by Amy Corwin
“Helen, that is enough! Apologize to Lady Victoria.” He pressed his palms against his thighs in preparation for rising.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t want to go!” Helen’s voice quavered, and she blinked rapidly. “They cannot even speak English!”
Victoria reached over and gently removed the cup from Helen’s shaking hands. She placed it on the table in front of her and handed her a napkin to blot the stain seeping through the heavy fabric of her walking dress.
“No need to apologize.” Victoria gazed at Lord Taggert with wide, innocent eyes. “If you wish to travel, would it not be possible to leave Miss Urick here with us? Or perhaps you could reconsider staying in London for a few more months?”
Smiling, Lord Taggert leaned back and brushed a hand through his thin, sandy hair. “Again, you flatter me, Lady Victoria, in expressing your wish for me to stay. But when a man engages in an affair of honor…” He shrugged and crossed his long legs, exuding satisfaction. “The better man must occasionally engage in a few years of travel. We shall see if it becomes necessary in this case.”
“Becomes necessary?” She maintained her naïve, admiring expression, though it sickened her to do so.
“It is possible, though perhaps unlikely, that he might recover. Though I dislike braggadocio, I am generally credited a fine shot.”
“You wounded Mr. Archer?” Her entire face felt numb as she tried to hide her dismay.
“Of course. Though the upstart further compounded his vulgar insults by deloping. I doubt he could have hit me and chose the coward’s way.” A strange look fluttered over his features—one she couldn’t identify. “But I expect we shall receive word shortly that he is no longer capable of delivering any further insults to me—or to you, Lady Victoria.”
Mr. Archer deloped? What a fine—what a noble thing for him to have done. He knew Lord Taggert had a sister who depended upon him. He had obviously chosen to shoot in the air in deference to Helen.
What a truly kind action, and one which made Lord Taggert’s behavior appear that much worse. At least to Victoria.
“I see,” Victoria murmured. “How fortunate.” When she caught the surprise in Lord Taggert’s blue eyes, she added, “Fortunate that you are such an expert marksman.”
“Indeed, Lady Victoria.” Lord Taggert’s foot began to twitch as he studied her. “I am pleased that you and my sister have become such dear friends, for it encourages me to believe you may wish for a closer alliance between our families. You must be aware that your father and I have had discussions, and it occurs to me that you might be ready to make a decision. And traveling to Vienna would make an excellent wedding trip, would it not?”
A prickling, heated flush burned a path up Victoria’s neck and cheeks. Her gaze bounced around the room.
Helen glanced at her, eyes wide, hope blossoming over her face.
Lord Taggert watched Victoria, his right foot twitching, his blue eyes gleaming.
“I—I am flattered.” She pressed her fingers against her forehead and choked off a half-hysterical laugh. “I hardly know what to say.”
Flying out of her seat to drop to her knees in front of Victoria, Helen grabbed her hands and stared up into her face. “Oh, please! Say yes, Lady Victoria. Please go with us! If we must go, I should be quite resigned—indeed, pleased—if you would go with us.”
“I—please. This is so sudden.”
“Hardly sudden, Lady Victoria.” Lord Taggert chuckled and shook his head, his foot wriggling faster. “Our families have long been considering this alliance, and I believe you would find married life would suit you. Stanegate Manor is comfortable, as I’m sure Helen will agree, and a wedding trip to Vienna would be a fine thing, would it not? Think of your parents, if nothing else. They would surely be relieved to see you suitably settled.”
Suitably settled—but not running away to Vienna to avoid prosecution for murder. She gazed into Helen’s desperate blue eyes. They were friends—dear friends—even after such a short time. What would happen to their friendship if she refused?
Please don’t die, Mr. Archer—please don’t!
She didn’t want to spend her honeymoon with Helen’s odious cousins in Vienna—or with Lord Taggert.
She wriggled her hands out of Helen’s grip, smiled, and gave the girl’s wrist a squeeze before she said, “I hardly know what to say, Lord Taggert. I must speak to my father and mother, first. Perhaps you will not need to remove from London so soon, so we may wait a few hours before making such a decision, may we not?”
