panicking.”
The butler sniffed. “Remove her from the foyer, Watkins.”
The footman leaned toward her, gently touching her arm in an awkward form of compliance. “Countess. If you would please—”
“No. I will not please.” She shifted away and glared at them. “Need I remind you both, gentlemen, that I am not the one getting paid to serve you. You are the ones getting paid to serve me. Now, for the better good of our safety, as well as the safety of those unfortunate souls being forced to wait in that crowd outside, open the door and do as you are told. ‘Tis a simple matter of courtesy that will ensure order until the guards arrive.”
The butler set his jaw and hastened toward them. “I think it best we take away her crutches, Watkins.”
She gasped and clutched at the oak posts holding her up. “You will do no such thing!”
Watkins jerked toward the old man. “Mr. Lawrence. You don’t expect me to actually—”
“Do as you are told, boy,” the butler commanded in a harsh tone. “Or you will find yourself without a position or a reference. You know our orders. To oppose them is to oppose your own King.”
Zosia lowered her chin in disbelief as Watkins sighed, leaned toward her and tried grabbing hold of her right crutch. She jerked away, stumbling against her crutches and tightening her hold, hopped back on her one foot. “This is outrageous! How dare you—I demand to know what orders His Majesty has given and why!”
Watkins grabbed hold of her crutch again and yanked at it, each pull growing all the more firm and insistent. “I will carry you upstairs, Countess.”
Her eyes narrowed. “No one ever carries me. I carry myself. Now I am demanding you disclose your orders.”
“Those orders are confidential,” the butler supplied in a flat tone. “Now, please—”
“No! I—” She gritted her teeth and savagely held onto her crutches, despite swaying against Watkins’s each yank and tug. Since when was it acceptable for servants to assault their mistress in the name of the King, who was supposed to be her protector?
Her bare fingers slid against the smooth oak, her grip loosening bit by bit. Though she didn’t need her crutches to balance herself on one foot, her very dignity was being pried away. And while she couldn’t physically take them on, unless she planned on beating them with the crutches they were so intent on having, she supposed there was only one way to go about this. She would unleash a weapon no man expected a genteel lady to use. A weapon she hadn’t used since she was ten, and one she hoped would also draw the attention of every single man outside.
Sucking in a huge breath, Zosia released a long, piercing scream that pulsed against the respectable silence surrounding them.
Watkins jumped away, releasing his hold on both crutches. His eyes bulged as he snapped up both gloved hands. “Countess! Please. Stop! Mr. Lawrence, what—”
A rapid pounding against the door rattled the crystal chandelier above as a male voice boomed from the other side, “Open this door! Open the goddamn door! Now!”
Zosia paused, bringing an abrupt end to her charade, and regally eyed the butler, well satisfied with the result it had produced. “It appears we have our very first concerned citizen. I suggest you open the door, Mr. Lawrence, or I will continue screaming and make every man outside think I am in desperate need of assistance. Then it will be your safety at stake. Not mine.”
Mr. Lawrence’s eyes widened. He edged back, then heaved out a sigh and muttered something, his thin lips curling. Swinging his stout frame toward the door, he unbolted the latch and fanned it open just wide enough for her to peer past the opening beyond his shoulder.
Shouts echoed from the street as men frantically pushed and shoved their way up the stairs, holding out and waving their cards. Zosia sucked in an astonished breath, not only in response to the chaos, but in recognizing the man looming in the doorway just beyond the butler.
Lord Moreland.
SCANDAL FIVE
If a lady is descendant from an illustrious family, she should never parade her lineage. Should she be of humbler means, she should never create an air of pretense to elevate her status. A true lady will be able to impress others by what she is, and not the name she holds. I myself value compassion, intelligence and integrity above all else, but sadly, a name, money and a pretty face that is only capable of commenting on music and needlework is all the ton ever clamors over.
—How To Avoid A Scandal, Moreland’s Original Manuscript
UPON GLIMPSING A NOTABLE sliver of her dashing neighbor, Zosia gripped her crutches so tightly she could actually feel her pulse throbbing against the smooth wood.
Lord Moreland leaned toward the narrow opening the butler had made, his top hat momentarily shadowing his features. “I am requesting an audience with your mistress. ‘Tis obvious she is in dire need of assistance and I am here to offer it.”
The butler stiffened. “I am afraid she is unavailable. But if you would like to leave a card, sir, I assure you—”
“I don’t have a card. But I do have this.” Lord Moreland rammed his broad shoulder against the door, causing the butler to stumble off to the side as the door freely swung open. Several men waving their calling cards in gloved hands tried pushing their way past Lord Moreland.
“My card!” one of the men shouted, reaching past Lord Moreland’s arm and waving his card.
“Ey, now, I was here first!” another shouted, shoving that man, causing Lord Moreland to stumble forward.
Zosia stiffened, expecting a rush through the door, but Lord Moreland whipped around toward them, scooping the clamoring men back and away from the entrance with an impressive sweep of his long arms. “Step off!” he boomed, using his entire body to push them back. “Cease this behavior for one breathing moment, gentlemen, and step off.”
“I suggest you step off,” a stockier, round-faced man boomed back, stepping toward Lord Moreland. With riled aggression, he hit Lord Moreland in the shoulder with a solid thud. “We were here first, fancy boy, and if you think—”
Lord Moreland snatched hold of the man by the lapels of his coat and with a violent thrust sent both the man and his hat flopping in full reverse toward the group of men pushing up the stairs. The clamoring crowd fell back with a slur of curses and shouts, buckling beneath the weight of the large man.
Zosia cringed, thankful she hadn’t been at the receiving end of that.
Lord Moreland stalked inside and slammed the door with a thunderous bang, bolting the latch. “Fancy boy,” he muttered aloud as if it had been the greatest insult he’d ever heard. He turned, sweeping into the foyer and demanded, “What the devil is going on?”
Mr. Lawrence and the footman scrambled toward the door to ensure the entrance had in fact been bolted.
Lord Moreland paused, apparently only now noticing her standing in the vast foyer. Dark, arched brows rose beneath the curved rim of his hat as enigmatic brown eyes swept over her. He captured her gaze and offered a cool, gentlemanly nod.
Her heart ricocheted toward her head and down to her one foot, his presence prickling awareness across every last inch of her heated skin.
He removed his top hat, scattering silky, straight auburn hair across his forehead, and intently scanned the foyer around them. “I heard screaming. Between the crowd gathered outside and no one opening the door … is all as it should be?”
His genuine concern and his earlier display of valiant brawn made her inwardly beam. More impressively, he wasn’t staring at her crutches. “Yes. Thank you. I was informed guards will be arriving shortly.” She eyed him. “Might I inquire as to why you are here, my lord? Did you come