lashes out and lands a solid punch in his eye for daring to encroach on her person. Spitting, he rises, backhanding her across the face and drawing blood at her lip. She crumples to the ground, and Anton makes an aborted step forward to defend her, drawn short by the sound of 7 other guns being drawn. “You’d best keep that whore under lock and key, yer Lordship. Else she may not come off so lucky, hif you catch my meanin’.”
Anton crouches down beside Emilyanne only seconds before he feels the butt of the pistol against the crown of his head.