Page 63 of Venus in Disguise

Ash nodded, acknowledging his father’s steadying presence and knowing he was right.

“Silas, I need scissors and hot water, and Nani Maa’s medicine chest,” his mother said, before gesturing for him to come. “Help me, Ash. I need to get these things off her.”

Ash nodded, moving automatically, as if he were stuck in some terrible dream, though his mind kept returning to the stupid argument they’d had just hours earlier. Why hadn’t he cancelled the fight? Why hadn’t he stayed at home with Narcissa? Part of him had wanted to, but he’d been too damned stubborn to admit he’d rather be with her than fighting. Like he’d been afraid she would change him too much if he let her, and now… and now he’d do anything if only he knew she would not be taken from him. Pain and regret filled his heart, making him sick with it.

His father returned with the medicine chest and scissors, and he helped his mother cut away Narcissa’s clothes. Her brother’s clothes, he realised, his stomach twisting. Somehow, she had got wind of what Richmond had been about tonight and she had come to warn him. His brave, beautiful, reckless girl. A swell of love and longing pushed at his ribs, as if his chest could not contain the sensation as he gazed down at her pale face and he took her hand, his chest contracting as he found the delicate fingers so terribly cold.

“Will she… Will she be all right?” he managed, almost too afraid to ask, his voice unsteady as his mother swabbed the wound, studying it in the glare of the lamps she’d had set around the bed.

She did not answer at first, and Ash held his breath, knowing she would not placate him with pretty lies if the situation were grave.

Aashini looked up, her beautiful eyes grave but calm. “Yes, love. The wound is not terribly deep, though we must thank goodness she decided to wear her corset under her clothes. I think that’s what saved her. If we clean it well and use Nani Maa’s poultice, that will keep the infection away. I think she’ll be just fine.”

The rush of relief that hit Ash square in the chest was so powerful he couldn’t speak, his throat working as he struggled for composure.

His mother reached out and took his hand, squeezing hard. “She put herself in harm’s way for you, my son. She must care for you very deeply.”

Ash nodded, knowing he would never doubt her again, would never allow himself to believe she did not know her own mind. Narcissa was far stronger and braver than he had ever given her credit for, a mistake he would never make again.

“You love her,” his mother said with a smile.

Ash let out a shaky laugh and raised Narcissa’s hand to his lips. “I do,” he whispered, watching his beautiful wife sleep, and sending up a prayer of thanks to whoever might be listening, that he would be given the chance to tell her so.

Epilogue

The hitherto irreproachable Ponsonby family seemed destined to remain mired in scandal as the body of the Duke of Beresford’s son and heir was found yesterday, floating in the Thames.

Lord Richmond was last seen during an altercation outside the notorious Sons of Hades club in Portman Square, where he attempted to murder Mr Ashton Anson in retribution for eloping with his younger sister. Though this correspondent is unclear not only about why the lady was at the scene, but furthermore – dressed as a boy – it appears Lady Narcissa courageously threw herself between her husband and her brother, incurring a knife wound to her side.

We do not yet know how serious the wound is as no one at Cavendish House has yet deigned to give a statement.

The marriage between Mr Anson and Lady Narcissa took place after the lady ran away from home to be with her lover, despite her father forbidding her to have anything to do with him. Mr Anson - who is of Anglo-Indian descent via his mother, Lady Aashini Cavendish - is notorious for his pugilistic talents, as well as being a fashionable if somewhat scandalous figure among the ranks of the ton.

What happened after Lord Richmond left Portman Square remains a mystery, though he was observed leaving in company with a Mr Muir Anderson, younger son of The Earl of Morven. Attempts to contact the gentleman have so far failed. It is believed he may have returned to Scotland to escape further questioning.

As for his grace, The Duke of Beresford has recovered somewhat from the stroke that afflicted him on hearing of his younger daughter’s marriage to Mr Anson, but according to this correspondent’s sources, remains bedridden.

―Excerpt of an article in the Morning Post’s society column.

18th March 1850, Cavendish House, The Strand, London.

Narcissa opened her bleary eyes, blinking until the blurry figure before her resolved itself into that of a man. A handsome, beloved man, the sight of whom made her heart give an erratic thud. He was sitting close beside the bed, his head braced in his hands, shoulders slumped. The poor darling looked weary and wretched, his clothes rumpled and all in disorder.

“Ash,” she whispered, watching as his head came up with a jerk.

He moved from the chair to the floor, kneeling beside her in one fluid movement, taking the hand she stretched out in his warm grasp and pressing it to his mouth. “Narcissa, oh, Christ, love. I’ve been so bloody afraid.”

Narcissa looked at him in surprise, wondering what he was so agitated about. Trying to sit up, a sudden burning pain in her side lanced through her and she gasped, stilling immediately.

“Don’t move!” he ordered, his voice stern. “Please love, don’t move. You’ll be just fine, but you must rest. My mother has cleaned and treated the wound, but you must keep still so you don’t dislodge the poultice.”

“W-Wound?” Narcissa repeated, bewildered for a moment until the events of last night came back to her in a rush. “Ash! Ash, did Richmond… are you hurt? Did he—”

“Hush,” Ash told her, pressing a finger to his lips, his face taut. “You can see I’m fine, apart from going out of my mind worrying about you. Lord, Narcissa, why didn’t you just send a message? You could have sent a footman. Why did you come yourself? You nearly died, you—you foolish, idiotic, brave, brave girl.”

She returned a weary if pleased smile, for she had been brave, if a little reckless, and she had kept him safe, just as she had meant to do.

“Don’t look so damned pleased with yourself. I’ve a good mind to spank you myself once you’re well enough,” he grumbled, though she could tell he didn’t mean a word of it. His eyes were shadowed, but the deep blue was soft with concern, his words born of frustration and fear rather than anger. “I might have lost you,” he said, his voice cracking.