A Rake's Redemption

by G. L. Snodgrass

  “How long?” he managed to squeak out.

  She smiled softly and said, “Three days,”

  Three days. No, it could not have been that long. How could so much time disappear without him knowing? Then, a sudden fear coursed through him. “Who knows?” he asked as he held his breath.

  The young woman frowned for a long second and then slowly shook her head. “No one but my maid. You told me not to tell anyone.”

  He sighed heavily as he let his body sink into the bed with relief.

  “The doctor has come to check on you several times,” she said. “But he does not know your name. He thinks I do not know who you are either. If he thought I was nursing an Earl, believe me, I would have been charged a great deal more for his services. As it is, he believes you are a common workman, a laborer who was shot for some unknown reason.”

  Warwick’s insides began to grow nervous again.

  “I have not sent word to our mutual friends, Nathanial or Lord Bradford. Again, at your insistence. A fact that still bothers me, I might add. But you were adamant.

  Warwick smiled at her and nodded slightly. “Thank you, Miss Amanda,” he said as he rested a hand on hers and looked up into her eyes. “Thank you,”

  She blushed prettily then put the cup of water on the table next to the bed, suddenly unable to meet his gaze.

  He was safe, he realized. Safe to continue. A tiredness washed over him as he was able to relax. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to drift off. He was safe, his angel would watch over him.

  Sometime later, a long time later he believed, he returned to find a new angel there. The maid, he realized. Trying to knit. He watched from shrouded eyes as she backed out of her row and tried again.

  Pretty, young, but not his angel.

  Her eyes shot up to catch him watching her. She gasped and jumped back in her seat.

  “I will get Miss Amanda,” she said as she scurried out of her chair.

  “Wait,” he said, reaching out with his left hand to take her wrist, stopping her from leaving.

  The young maid looked down at his hand then into his eyes. Her glance was guarded, hesitant.

  “Thank you,” he mumbled through cracked lips.

  She relaxed and shook her head. “it’s not me you should be thanking,” the young woman said. “It’s Miss Amanda who has been caring for you. If I hadn’t made her go get some rest she would be here still.”

  “Miss Amanda?” he asked

  The maid nodded sharply. “She wouldn’t let me get someone. Insisted she do everything herself. A right fine nurse she would make, I believe.”

  Warwick frowned as faint memories filled him. Amanda giving him water. Wiping his brow when he burned with fever. Once, he had woken just enough to find her changing his bandages. The cool air had chilled him, but she had worked quickly and he had drifted off again before she even knew he had wakened.

  Another time, she had been forcing him to swallow a warm broth. The determined set of her eyes had let him know that she would accept nothing except full compliance.

  His angel.

  The maid studied him for a moment and then gently pulled her hand away from his grip.

  Amanda had cared for him. How unusual, not what he would have expected from someone with her refined expectations.

  As he tried to remember more, the maid returned with Amanda. His angel, he thought as she looked at him hesitantly. Her hair was mussed and her dress wrinkled. As if she had woken from a quick nap and come to him without taking time to prepare herself.

  Then, as if remembering her duties, she rushed to his bedside and lay a hand across his brow.

  “Will I live?” he asked, half in jest.

  She smiled sweetly down at him. “Perhaps. Your fever has broken and your wounds are mending.”

  “They itch,” he said. “I am told that is a good sign.”

  Again she smiled as she nodded. “Yes, and I must confess, it was in some doubt. But you appear better. A lot better.”

  The relief in her voice did something to his insides. She had been concerned. Obviously upset at the thought of him dying under her roof. For some reason, the thought made him feel good. As if he were special.

  He let her help him sit forward, her hand behind the back of his neck felt like a warm comfort as she helped him raise up enough to take a drink of water.

  “I am told that I have you to thank for my care,” he said after he had finished taking a drink.

  “Yes, well,” she said with that pretty blush of hers. “You wouldn’t let me tell anyone else. Remember?”

  He nodded as his good arm lifted to touch his chin. “Who shaved me?”

  She blushed briefly. “I did, I used my father’s blade.”

  He continued to rub his chin and cheek then smiled, “Better than my valet, excellent.”

  The young woman blushed again.

  “So, no one else knows I am here. No one knows I survived the shooting?”

  “Molly knows,” Amanda reminded him. “She guessed a great deal of it very early on. But I assure you, she will not tell anyone.”

  “Not unless I need to,” the maid mumbled under her breath as she retrieved the water cup to get more.

  Warwick shot the maid a quick look who returned it openly. A look that told him if he hurt her mistress she would inform the world of who he was and where he lay. Smiling at her, he nodded. Message received.

  Molly nodded back, giving him a last stern look before she left the room.

  Amanda frowned after. “I assure you, Lord Warwick. She will not tell anyone. Even our cook doesn’t know who you are. Like the doctor, she believes you are a simple workman.”

  He lay back on the bed as once again a tiredness threatened him. He felt as weak as a kitten. A feeling that he must get past if he was to finish what he must.

  “Not Lord Warwick,” he said as he closed his eyes. “You must call me John. No chance of a mistake. Just John. John Tolliver … family name. I will call you Miss Waters or … Amanda.”

