that a strumpet became the Marchioness of Thurrock! Like mother, like daughter.” He turned and raised his voice. “I had to rout my cousin out of this slut’s bedchamber this night.”
Before Betsy could answer, a powerful thunk split the air. Grégoire actually came off his feet before he slammed into a wall and slid down it.
“My son is incapacitated,” the marquess said grimly, “so I defended the family honor for him.”
It had finally happened: Betsy had been called a slut and compared to her mother in public. The sky didn’t fall.
“I say,” Grégoire bleated, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “Haven’t I been attacked enough for one night?”
A heavyset man was sliding toward the door. It had to be Grégoire’s valet. “Stop him,” she called. Two footmen lunged toward the man.
Aunt Knowe had been waving sal volatile under Jeremy’s nose. “He moved,” she reported, tapping his cheek. “Time to wake up and slaughter your cousin, Jeremy.”
“I heard that!” Grégoire said, from where he sat against the wall, dabbing his lip with a handkerchief.
Betsy marched over to him, her boots thumping loudly. “I would demand an apology, except you’re right,” she said. “Jeremy was in my bedchamber because we plan to marry and have many, many children. You will never inherit.”
“I believe your father will disagree,” Grégoire said with a titter. “You may have given my cousin your maidenhead, but will your father agree to your very life being threatened?”
Behind her, Aunt Knowe growled, “What an imbecile.”
“I agree,” Betsy said.
She moved even closer to Grégoire. He looked up and sneered. “Are you planning to slap me? It won’t change the truth, and the truth will out!”
“I expect you’re right,” Betsy said. It was enormously satisfying to slam her boot between his legs. She enjoyed the gasp and the utter shock in his eyes before he screamed and rolled to the side, curling into a ball and rocking back and forth.
A strong arm wrapped around her shoulder before she could draw back her leg and do it again. “Jeremy will be proud of us, don’t you think?” a deep voice asked.
Betsy grinned up at the marquess.
“Jeremy is awake. Someone take that fool valet away and question him,” Aunt Knowe ordered, getting to her feet.
Betsy flew back to Jeremy and knelt at his side. He stared at her, squinting, then put a hand on her cheek. “Hello, beautiful,” he murmured.
“Do you know who I am?”
“My wife,” he said, his eyelids closing on a smile.
“Wife?” Grégoire rolled up to his knees. “That’s a lie!”
“You’re the fool,” Aunt Knowe said, staring down at him, arms crossed over her chest. “It’s the easiest thing in the world to acquire a license, you imbecile.”
Betsy squeezed Jeremy’s hand. Perhaps Aunt Knowe was right, but to the best of her knowledge, Jeremy hadn’t acquired such a license. Yet.
“Unless you want me to second my niece and kick any of your future offspring into eternity,” Aunt Knowe said grimly, “tell me what you did to her husband.”
“I did nothing! My valet cracked him over the head because he was about to murder me. Tell them, Jardin.”
The valet was standing near the door, a footman at each arm. “I defended my master.”
Betsy kissed Jeremy on the lips and he opened his eyes again. “What happened?” she asked.
He frowned.
“You shot a pistol,” she prompted.
He sat up and his hand went straight to the back of his head. “Bloody hell.”
“You went mad, just as I predicted,” Grégoire shrilled. He was on his feet, glaring around the room. “The shot went off and he began growling like a wild animal and lunged at me. I expect he thought I was another soldier.”
“I don’t remember that,” Jeremy said.
“You wouldn’t,” Grégoire said, his voice more confident. “You didn’t remember Bedlam either, did you?”
“How does he know about that?” Aunt Knowe asked.
The marquess moved to Jeremy’s side. “Bedlam?” Jeremy’s father’s voice was anguished.
Jeremy held out his hand and after an infinitesimal pause, his father pulled him to his feet. “Nothing important. Grégoire bribed the attendants for details, the better to circulate a print of it,” Jeremy explained.
He looked to Betsy and she flew to him, nestling against his chest.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Hell of a headache. Who knocked me out?”
“My valet saved my life,” Grégoire repeated. “Did you marry that woman?”
Jeremy’s arm tightened around Betsy. “Not yet.”
“You ignore evidence at your own peril! I wouldn’t be at all surprised if a year from now your wife is found shot dead and your only excuse will be