The sleep clouding Caroline’s mind evaporated. Fear tightened her muscles as she relived the memory of the night in Harrogate when a servant had awoken her to announce Mama had died. The oxygen in the room suddenly felt scarce. “What is it, Mrs. Roth? My father? Anne? Charles? One of the staff?”
“No, miss. A man’s here. He knocked on the servants’ entrance. I thought it was that new footman Billy coming in late again, but it’s a gent, and he’s injured something terrible. I would have sent for a constable, but he asked for you, and it’s obvious he’s quality.”
A man? James? An ice-cold finger trailed down her spine. She sprang from the bed, grabbed her dressing gown, and jerked the garment on.
“Did he give his name?” Caroline rushed from the bedchamber, the skirts of her nightclothes knotted in her fingers as she lifted them above her shins.
“No, miss. I inquired, but all he did was ask for you. He passed out after I led him to my sitting room.”
Caroline raced down the back stairway, ignoring the cold wood under her bare feet. By the time she reached the dim corridor belowstairs, her heart pounded a steady beat against her ribs. Grasping the cool brass handle, she flung open the door to the housekeeper’s room and stepped inside.
Her breath caught.
Anthony!
He lay stretched out in a chair with his feet propped atop Mrs. Roth’s tapestry-covered ottoman—clothes disheveled, dark hair matted to his damp forehead.
“Anthony?” His name spilled from her lips—a soft whisper in the still room.
One heavily lidded eye opened and peered at her. The lashes of the other flickered, but the swelling held it to no more than a slit. He grinned as if he’d told a foolish quip. “Ah, Caroline, you look lovely as always.” Gravel infused his low voice. As if preparing to stand, he shifted, causing his unbuttoned coat to fall open. A wide crimson stain seeped through Anthony’s blue damask waistcoat.
The thundering in her chest sped up. “What has happened to you? Do not move.” She hurried to his side and helped ease him back into the chair.
Tiny beads of perspiration dotted the skin above his upper lip and the potent scent of whisky tainted his breath. His lids closed.
The housekeeper set the lamp down on the table. “I don’t think he’s feeling as much pain as he should be, miss. He’s three sheets to the wind.”
“Mrs. Roth, get some water and clean linens.”
Without a word, the woman spun around and ran from the room.
Caroline knelt beside Anthony and unbuttoned his waistcoat. Carefully, she pulled up his bloodstained white shirt to reveal a long straight gash near his left bottom rib.
The housekeeper darted back into the room. Water splashed over the edges of the white enamel basin as she set the bowl and the fresh linen next to the lamp.
“Mrs. Roth, wake Maggie. Tell her to come here. Then go to the carriage house and instruct Ferguson to harness the carriage. Inform him Maggie needs to fetch the doctor.” She didn’t like involving the coachman, but she had little choice; hopefully she could convince him not to say a word to her father when he returned from Paris.
The housekeeper nodded and left again.
With trembling hands, Caroline dipped a folded cloth into the basin, wrung it out, and pressed it firmly against Anthony’s wound.
Face twisting in pain, he opened his eyes. “Nurse Nightingale, I presume?”
“Yes, now relax while I tend to you.” She willed her voice to stay calm.
Anthony’s lashes fluttered closed again.
She studied his pale face and bloodless lips. Her stomach tightened. Mama had looked like this, waxen and pasty-skinned the day before she’d died.
Behind her someone gasped.
Maggie stood in the doorway. “Miss, it’s that gent. The one who accosted you outside the post office. I knew he was trouble.”
“Hush, Maggie. He didn’t accost me. Now, I need you to fetch Dr. Trimble on Harley Street.” The physician had attended her mother during her long illness. “Ferguson will take you. Then I wish you to go to an address on Park Lane. The note I give you is to be delivered to Lord Huntington. Ask for him. If a servant says he will not wake him, insist it’s a matter of urgency.”
“What if he’s not home, miss?”
She hadn’t considered that. Would he be at Lady Randall’s residence? The memory of him and Leticia scooting behind the palms a week ago flashed before her mind’s eye. “Then tell the servant to wake Lady Huntington, his grandmother.”
The housekeeper reappeared, her face as pallid as Anthony’s.
“Mrs. Roth, hold this bandage firmly over his laceration while I write a note for Maggie to deliver.”
The housekeeper tentatively set her fingers over the wet and bloodied material.