  The tiredness returned. “It that acceptable?”

  She nodded slightly and said, “Of course John. I understand.”

  He sighed internally as he started to drift off. “Thank you, Amanda.”

  She smiled softly as she touched his forehead again, gently pushing the hair from his eyes.

  “My angel,” he muttered to himself as he once again drifted into the blackness.

  Chapter Three

  Miss Amanda Waters was torn in a dozen different directions. Surely she should notify someone. Friends, family. Yet the man was truly worried about someone finding out that he had survived.

  Molly thought she was a fool. “Men who get shot are up to no good. Even Lords,” she had told her as she brought in another bowl of warm broth. Amanda’s insides had tightened up when she realized her maid was right. Upstanding men did not get shot. Not in London. Not unless it was on the dueling fields and there were none of those close to her home.

  No. the man was not to be trusted, she reminded herself. There were too many mysteries. Too many unknowns.

  Who was this man? she wondered, not for the first time. There was the British Lord he presented to the ton. Yet he went about in workman’s clothes. His reputation as a rake was well established. No, she must never forget that aspect of him.

  There were his contacts with the criminal element. She well remembered during Olivia’s kidnapping how he had marshaled men up and down the coast. Smugglers, charging them to be on the lookout for Olivia.

  Why would such men listen to him?

  Now, here he was, shot and worried about anyone finding out that he had survived.

  Why? Was she in danger by protecting him? It wasn’t just herself. Amanda needed to think of her staff. What would happen if the man’s attackers learned he was here?

  Sighing, she put the book down and studied him. So handsome, with a definite hint of danger. Of course, being shot would do that for a man. But there was something else.
Something that bothered her.

  She had cared for the man. Cleaned his wounds, Bathed him. Changed his sheets. Her face grew warm as she remembered the first time.

  Putting a hand to her cheeks, she looked away as she forced her heart to calm down.

  But it had been the scars that had been a surprise. A small jagged scar on his upper calf as if it had been carved by a rusty knife. He had several burn marks on his back. Old scars that would never go away. Three small round scars on his side made her think he had been shot before. Perhaps a scattergun. How did a noble Lord end up with such scars?

  Plus, his hands were rough. With thick calluses. Again, not the hands of a noble lord.

  It was as if he were two different people. Her memories were of him dressed in the finest fashion. A star of the ton. Invited to every event, a desperate hope for every hostess. Well spoken. Respected, even admired by other men and desired by most women

  Yet, behind all of that. He was a rough, solid, hard man with a dozen secrets.

  As if knowing he was being observed, his eyes fluttered open and locked on to hers. Unable to pull away, she held his stare for a long moment.

  At last, he smiled slightly and said, “Hello Angel,”

  Her insides turned over, he had called her that several times. At first, she had thought it was deliria. But now, she saw that he was fully aware, yet still used the term.

  “Good morning, John,” she said, as she paused to see if she had heard him correctly the night before when he had told her to call him by his given name. It felt so wrong to call an Earl by his first name. As if she were dishonoring a thousand years of history.

  His smile widened as he nodded slightly.

  “Are you hungry,” she said as she got up to retrieve the bowl of broth.

  He frowned at the food and shook his head. “A man can die from too much broth.”

  She laughed, if he wanted something stronger, that was a good sign, wasn’t it?

  “I will have the cook make you some eggs,” she said as she put the broth away and moved to leave the room.

  “Toast,” he said from the bed. “A lot of toast, butter, marmalade.”

  She smiled. He was going to be all right. No man asked for marmalade on his deathbed.

  “Bacon,” he added before she could leave. “A man can’t live without bacon.”

  She laughed. Yes, he was feeling better.

  When she returned later with his tray of food, she paused just inside the room and looked at him. His brow was wet with sweat and his face was as white as chalk. Her insides turned to solid stone as she hurried across the room.

  He opened his eyes and smiled weakly. “I tried to get up. Not a wise decision.”

  Her forehead narrowed as her eyes shot him an angry look. “You must be careful. I won’t have you wasting my efforts to get you well.”

  He nodded as he swallowed while glancing at the food tray in her hands. Amanda rolled her eyes, men always seemed to be hungry. As she placed the tray on the side table and prepared some toast and marmalade, she asked, “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

  He studied her for a moment then sighed, “I told you, I was shot.”

  She turned with the toast but held back, silently raising an eyebrow, letting him know he wasn’t getting fed until he informed her of the truth.

  Lord Warwick smiled slightly then said, “Very well. But I can’t tell you much. It is too sensitive.”

  She studied him for a moment then said, “Was it French spies or a jealous husband.”

  His face blanched. She laughed, “Your connection to smugglers. Your connections inside the government, a few things Olivia let drop.”

  He continued to stare at her, his eyes big. “Am I that obvious? No wonder I was shot.”

  “I take it that it wasn’t a jealous husband? I would have thought your rakish activities led to this.”

  “Of course not,” he said as if seriously offended. “I would never be with a married woman unless her husband didn’t care. There are some things even I find unacceptable.”

  She laughed as she handed him the small plate with toast and a few slices of bacon. “So, the French.”

