by Jane Feather
Guy lifted his mouth from hers, looked down into her upturned face, his expression both soft and desirous. “Oh, dear, I should know better by now,” he said, with a rueful smile stepping away from her body, even while keeping his hands at her waist.
Petra glanced down at his body, at the bulge of his erection, and smiled a little hesitantly. She was not overly experienced in these matters, although not lacking in knowledge. “Did I do that?”
“Yes,” he said. “You did. But it’s my own fault. We’ll have to wait here for a few minutes.” He turned away to look out of the window.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be flirting with me when you’re here with your mistress,” Petra suggested, deliberately hoping to break the charged atmosphere. “Where is Lady Delmont?”
“Lady Delmont is no concern of yours, Petra.” Judging by the sharpness of his voice her deflection had worked.
“Perhaps not, but if she’s your mistress, should you be kissing someone else?”
Guy turned back, his expression no longer soft, but annoyed. “What makes you think Clothilde is my mistress?”
“It’s received wisdom in society.”
“Then received wisdom should mind its own business,” he retorted. “It’s not always correct. I suggest you return to the ballroom and Lord Aldershot.”
Petra went immediately, hiding her discomfort at having pried where she had no business, but glad nevertheless that her flat-footed questions had destroyed the dangerous intimacy of those moments. Had he implied that the Frenchwoman was no longer his mistress? It had sounded like it. But he hadn’t completely denied it either. Puzzling over the conundrum she strolled with apparent insouciance around the dance floor toward the supper room, where she assumed Charlie was still to be found.
“What happened to your partner?” Diana inquired with a mischievous smile as Petra returned to her seat at the table.
“Nothing,” Petra replied cheerfully. “We danced, the music finished, and I excused myself to come back to Charlie.”
“Well, now you’re back, would you like to dance again? It sounds as if the orchestra’s playing another waltz.” Charlie pushed back his chair, ready to stand up.
“Oh, if you don’t mind, Charlie, I’d like to sit this one out,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. “I’d like some champagne and one of those lobster thingies. Could you get me one, please?” Her smile was cajoling.
“Yes, of course. I’ll be right back.” He moved toward the buffet table.
“Why isn’t Fenella here tonight?” Petra asked into the moment of silence.
“Edward has a play showing somewhere in Chiswick,” Diana told her. “It was a rather sudden engagement, but apparently he decided on the spur of the moment to see how it would play to a different kind of audience.”
“And Fenella has a part, of course.”
“Of course,” Diana agreed. “Anything to do with the theatre that involves Edward involves his wife. They’re two of a kind, those two.”
Petra nodded in acknowledgment, aware once again of that little stab of envy. Edward and Fenella could fight like cat and dog, but there was never any question of their commitment to each other, of the deep love and loyalty that went along with their naturally challenging natures and their shared passion for the theatre.
“I managed to nab the last two of the lobster thingies.” Charlie reappeared, setting a plate in front of Petra with a fresh goblet of champagne.
“Thank you, you’re a dear.” She smiled up at him. “Have one.”
He shook his head. “No, I had several while you were dancing with Granville.”
Petra wondered if Guy would reappear as the evening progressed, but there was no sign of him, or of Clothilde Delmont. It was well after midnight when the party broke up and she stood outside in the cool of the night waiting for Charlie’s driver to bring around the barouche. She climbed in, arranging her skirts around her, waving farewell to Diana and Rupert, who were waiting for their own carriage.
“That was a good evening,” Charlie said, settling beside her. “Straight home?” he asked.
“No, let’s drive around for a little,” she suggested. “It’s such a beautiful night and I’m not terribly sleepy. Probably because I had a nap this afternoon,” she added with a laugh. “Are you tired?”
“Not in the least,” he responded gallantly. He leaned forward to speak to the coachman on his box. “Fred, just drive for a little, maybe down to Berkeley Square, along Piccadilly perhaps. Unless”—he turned to Petra—“unless you’d rather go into the Park?”
