The Perfect Scandal. Delilah Marvelle

room and ensure she remains there until royal guards arrive and disperse the remaining crowd.”

      “Yes, Mr. Lawrence.” Watkins advanced, politely gesturing toward the direction she was supposed to go.

      Zosia shifted against the padded crutches digging into the pits of her arms. She was not about to hide in her room merely because one of the men had decided to use the knocker. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but I have no desire for this to give way to a riot. ‘Tis obvious you are in need of intelligent leadership and I intend to offer it. Mr. Lawrence, open the door and keep taking their cards until the guards arrive. Mr. Watkins, you will coordinate the line to ensure order. That should provide enough structure to keep the masses from panicking.”

      The butler sniffed. “Remove her from the foyer, Watkins.”

      The footman leaned toward her, gently touching her arm in an awkward form of compliance. “Countess. If you would please—”

      “No. I will not please.” She shifted away and glared at them. “Need I remind you both, gentlemen, that I am not the one getting paid to serve you. You are the ones getting paid to serve me. Now, for the better good of our safety, as well as the safety of those unfortunate souls being forced to wait in that crowd outside, open the door and do as you are told. ‘Tis a simple matter of courtesy that will ensure order until the guards arrive.”

      The butler set his jaw and hastened toward them. “I think it best we take away her crutches, Watkins.”

      She gasped and clutched at the oak posts holding her up. “You will do no such thing!”

      Watkins jerked toward the old man. “Mr. Lawrence. You don’t expect me to actually—”

      “Do as you are told, boy,” the butler commanded in a harsh tone. “Or you will find yourself without a position or a reference. You know our orders. To oppose them is to oppose your own King.”

      Zosia lowered her chin in disbelief as Watkins sighed, leaned toward her and tried grabbing hold of her right crutch. She jerked away, stumbling against her crutches and tightening her hold, hopped back on her one foot. “This is outrageous! How dare you—I demand to know what orders His Majesty has given and why!”

      Watkins grabbed hold of her crutch again and yanked at it, each pull growing all the more firm and insistent. “I will carry you upstairs, Countess.”

      Her eyes narrowed. “No one ever carries me. I carry myself. Now I am demanding you disclose your orders.”

      “Those orders are confidential,” the butler supplied in a flat tone. “Now, please—”

      “No! I—” She gritted her teeth and savagely held onto her crutches, despite swaying against Watkins’s each yank and tug. Since when was it acceptable for servants to assault their mistress in the name of the King, who was supposed to be her protector?

      Her bare fingers slid against the smooth oak, her grip loosening bit by bit. Though she didn’t need her crutches to balance herself on one foot, her very dignity was being pried away. And while she couldn’t physically take them on, unless she planned on beating them with the crutches they were so intent on having, she supposed there was only one way to go about this. She would unleash a weapon no man expected a genteel lady to use. A weapon she hadn’t used since she was ten, and one she hoped would also draw the attention of every single man outside.

      Sucking in a huge breath, Zosia released a long, piercing scream that pulsed against the respectable silence surrounding them.

      Watkins jumped away, releasing his hold on both crutches. His eyes bulged as he snapped up both gloved hands. “Countess! Please. Stop! Mr. Lawrence, what—”

      A rapid pounding against the door rattled the crystal chandelier above as a male voice boomed from the other side, “Open this door! Open the goddamn door! Now!”

      Zosia paused, bringing an abrupt end to her charade, and regally eyed the butler, well satisfied with the result it had produced. “It appears we have our very first concerned citizen. I suggest you open the door, Mr. Lawrence, or I will continue screaming and make every man outside think I am in desperate need of assistance. Then it will be your safety at stake. Not mine.”

      Mr. Lawrence’s eyes widened. He edged back, then heaved out a sigh and muttered something, his thin lips curling. Swinging his stout frame toward the door, he unbolted the latch and fanned it open just wide enough for her to peer past the opening beyond his shoulder.

      Shouts echoed from the street as men frantically pushed and shoved their way up the stairs, holding out and waving their cards. Zosia sucked in an astonished breath, not only in response to the chaos, but in recognizing the man looming in the doorway just beyond the butler.

      Lord Moreland.