  His shoulders slumped, “No one must know.”

  She nodded, that was perfectly understandable. “But why now, why here in London.”

  He took a bite of toast and continued to examine her, looking at her as if she were a stranger asking for a loan.

  “John,” she said with a slight smile. “I am not a French spy. If I were, I wouldn’t have worked so hard to keep you alive.”

  He swallowed his bite of food and nodded. “Angel, If a woman as beautiful as you were a French spy we would surely be lost. I can assure you, that is not my concern.”

  Her cheeks grew warm as her stomach turned over. His words seemed flirtatious. Not the normal interaction. And why did a simple compliment make her heart flutter?

  Their eyes met and once again Amanda forced herself to remember that the man was a rake. A seducer of women. The kind of man who left a trail of broken hearts behind him. No, do not fall into that trap she told herself as she pulled her gaze away from his.

  She swallowed hard and regained some control. “Don’t try to change the subject. Why did they shoot you? I believe I have a right to know. You are under my roof. I am taking care of you.”

  He finished the last bite of toast and said, “I was scheduled to meet with a man. A man who was going to provide me with critical information. Facts that could lead me to someone important. Someone, I believe who is controlling several other people and providing France with information.”

  Amanda paused for a second as she digested this news. “And did you obtain the information?”

  Warwick frowned as he shook his head. “No, he was dead when I got there. And I was shot before I had an opportunity to search his body for the paper he had promised me. I wouldn’t have found anything anyway. The report was obviously already removed and the body left to hold me in place long enough to get a clear shot.”

  Amanda winced, this was serious. Men were being killed. But then how was that any different than on the continent where thousands of men were being killed all the time.

  Because this is England, she thought. Things like this were not supposed to happen here.

  Swallowing hard, she buttered another piece of toast and handed it to him. He took it from her hand with a smile. She raised an eyebrow, silently demanding that he continue.

  “There isn’t much more,” he said. She knew he was lying to her, but now was not the time to deal with it. His face was becoming drawn with the effort of simply eating and answering her questions.

  Reaching out, she took the empty plate from him and helped him take a drink of water. As she slipped her hand behind his neck, he looked up and caught her attention, holding it in place for a long moment.

  Her world fell away and there was only Lord Warwick and those penetrating eyes of his.

  Eventually, she remembered what she was doing and helped him drink. When he was finished, she lowered him back to his pillow and stepped away. Being too close to him was disconcerting. Especially now that he was awake. There was something about the way he looked at her that made her insides shiver. Something that felt predatory, almost wolf-like, as if he viewed her as his prey.

  Yet, there were other times when he would look at her with tenderness and kindness. Again, two different men, she thought to herself. Who was the real John, Lord Warwick?

  A soft click behind her drew her attention. Molly ducked into the room, her white face silently foreshadowing her concern.

  “What is it Molly,” Amanda asked.

  The young maid swallowed. “Lady Simpson. A countess. Is here, downstairs. She’s asked for you, Mum. She also asked if Lord Warwick might be here.”

  Chapter Four

  Amanda’s heart shuddered to a stop. Lady Simpson, here? Why? It didn’t make sense, she barely knew the woman. They had talked a few times. But nothing that
indicated Lady Simpson had any interest in a banker’s daughter.

  She glanced at Lord Warwick. He looked back sternly.

  “She can’t know I am here,” he said. “The woman is a born gossip.”

  Amanda shook her head at him. He was worried about being discovered. It hadn’t even occurred to him to think what it would mean to her reputation if people found she had spent the last week nursing Lord Warwick in her home.

  She would be disdained and cut from any social life. People would think they were lovers. No man would ever respect her enough to marry her.

  The thought sent a cold chill down her spine as she told Molly to stay with Lord Warwick and quickly set her hair right.

  As Amanda started down the stairs, she saw Lady Simpson fiddling with her reticule as she waited in the entrance hall. Tall, with raven black hair and porcelain white skin. Striking, she looked exactly the kind of woman who would pique Lord Warwick’s interest.

  “Miss Waters,” Lady Simpson said as she turned to watch her descend the stairs.

  “Lady Simpson,” Amanda said with a quick curtsey and a deep frown. “Welcome. This is a surprise.”

  The tall woman gave her a fake smile. The kind of smile Ladies of the ton used with women they believed to be of lower status. The kind of smile that reminded everyone of who was who.

  “Yes, well,” Lady Simpson said as she pulled at her glove. “I was hoping you might be able to assist me.”

  Amanda nodded, completely confused, all the while her stomach churned. She needed to get this woman out of here. So many things would be ruined if she discovered Lord Warwick’s presence.

  “Of course,”

  Lady Simpson took a quick breath. “I was hoping you could tell me the whereabouts of Lord Warwick.”

  Amanda’s heart jumped. What? Did this woman know that Lord Warwick was upstairs? How? Her mind floundered for a second, looking for the trap.

  A thump upstairs made her jump. Had the woman heard, would she attribute it to her maid. Or did she know the truth already?

  “I would normally have approached Lady Bradford,” the countess continued. “You know, one countess to another. But she has not yet returned to town.”