Page 72 of From the Ashes
I sucked in a breath.
Eastbrooke stood and held up his hands for calm. "Settle down, everyone. Let's not make any hasty decisions."
Decisions? Unease settled in my stomach, bitter and cold. I glanced at Lincoln but his stony face gave nothing away.
"Our decisions are never hasty," Marchbank said.
The general pointed a finger at his colleague. "You are not in charge here, March."
"Nor are you."
Eastbrooke's chest expanded and his chin thrust out. He sported the confident air of a man with an army under his command, whose word was never questioned and whose orders were always obeyed. "I am the most senior member of the committee. I have years of experience in strategy and planning, and dealing with men. Not to mention I am the closest thing to a father he has."
"No." The sharpness of Lincoln's voice had everyone turning to him. Lady Harcourt pressed her hand to her lips, and General Eastbrooke blinked. He hadn't expected Lincoln's disagreement. "You are not a father figure to me," Lincoln went on. "You are nothing like one, and never have been, so do not pretend otherwise."
"I raised you."
"You paid for a roof over my head, and tutors to teach me. That's not the same as raising."
"He's got you there," Gillingham said with a chuckle into his glass.
Eastbrooke tugged on his jacket hem. "Nevertheless, I am in charge here."
"You are not in charge," Marchbank shot back. "None of us are. That's why we have meetings and votes." Eastbrooke may have the bearing of a senior member of the armed forces, but Marchbank possessed what every nobleman did—a belief in his God-given right to be above everyone else. He also had the face of a battle-scarred warrior. It made him far more frightening and worthy of respect, in my opinion.
"Please, enough of this arguing," Lady Harcourt whispered. "My nerves are shattered enough."
"That's your own fault, Julia," Gillingham said, pointing his walking stick at her. "You can't blame any of us for your secret getting out. I, for one, didn't even know you were a dancer until I read about it in the papers. Tell me, do you know the cancan? Marvelously energetic dance. I wonder, would you give me a private show later?"
With a snarl and bearing of teeth, she flung herself at him. "How dare you!"
He put his hands up to shield his face, but not before her fingernails raked across his cheek and he spilled his brandy in his lap. It took both Eastbrooke and Marchbank to drag her off him and push her back down on the chair. Lincoln didn't step in to help.
Gillingham touched his bloodied cheek. "You bitch!"
"You disgusting, depraved little man." Her low growling voice held none of the velvety tones that usually came out of her mouth. Her body heaved with her deep breaths, and the swell of her breasts rose above her bodice.
"I am not the disgusting, depraved one here." Gillingham's gaze fell to her breasts. He grunted a laugh.
If Eastbrooke and Marchbank hadn't still been holding her, she might have flown at Gillingham again. As it was, she had to settle for a sneer.
"Enough!" the general shouted. "You're acting like children."
Gillingham dabbed at his cheek with his handkerchief then at his damp crotch. "This is why women shouldn't be allowed on the committee. One of the Buchanans should have taken over their father's place."
"What's done is done." Marchbank eased back as if Lady Harcourt was a feral cat he'd caught and wanted to release, but wasn't sure if she'd attack again. "Membership in the committee is not up for negotiation."
I watched the scene in wide-eyed wonder. Growing up, toffs had always been people to look up to and admire with their lovely clothes, sparkling jewels, and regal bearing. They seemed to be above the sorts of things that I worried about, like where the next meal came from, or how I would change clothes without the boys seeing my breasts. Since meeting the committee, I'd learned that they were no different from anyone else. They could be just as petty and cruel as the lowest villain who walked the streets and preyed on the desperate. Watching the committee implode was a humbling experience, and yet satisfying too. With the exception of Marchbank, I didn't like any of them.
Lady Harcourt sniffed. Tears streaked down her cheeks, leaving tracks in the powder she wore on her face. Marchbank handed her his handkerchief, but she didn't take her eyes off Lincoln.
I glanced at him too. He stood with his hands at his back, his feet a little apart, his attention on the gentlemen. All three of them now stood.
"There is a point to this meeting," he said with bored indifference. "Will someone please get to it?"
Gillingham continued to dab at his cheek as if he hadn't heard the demand. Eastbrooke and Marchbank exchanged glances.
Eastbrooke shook his head ever so slightly. "It's a mistake," he said quietly.