“Yes. Of course.” Lord Taggert uncrossed his legs and stood up. “We have taken too much of Lady Victoria’s time already. Say good day, Helen.”
Helen stared up at Victoria and blinked rapidly. The corners of her mouth drooped. “Are you sure? Can you not say yes? Please?”
“Don’t worry, Helen,” Victoria replied softly. “Everything will work out.”
Stumbling over her hem as she tried to rise, Helen almost fell on Victoria. Victoria gripped Helen’s hand, and both finally got to their feet. Lord Taggert watched them impatiently, letting out a long breath when they finally turned toward the door.
“Will you be attending Sir Arnold Newby’s supper Thursday night? I understand his aunt, Mrs. Stedman, will act as hostess for him,” Victoria asked, changing the subject as they waited for Mr. Kingston to escort Lord Taggert and Helen to the door.
The sally was a gamble since Sir Arnold was also on her marriage list and the competition might increase Lord Taggert’s desire to push her into a decision, but she wanted to end their previous conversation as quickly as possible.
“Sir Arnold?” Lord Taggert frowned at his sister and raised his brows.
“We received an invitation,” Helen murmured hesitantly. “You said we would go. If we are in London. It is only three days away.”
He shrugged. “If our plans do not change.”
Fortunately, Mr. Kingston arrived and bowed.
“I shall see you soon, will I not?” Helen asked as she impulsively grabbed Victoria’s arm and kissed her on the cheek.
“Of course. And I hope very much that I will see you at Sir Arnold’s supper,” Victoria replied warmly. “Good day, Lord Taggert.”
“Good day.” Lord Taggert took his sister firmly by the elbow and drew her away, following the butler down the hallway to the wide staircase that led to the ground floor.
The sounds of their clattering footsteps gradually faded, and Victoria let out a long, relieved breath. Her gaze wandered, unseeing, around the drawing room, and she stepped toward the chairs and then back to the door indecisively.
Where was Mr. Archer? Was he alone? Dying?
He’d been a fool to delope—a kind, noble fool. If he’d shot Lord Taggert, at least there would be one less name on her marriage list.
What an evil thought. But then again, if he had, then Mr. Archer would be the one making plans to run off to the continent, where he could wait until the scandal and possibility of a murder charge faded away.
Either way, it seemed as if she’d lost him.
Chapter Nine
When John woke up, his right side burned liked the devil. He stifled a groan and raised his left hand to rub his eyes, only to find his movement curbed.
“Steady on, lad. Just a bit more,” a strange voice said.
He opened sticky eyelids.
Wickson stood at the foot of his bed, shifting from one foot to the other. On John’s left, a small man garbed almost entirely in black sat on the edge of a wooden chair. His starched, white neckcloth and white cuffs were the only relief to his somber garb, and he immediately brought to mind a crow, ready to peck at some interesting tidbit. He had a sharp beak of a nose above a thin mouth and jutting chin, and pale brown hair puffed around his narrow head. He stared at John with sharp, brown eyes as he held John’s arm steady above a chipped white basin.
John’s blood dripped steadily from a small slit in his forearm.
“Nearly done,”
the crow repeated, shaking out a length of white cotton.
The room spun briefly around John. He squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a deep breath to steady himself. His limbs felt weighted down with lead. When he tried to move, his side shrieked. He gritted his teeth.
“Well, sir. You might survive if you refrain from engaging in any more duels.” The crow cawed a harsh laugh. “Or you might not.” He took the bowl away and bound up John’s arm with the cotton, far too tightly for anyone’s comfort except perhaps his own.
Now, John’s forearm ached, along with his side. He opened his eyes again to stare wrathfully at his supposed friend, Toby Wickson.
“Excellent! Excellent!” Wickson said, rubbing his hands. “You’ll be right as a top in no time, Archer.”
John continued to glare at him.
“No solid food, of course,” the crow said as he picked up a large, black leather case and dropped it on the edge of the bed.
The jiggle awakened a symphony of agony, running from John’s armpit to his groin. He grunted and gripped the edge of the sheet covering him.
