He took one last look at the cake and went after her.
He entered the hallway just in time to see her trying to catch a body coming through the front door. Or at least that’s what it looked like—a body, falling through the door. He rushed forward to help her, reaching her just in time as Donovan was hoisted into the house by two men on the landing. Marek couldn’t see their faces before they disappeared into the night, but he could see Donovan’s—he’d been beaten and looked half-conscious.
“Oh my God!” Mrs. Honeycutt cried, and grabbed Donovan’s arm. “What happened?”
Marek moved to catch the brunt of the man’s weight. He hoisted Donovan onto his shoulders, one arm wrapped around a leg, the other holding his arm.
“This way,” she said frantically and ran to the drawing room ahead of him, opening the door for Marek, and standing aside as he banged through with the butler on his shoulders.
“Have a care with me head, lad,” Donovan muttered.
At Mrs. Honeycutt’s frantic gesturing, Marek deposited Donovan on the settee. Mrs. Honeycutt crouched down beside him and soothed a lock of hair from his forehead. “What happened, Donovan? Who did this to you?”
“I didn’t know the gents who did it,” Donovan said. “Hired thugs, I’d wager.” He lifted a hand and gingerly touched his busted lip. Both eyes were bruised, and there was a deep gash in his brow that Marek assumed would require some stitching. The front of his shirt was soaked with blood and his coat was torn at the shoulder.
Mrs. Honeycutt pressed her forehead against Donovan’s arm for a moment. “It was them, wasn’t it?”
“It was them,” Donovan said, and shifted slightly. When he did, he gasped, breathless with pain.
“It was the sanctimonious Lady Hartsfield,” Mrs. Honeycutt snapped. She stood up. “I’ll get something to clean your wounds—”
“Don’t,” Donovan said, and tried to lift himself. “Let me to my room. I’ll be all right.”
“Don’t move, Donovan!” she said sternly. “Stay where you are, I’ll be back in a moment with help.” She stood up and stared down at him, her lovely face full of concern and horror. “Why they can’t leave one’s decency and morality to be guided by one’s own conscience defies all reason!” she said angrily as she rushed out of the room.
Marek looked down at Donovan. The man’s brow was creased with pain and he was panting slightly. Marek frowned. “You’ve taken quite a beating.”
Donovan actually chuckled through a grimace. “How did you work it out?”
“What is this about?” Marek asked.
“This, sir, is about people who fear their own instincts,” he said tightly. He touched his lip again and pulled his hand away, looking at the blood. With a grunt, he managed to push himself up to sitting. Gasping from the pain, he looked Marek up and down. “Come round again, have you?”
“At the lady’s invitation,” Marek said. “What do you mean, ‘people who fear their own instincts’?”
Donovan managed a sardonic grin. “You seem a clever man to me, sir. Have you not guessed by now?”
Marek didn’t answer. He had some private suspicions about Donovan, but none that he would ever give voice to.
Donovan moved, and grimaced with pain again, his hand instantly going to his side. “I think they broke a rib or two.”
“That should be bandaged. Be still—moving will make it worse.”
“Said like a man who’s had a broken rib.”
“I have.” As a boy, he’d fallen off a horse and broken a rib and his collarbone. To this day, he couldn’t lift his left arm as high as his right.
“If nothing else, I suppose you might take this as proof that you can trust her,” Donovan said.
“Trust her,” Marek repeated. “What are you talking about?”
Donovan squinted at him. “You said you didn’t trust her, aye? Is it not obvious to you now that she can keep a secret?”
Something clicked in Marek. All at once, everything made sense. His suspicions were born out—the strange relationship Donovan had with Mrs. Honeycutt. The way he looked at Marek. The talk of morality crusaders in the gazette and here again, tonight.
“Aye, you do understand,” Donovan said, and averted his gaze.
What Marek understood was that there were men in the world who preferred the intimacy of other men. He’d had acquaintances through the years that he suspected of those sorts of relationships, but Donovan was the first gentleman he’d met who was admitting it to him.