Petra shook her head, “No, it’s not fair to keep Fred up too long. Just ten minutes or so.” She leaned back contentedly against Charlie’s encircling arm.
“I wish I thought you meant something by leaning against me like that,” he said with a mock sigh.
“Oh, Charlie, you know I love you, you’re one of my dearest friends, but . . .”
“But,” he said with another sigh. The carriage had just entered Berkeley Square and was rounding a corner of the garden when something shot out through the railings, darting into the street, between the hooves of the horse, which reared up in the traces with a high whinny of alarm.
“Whoa, steady there,” Fred said, wrestling with the reins, trying to bring the frantic horse under control. As he did so the same creature that had shot out from the square suddenly turned and raced back chased by something small and black. Fred had almost gained control of the horse when the racing pair hurtled between its legs and the animal reared again, hooves flailing as it jerked forward.
The two-wheeled carriage, unbalanced, tilted at a sharp angle, hovering for an agonizing moment on one wheel. Charlie grabbed at the edge of the door too late. He tumbled into the street. Petra, off balance, half fell, half jumped down behind him, just as the horse backed up, bringing its hooves to the ground again. The right wheel rolled over Charlie as he lay momentarily stunned in the road.
His shriek of pain resounded through the hitherto quiet square. Fred, cursing, leaped to the ground, grabbing the horse by the bridle, trying to pull it forward to get the wheel off Charlie’s body.
Petra struggled up to her knees beside Charlie. “Oh, God,” she muttered seeing the odd angle of his arm, the blood welling from his side. “Get the damn wheel off him, Fred,” she yelled, trying to lift it off him herself. With a sickening jolt the wheel finally moved forward off the body and onto the road again. Petra gasped in horror at the bleeding wound it left behind. She yanked up her lavender skirts and ripped the thin silk of her petticoat, pressing the strip into the wound, desperate to staunch the blood.
“Here, let me do it.” Suddenly Guy was kneeling beside her. He pulled the white silk evening scarf from his neck and swiftly substituted it for the already soaked strip of her petticoat. “Keep pressing down.”
Petra did so, stunned by the rapidity of the unfolding horror. She pressed hard on Charlie’s side, watching the blood well up, soaking the silk scarf. She took folds of her skirt and added them to the bloody scarf, pressing with all her strength. Charlie was gray, his eyelids fluttering, but other than that and the welling blood gave no signs that he was conscious, or even alive.
She glanced up to see Guy leading the trembling horse far away from Charlie, all the while giving sharp orders to Fred, who, shaking with shock himself, went to check the animal. Guy came back, kneeling once more beside Charlie.
“Are you hurt? You’re bleeding.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think I’m hurt, maybe a scratch. I think the blood is Charlie’s.”
He nodded and pressed a finger to Charlie’s neck. “His pulse is strong. But I think he might have broken his arm when he fell.” Gently he touched the strangely angled arm and Charlie’s eyes opened as he groaned.
“Charlie, darling, be still.” Petra leaned over him, still pressing down on his side. “You’re hurt. We have to get you to a doctor.”
“Give me that boa,” Guy instructed. He took the feather b
oa from her and fashioned a sling, deftly looping it around the injured man’s neck, securing the arm against his chest. “I’ll be back in a moment. Keep the pressure on.” He hurried across the street and Petra realized that the accident had happened right outside his house.
He reappeared within minutes with two footmen carrying a flat board that looked to Petra like a door. Following Guy’s orders they set it down beside Charlie and then the three men lifted him and put him on the board in a movement so swift Charlie uttered only one stifled groan of pain, his eyelids closing again.
“You can take your hand away for the moment,” Guy said to Petra as the three men hoisted the board. “Come with us.” They carried the injured man across the road and into the cool depths of Granville House.
“Set him down on the billiard table,” Guy instructed, gesturing to the open double doors to a room at the rear of the hall. “It’ll be easier to see to his injuries.” He turned to the butler, who, showing no sign of having been dragged untimely from his bed, was setting a basin of hot water and a pile of white napkins on the sideboard in the billiard room. “Has Ferguson gone for the doctor?”