The physician—if that’s what he was and not actually a torturer borrowed from the Tower of London—dropped his infernal instruments inside the case and snapped it shut.
He grinned at John. “A bit of broth, perhaps, for the next few days. Send for me if there are any signs of inflammation. Or if you wish to be bled again. Best thing, you know, to avoid a putrid wound—to be bled. Cannot do it too often.”
“Thank you, Doctor Moreton,” Wickson said, his eyes focusing first on the physician and then on John. “Er…”
“Yes, well. There you are.” Doctor Moreton picked up his case and stood next to the bed. “So.”
“For the love of all that’s holy, pay the bloody butcher, Wickson!” John said through gritted teeth.
“Well, yes.” Wickson stuck a finger under his neckcloth and yanked, twisting his head. “Um, yes. That is. Well. A bill, perhaps? Send it around anytime. No hurry, you know.”
The physician smiled. “I should think not. No, not a bill. For fine gentlemen such as yourselves? No.” He had clearly dealt with the gentry before and knew their habit of delaying payment for months, if not years.
“Certainly. Understandable. Certainly,” Wickson agreed hastily, his blue eyes protruding further as he eyed John. “Er. A bit short, you know. End of the month. Almost May, you see.”
Cursing under his breath, John twisted, trying to find a comfortable spot. A lump in the mattress under his right hip proved relentless in its efforts to prod him into agony.
“Pay him from my wallet—then leave!” John ground out, picking at the bandage on his left arm. His hand was throbbing so much it seemed preferable to bleed to death than keep the physician’s tight wrapping in place.
“Right.” Wickson straightened and gazed around the room blankly. “Um, that is … where?”
“In my coat! It’s in my coat!” John yelled, half rising. He immediately regretted the movement and sank back, sweating, against the pillows. The lump in the bed, with impish mischievousness, prodded the hollow of his back. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face.
“Yes. Right. Of course. Don’t trouble yourself. No need to get up.” Wickson kept muttering as he fumbled with the black jacket John had worn that morning.
Finally, he pulled out a leather purse from the pocket and handed it to the physician. Wickson beamed with relief.
“Not the entire bloody purse!” John exclaimed. He squeezed his eyes shut.
“Of course not!” Wickson grabbed the wallet, shook out a few coins, and offered them to the physician.
Doctor Moreton studied the coins with his bright eyes, flicked a glance at John, and shrugged. “Very well. There you are, then. Good day, gentlemen.”
When the physician finally abandoned them, Wickson grinned at John. “There you are, then. Be right as a trivet in no time.”
“If I don’t die from that charlatan’s gentle ministrations,” John grumbled.
“Charlatan? No, no. Checked with several chaps at the club—came highly recommended. Excellent physicker—no one better.”
“For laying you out,” John replied dryly.
“Right, right. He’s done for the best of them. Why, just last year he attended Lord Gordon after his duel with that Irish fellow.” Wickson frowned and pulled his lower lip. “Can’t for the life of me remember his name.”
“Gordon died, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Of course, of course. Terrible wound, they say. Why, it was nearly identical to that gash in your side. But that Moreton did a fine job, they say. Stitched him up as neatly as any seamstress. Excellent work.”
“I wonder if Gordon would agree with that assessment?”
A damp flush heated Wickson’s cheeks, and he pulled out his huge handkerchief to wipe his forehead. “Warm in here. A bit warm—best thing for you, though, of course. Must stay cozy.”
A grunt was the most polite response John could make. The room was stifling, with the single window firmly shut and the sunlight streaming through the panes of glass. He felt rather like an ant in the sun, wriggling under a magnifying glass.
“Is it too much to ask to close the drapes?”
“Draft, is there?” Wickson asked sympathetically as he rushed to the window to yank the heavy curtains closed. “There you are.” He wrinkled his nose as he glanced around. “Bit dark, ain’t it?”
John almost bit his tongue through in his effort to moderate his response. After all, Wickson, despite his faults, was a good friend; a childhood friend, in fact. He’d do anything he could to help an acquaintance—few were as loyal or kind—John reminded himself. Wickson would give you his last coin, if he had one.
