Page 70 of Crash Landing
While Hermia lay flailing atop the tea cart, which remained atop the maid, pinning her down and probably crushing a rib or two, Sylvia screamed for her husband. “Frampton! Frampton! Come quickly! Lady Hermia is hurt.”
Never mind that the ogrish maid was the one who was injured and barely able to breathe, because dear Aunt Hermia was ruthlessly keeping her pinned down.
Well done, Hermia.
Lord Frampton and two of his so-called guards had been cloistered in the study and now burst into the parlor at a run. Florence began to scream as well, gleefully adding to the pandemonium. “Hermia! Oh, no! I think she has collapsed! Someone fetch a doctor right away!”
“I’ll go, my lord,” one of the guards said, and hurried off.
As soon as he was gone, Florence shouted for smelling salts. “I cannot find hers! She always carries them in her reticule. Where are they?”
Frampton rang for his housekeeper, who tore in with a maid in tow. Sylvia sent the girl up to her bedchamber for smelling salts, putting an arm around her and guiding her into the hallway while rattling off instructions. “At once, my lady,” Florence heard the young maid say.
Florence was kneeling beside her aunt, trying her best to also block the ogre from getting up. She had to give it to her aunt—that was one of the best tackles she had ever seen done.
“Where is your wife? Where is she?” the ogre wheezed, pointing frantically at Frampton and then the doorway. His eyes widened.
“Honestly, Rutledge! You are too much,” Sylvia exclaimed. “I am right here. I’ve been standing behind my husband all along. What wasI supposed to do? Block his way? Frankly, I’ve had enough of you. You saw that Lady Hermia was ailing, and what did you do? Nothing at all to help her, and I distinctly recall asking you to look out for her.”
“She still has her sewing basket, my lord! Take it from her!” the maid cried out.
Lord Frampton turned to his wife. “Give it to me, Sylvia.”
She held tight to it. “Whatever for? I’ll take it upstairs myself.”
“No, I shall take it,” he said, his voice low and menacing.
“Well, all right. Leave it beside my wardrobe. But you really needn’t trouble yourself.”
“No trouble, my dear.” He took it from her hands and marched out of the room—with every intention to search it, no doubt.
Of course, he would not find anything but Sylvia’s embroidery, since she had taken the moment of distraction to place the fake letters in her husband’s safe.
The Frampton head butler rushed in a moment later. “His Grace has arrived to take Lady Florence and Miss Newton home.”
Sylvia, looking believably frazzled, nodded. “Good, do tell him to hurry in. Although I ought to put Hermia in one of our spare bedrooms. Shall I—”
“No,” Florence said kindly. “Let me take her to Gull Hall. The ride isn’t far, and she will be in familiar surroundings when she revives. Please have the doctor ride over to us. I do apologize for this mess.”
“Not at all. We can all do with a little excitement once in a while,” Sylvia said mirthfully.
Trajan strode in with his cousins.
Good heavens, he wasn’t taking any chances. But Florence liked this show of force.
“Blessed saints! What happened here?” he said, looking believably aghast.
So did his cousins. Well, they probably were genuinely appalled and not acting.
“It is Aunt Hermia. You were right to be worried about her. She isnot well,” Florence said, faking tears.
“Oh, sweetheart. I am so sorry. Let me take you straight home.” He then commanded Andrew and one of Framptons’ footmen to carry a limp Hermia to his carriage, and asked Sebastian and Nathan to right the tea cart and assist the ogrish maid to her feet.
“Check the study, my lord!” the wretched maid cried the moment Frampton reappeared. She was wincing and moaning because she had likely broken a rib in the tumult and had to be in pain. But it did not stop her from sifting through Hermia’s embroidery basket, her anger mounting as she found nothing but the sample and threads.
“Give me that,” Florence said, wrenching it out of her hands after making certain the sour ogre had time enough to give it a thorough search and find nothing.
She ought to have felt sorry for the woman’s injuries. Was it awful of her that she felt not an ounce of remorse?