“Yes, m’lord. Ten minutes ago. He should be here soon.” The butler looked at Petra, bloody and bedraggled, her face white. “I’ll send for Mrs. Carter, ma’am. She’ll know what to do for you.”
“No, please don’t wake anyone. I don’t need anything,” Petra said swiftly.
Guy shrugged out of his coat, tossing it over a chair. “Do as Miss Rutherford says, Babbit. But bring cognac.” He rolled up his sleeves and bent over Charlie again, resuming his pressure on the wound.
“Will he be all right?” Petra asked, coming to stand beside him.
He looked up. “I’m no doctor, and it’s a nasty wound. As far as I can see, the wheel gashed his chest, probably broke some ribs. There’s a lot of blood, but his pulse is still strong.” He frowned. “How much of that blood is yours and not Aldershot’s?”
She shook her head, looking at her red hands and blood-soaked skirt. “I scraped my knee when I fell, but it’s nothing. The carriage tilted and threw Charlie out and then the horse backed up and the wheel ran over him. It’s all his blood.”
Babbit came back with a decanter and glasses. “The doctor’s here, my lord.”
A man in a black coat over what looked suspiciously like striped pajama trousers came in on the butler’s heels. He set down his bag and bent over Charlie. “What happened?”
“A wheel went over him,” Petra told him, taking the glass that Babbit handed her.
The doctor merely grunted and got on with business. After half an hour, he washed his bloody hands in the refreshed basin of hot water. “He’ll do, my lord. I’ve strapped the broken ribs and the wound’s not as deep as I feared. I’ve cleaned it and as long as infection doesn’t set in, the bones will knit on their own. The arm needs a proper cast, I’ll be back in the morning to do that. Meantime, I’ve given him laudanum for the pain, enough, I hope, to put him to sleep for a few hours.”
He turned his attention to Petra. “What about you, ma’am? Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. Her knees were sore, bruised and scraped from her tumble from the carriage, and she seemed to ache in every bone. “Nothing that a hot bath and my bed won’t cure, Doctor.”
“Right. Well, I’ll leave you a sleeping draft.” He took a vial from his bag and set it on the billiard table.
Babbit saw the doctor out while Guy gave instructions to the two burly footmen to take Lord Aldershot to the blue bedroom. “Who should we notify?” he asked Petra.
“His sister, Lady Vernon. She lives in Eaton Square. Charlie lives alone in Belgrave Square since his mother died last year.”
Guy gave instructions to Babbit to send a messenger to Eaton Square, then he rolled his sleeves down again before pocketing the vial with the sleeping draft. “Let’s get you home to bed.”
Chapter Eight
“Do you think we’ll be able to get a hackney at this time in the morning?” Petra asked, sounding doubtful. “It’s not too far to walk.”
Guy didn’t trouble to answer her. “Get someone to bring the carriage round, Babbit, as quickly as possible. I’ll drive myself.”
“Yes, m’lord.” The butler disappeared and his voice could be heard issuing rapid instructions in the hall.
“Your whole household seems to have been roused from their beds,” Petra observed wearily.
“Sit down before you fall down,” Guy said sharply, catching her as she swayed. He pushed her down into a chair and knelt on the carpet, pushing up her blood-stained skirts ignoring her faint protests and her feeble efforts to stop him.
“Your knee’s got a nasty scrape,” he said, getting to his feet. “And it’s going to bruise badly.” He dipped a cloth in the cooling water in the basin and knelt again, carefully cleaning the wound on her knee. “Let me see your hands.”
Petra gave them to him, too tired to resist. He turned them over and washed the blood from her palms, observing, “Well, it’s not all Aldershot’s blood. You must have scraped them when you fell, bruised them too.” He pushed back onto his heels and stood up. “You’ll need to treat yourself gently for the next day or two, my dear.”
“The carriage is here, sir.”