John took a deep breath. “Would you be so kind as to remove this bandage?”
“Bandage? Can’t—Moreton wouldn’t like it.”
“Then don’t tell him,” John advised. “Just the one on my arm. Before my hand turns entirely blue.”
“Oh, well, yes.” Wickson pulled out a pocketknife and managed to get the tight wrappings off John’s arm with only a few shallow mishaps that were hardly noticeable when John pulled his sleeve down and tucked his arm under the sheet.
“There you are.” Wickson yanked the quilt up to cover a blossoming stain on the sheet covering John’s left arm.
“Is there anything to eat? Drink?” John asked at last as he struggled briefly with Wickson to push the quilt back down. Drops of sweat itched as they slipped along his side.
Wickson finally relinquished control of the cover and stepped away from the bed, shaking his head.
Letting out a long breath, John firmly folded the quilt back and tilted his head back, closing his eyes. A soft draft slowly dried the dampness clinging to his skin, leaving behind a lovely, restful coolness.
“Eat? Shouldn’t think so. Never is anything. I’m off to Boodle’s, you know,” Wickson said as he stepped toward the door.
John studied him and in a silky voice asked, “I’ll go with you, shall I?”
“Excellent, excellent! Then we might stagger off to Tattersalls to see what sort of crowbait they’re trying to push off onto the green lads new to London.” Wickson grinned as he rubbed his hands together. It took a full minute before his smile faltered. He dropped his arms and frowned at John. “Oh. Well. Can’t do it, old chap. Moreton would never allow it. Don’t want to disappoint you, but you just can’t do it.”
If it wasn’t utterly improper for a young lady to visit the quarters of a bachelor gentleman, or any man’s for that matter, he would have sent word to Lady Victoria. One word. Or perhaps three. Your help required. He closed his eyes, bringing her patrician, intelligent face to mind. He could almost feel her cool hand upon his brow and see the glow of her beautiful gray eyes as she held a spoonful of soothing beef broth to his lips.
“Archer! I say, Archer!”
He opened his eyes to find Wickson leaning over the footrail of his bed, his pudgy fingers
an inch away from grabbing John’s toe and jiggling it.
“I’ll send something back for you, shall I?” Wickson picked up John’s jacket and patted it to locate the purse again.
Much as John knew his friend meant well, and would leave their apartment in the firm belief that he would send a basket of food to him, John knew perfectly well that Wickson was just as likely to get distracted by an impromptu horse race or other sporting event and lose the entire contents of the purse.
Once again, his thoughts turned wistfully to Lady Victoria. If only… “That Dibble woman—she has a daughter, does she not? Find out if she’s willing to do a few small errands for me.”
“Mrs. Dibble?” Wickson’s brows wrinkled. His bulbous nose twitched and sniffed as John’s coat fell back onto a chair, heavy purse forgotten.
“Yes. Mrs. Dibble.”
“Drat it all—I was going to Boodle’s. Absolutely famished.”
“Then send a boy to fetch Mrs. Dibble, and you’re free to go to Boodle’s and stay as long as you like.”
Wickson’s grin returned. He straightened the set of his jacket. “There you are, then. Knew I’d think of something. Very well, I’m off.”
“Send a boy to fetch Mrs. Dibble!” John yelled at Wickson’s retreating back.
Sweating, dry-mouthed, and feeling beset upon by the very devil himself, John lay back and closed his eyes. The quilt, sheet, and pillows were searing hot and sopping wet. He raised an arm to wrench his pillow off the bed, but the movement caused such an agonizing jolt of pain on his right side that he gave up.
He must have lost consciousness for a while because when he opened his eyes again, Mrs. Dibble was bustling into the room.
“Ah, Mr. Archer. Awake, are we?” she asked, wiping her rough, reddened hands on her dingy gray apron. “Our lovely Mr. Wickson said you wasn’t up to snuff, and I suppose he didn’t lie for here you lay, like one of them knights carved on the top of a tomb. Don’t suppose Heaven has long to wait before St. Peter himself is making the introductions all around, but I’ll make you as comfortable as I can ‘til then.”