Clemmie shook her head. “Whatever his troubles, he has no business letting the viscount regard Hecate in such a way. He looks as if he might eat her!”
Phileas turned then to see what she meant and was alarmed by what he saw.
“This is too much. Excuse me, ladies, I shall have a word in his ear,” he said.
“No, please don’t.” Hecate reached out to stop him but he was already on his way.
He had not gone more than two strides when Lady Brocket appeared at her husband’s side. She spoke softly to him, placing a hand on his arm as if encouraging him to intervene. When he did not respond she stepped over to Viscount Eckley and appealed directly to him. To Hecate’s horror, the man shrugged her off with such force that she stumbled backward, only saved from falling to the ground by the swift actions of a nearby footman.
“Eckley!” Phileas was not the only one to admonish him. “What the devil are you doing, man?”
The viscount barged past Phileas and the other men who had stepped in to berate him, and strode straight toward Hecate. She felt held tight to the spot where she stood, even though she knew herself to be in harm’s way. It seemed to her that everything happened with supernatural swiftness. There was Phileas, calling after Lord Brocket’s cousin. There were the other guests, trying to grab hold of him. There was Clemmie clutching at her friend. The man striding toward her appeared oblivious to the chaos he was causing. Hecate saw the wildness in his eyes, and the blood in her veins ran cold. Just as it seemed he would lay hands on her in his terrible rage, Phileas ran through the crowd and launched himself in the manner of a flying rugby tackle. He brought Viscount Eckley crashing down, the pair landing in the middle of one of the long tables of food. Amid shrieks and cries of shock from all quarters, above the sound of splintering wood, shattering glass, and breaking china, it was still possible to make out roars of protest. He thrashed and kicked as three other men fought to restrain him. At last they had him on his feet and, grasping his arms tight, propelled him from the room. As he left he turned to take one more look at Hecate. As did the earl.
Clemmie was at her side again. “Oh, Hecate! That dreadful man … to come at you in such a way … It is unthinkable! Such behavior. Dearest, are you hurt?”
“No,” Hecate murmured, the thudding of her pulse against her eardrums still ragged.
“Are you certain? Oh, Hecate, what a thing to happen! He was about to assault you, we all saw it.”
“I promise you, I am unharmed,” she said, taking her friend’s hands in hers. She smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring way. She had not, it was true, been injured, as the viscount had been stopped before he could reach her. It was not the actual thwarted attack that had left her so shaken. What had struck her to her very soul was the look he had given her as he was marched from the room, that dreadful, cold, deliberate seeking out of her. Beyond even this, though less overt, what she found more disturbing was Lord Brocket’s small, chilling smile.
18
“Intolerable behavior!” Beatrice was still protesting as she took her seat in the carriage for the journey home. “It is not to be borne. Edward, have you no opinion on the matter?”
Edward sat opposite his wife. “I am content to listen to yours,” he told her.
Charlie was bright-eyed from the drama. “Did you see the way Phileas brought him to the ground? The viscount was no match for him!”
“Charles, be quiet. Your sister being attacked is not entertainment.”
“I am unhurt, Mother,” Hecate assured her. “Charlie is right; Phileas stopped him.”
“A hero!” her brother insisted, earning a stern look from his mother.
Edward leaned back in his seat as the carriage turned down the driveway and the horses picked up speed. “The man was clearly the worse for drink. I will speak with Brocket.”
“Who should have been equal to the task of keeping his cousin in check,” said Beatrice, pulling her wrap more tightly around her shoulders, a shiver running through her body as she did so. “There was something deeply unsettling about that man’s manner.”
For once, Hecate was in agreement with her mother. She had encountered drunks at parties and balls before, though none had launched quite such a personal attack on her. It was not this that had shaken her, however. It was how he had regarded her as he was led away. For she recalled now, where she had seen that sly grin before. It was the exact same expression she had seen on the face of the man who had once been Joe Colwall. It was the triumphant smile of an Embodied Spirit.
By the time they reached Hafod Road, all the occupants of the carriage were weary. The lateness of the hour, the exertions of dancing and chatting, together with the shock of what had happened, had combined to dampen their spirits and bring on fatigue. It was a quiet party, then, that returned home, handing their hats and coats to Stella. The maid had been paid to stay on to help her mistress, and ordinarily would have enjoyed listening to her recount details of a ball. On this occasion, she took in the somber state of the family and knew better than to start asking questions. There was, in addition, something she had to tell them.
“Mr. Cavendish, a letter has arrived,” she said, indicating the silver platter on the hall stand.
“At this hour?” Edward picked up the folded paper and turned it over. “The earl’s seal,” he muttered.
The others crowded around him, waiting. He unfolded the letter and read its contents aloud.
“‘My dear Cavendish, I am at a loss to sufficiently express my regret at the unacceptable way in which my cousin deported himself this evening. Kindly pass on my sincerest apologies to your daughter. I am only glad that no harm came to her, though that is not, for one moment, to lessen the shock that she must have felt. The viscount is a poor drinker and had overindulged. I make no excuses for him, but assure you that I will remonstrate with him in the strongest terms.’”
“Remonstrate!” Beatrice snorted. “The man should be sent home. We do not need his sort in our society.”
Edward continued. “‘By way of an apology, and to assure you of the continuing high regard in which I hold your family, would you all do me the honor of visiting here at Brockhampton for tea, on an afternoon of your choosing? Ever your respectful friend…’ etcetera, etcetera.” He looked up from the letter. “Well, it is an apology at least.”
“Tea at Brockhampton!” Charlie was delighted. “May we go?”
“Certainly you may not. Nor may your sister.”
“But, Mother…”
Edward held up his hand. “I will go next week. Speak to the man myself. It need not be a family occasion. He is an acquaintance of long standing and we will encounter one another at chamber of commerce meetings and so forth. Better to clear the air.” He folded the letter and put it in his pocket, steering Charlie toward the stairs. “Now, to bed.”
Hecate followed on, exchanging glances with her father. She knew better than to challenge her mother on the matter at that moment, but she was determined, no matter what her mother’s opinion, that she would be accompanying her father to Brockhampton. She followed up the staircase, reaching out for her father’s hand before he turned for his room.
“Did you see, Father? Did you see what the viscount truly is?” she whispered.
“I saw he was crazed.”
“In the same way Joe Colwall is. I’ve seen it. I know an Embodied Spirit when I see one. I must talk with you.”
He was on the point of following her toward her room when Beatrice paused at the threshold of their bedroom.
“Edward? Please come to bed. I am very tired and have no wish to be disturbed later.”
He squeezed Hecate’s hand.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