“Thank you, Babbit . . . come, Petra.” He put an arm around her waist and half lifted her from her chair.
“I can walk,” she said, pulling away from him.
“Of course you can.” But he kept a steadying hand on her waist as he steered her out to the Square.
A blackbird’s full-throated song filled the air and Petra paused, listening. “It’s such a joyous sound,” she said. “He’s calling for a mate. Listen.” She held up an arresting hand and almost immediately the blackbird’s song was answered with another paean of joy. They listened to the duet for a few moments before Guy lifted her into the waiting carriage.
He took up the reins and the sleepy groom climbed onto the step at the rear of the two-wheeled carriage. When they reached Brook Street Guy handed the reins to the groom and stepped down, catching Petra as she attempted to jump to the pavement. “You don’t have to prove anything to me,” he chided. “Where’s your key?”
She didn’t have anything to prove, of course, Petra acknowledged. It was just that she felt if she was to stay on equal footing with Guy she couldn’t afford to show any weakness. The problem now was that she felt as weak as a kitten, the shock of the accident and Charlie’s injuries finally taking their toll. She gave Guy her drawstring purse without a word.
Inside the dimly lit hall, Guy looked around. “Is your maid waiting up for you?”
“No, of course not. It’s gone three in the morning,” she said, shocked. “Everyone’s asleep.”
“Well, we need to wake someone up,” he said. “You need help getting to bed.”
“Nonsense,” she protested. “I’m quite capable of looking after myself.”
“Unfortunately, dear girl, on this particular night I beg to differ.” He looked at her with a measure of exasperation. “You are so stubborn. However, so am I. I’ll give you a choice, either you wake someone to help you to bed, or you accept my help. Which is it to be?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Petra glared at him. He merely looked back at her, unmoving. “Very well,” she said after a long moment. “I’ll ring for Dottie when I get upstairs.”
He nodded. “Then let’s go.” He turned to the stairs, his hand on her arm.
Petra pulled away. “You don’t have to come with me, Guy.”
“Oh, I think I do,” he responded, moving her inexorably to the stairs. “I want to see this Dottie in person.”
“Don’t you trust me?” she demanded, mounting the stairs willy-nilly.
“Not in this matter,” he replied pleasantly. They reached the head of the stairs. “Where to now?”
Defeated, Petra gestured to the stairs to the bedroom floor and led the way to her own door. Guy opened it and ushered
her into the softly lit, curtained room. He nodded his approval and reached unerringly for the bell rope beside the fireplace, pulling it once and then twice.
“That should produce results,” he observed amiably.
“People will think there’s a fire,” she declared. “You don’t need to wait any longer.”
“No, probably I don’t,” Guy agreed, taking the doctor’s vial from his pocket and setting it on the dresser. “I strongly suggest that you take that. A good night’s sleep will help the bruises.” He didn’t wait for a response, going to the door. “I’ll come by later this morning to see how you are.”
“You’re too kind,” Petra muttered, and was rewarded with a soft chuckle as he left her, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Dottie, her hair in curling papers, appeared in the corridor from the back stairs hastily tying the sash of her dressing gown. She stopped dead at the sight of the man emerging from her mistress’s bedroom, her eyes widening.
“Your mistress was in an accident,” Guy explained. “She needs to be helped to bed. Oh, and see if you can encourage her to take the sleeping draft. It’s on the dresser.”
“An accident.” Dottie’s hand flew to her mouth, then she ran to the open door of Petra’s room. Satisfied that he’d done all he could, Guy continued down the stairs to the front door.
He was crossing the hall when the door opened and Jonathan came in, yawning. He stopped in the open doorway. “Granville?”
“Yes, you may look askance, Rutherford,” Guy said easily. “Your sister was in a carriage accident . . . no, no, she’s not seriously hurt.” He held up an arresting hand as Jonathan’s mouth opened in shock. “But Aldershot is injured. It happened fortuitously outside my house, so I was able to help. Petra’s both shocked and exhausted. I brought her home and she’s upstairs with her maid.”