“Hold it tight. We need to stem the bleeding.” Caroline stood, dipped her hands into the cold water, and then dried them on her white wrapper. She snatched a sheet of crisp stationery from the housekeeper’s desk and feverishly wrote. After folding the paper, she rubbed at her temple. What was the door number of James’s residence? She couldn’t remember.
Think! She knelt next to the chair. “Anthony,” she whispered, setting a palm to his cold cheek. “What is your brother’s Park Lane address?”
One eye opened. He stared at her as if confused.
She brushed his hair from his damp forehead. “The door number?”
“I prefer we keep this to ourselves. James will be sorely disappointed in me.”
“I doubt that. Now tell me.”
“Shouldn’t have been where I was. I went to a pub in SoHo after Caruthers’s gathering to play cards. A rough place. Outside a blighter robbed me—”
“Anthony, please, the address?”
He mumbled a response.
She jotted it down and gave the note to Maggie. “Remember, do not give this to anyone except Lord Huntington or the dowager, but first bring the doctor here.”
The lady’s maid nodded. “I understand, miss.”
“And tell Lord Huntington not to harness his carriage. Inform him you will wait. Then bring him around to the back door.”
“The servants’ entrance?” Maggie asked, eyes wide.
“Yes.” Entering there would be less conspicuous.
Mrs. Roth bit her lower lip. “Are you sure I shouldn’t wake Mrs. Wallace?”
Anne would become hysterical, which wouldn’t help. Caroline dipped another square of fabric into the basin and dabbed at Anthony’s brow. “No, I must beg you to remain silent. Do not tell anyone about this.”
The elder woman gave an affirmative jerk of her head.
“Thank you.” She rubbed Mrs. Roth’s arm and silently prayed James and the physician would arrive shortly.
Chapter Twenty-One
What seemed days later, but in truth was less than an hour, Dr. Trimble entered the housekeeper’s sitting room.
Caroline released a knotted breath. Though young, many regarded him as London’s finest physician. She paused in running a damp rag over Anthony’s brow and swallowed the lump threatening to clog her throat. “Dr. Trimble, thank you for arriving so quickly. Lord Anthony hasn’t awakened since I sent for you, and he’s lost a great deal of blood.”
The doctor set a reassuring hand on her arm and placed his medical bag down on the desk. As he shrugged out of his coat, his intelligent eyes studied Anthony. “I shall see what I can do, Miss Lawrence.”
The tranquil tone of the physician’s voice and his unruffled demeanor soothed her fraying nerves.
Calmly, he rolled up his sleeves and reached down to remove the linen Mrs. Roth held over Anthony’s ribs. “You may release the cloth, madam.”
Mrs. Roth stared at the doctor as if frozen by fear, her eyes large brown orbs in her pale face.
“Yes, that’s it. Let it go,” he coaxed softly, prying the older woman’s fingers off. He peeled the blood-soaked cloth back and crouched before Anthony to examine the gash. He turned to the house
keeper. “I’ll need a fresh basin of warm water and soap.”
After Mrs. Roth left the room, the doctor asked, “Did he attack you?”
Goodness, no! She followed the path of his eyes. Anthony’s blood stained the front of her dressing gown. She shook her head violently. “I didn’t do this to him. He arrived here wounded. The only thing I know is what he mumbled. Someone robbed him after a card game in SoHo.”
“Ah, I see.” An expression of relief flashed over the man’s face. He offered a weak smile. “The young gentleman is fortunate. The gash is long, but the blade hit his ribs. His organs are not damaged. Nevertheless, infection is always a concern.”
She nodded. Dr. Trimble was forthright, always had been, even with regard to her mother’s illness. His words offered hope, yet she knew he spoke the truth about infection.
Standing, he reached into his leather satchel and removed several corked bottles and set them on the desk. He pulled the stoppers out. A pungent medicinal smell filled the small space. Next, he opened a box that contained needles of varying lengths and thicknesses.
Mrs. Roth rushed back into the room with a basin of water, soap, and more snowy cotton cloths.
“Thank you.” Dr. Trimble dipped his hands into the liquid and lathered them with the strong-smelling soap. “Miss Lawrence, I think it would be best if you left the room. Mrs. Roth will assist me with cleaning and suturing the wound with ligatures.”
Caroline squared her shoulders. She’d helped tend to her mother as Mama slowly withered away. “You know from having treated my mother I shall not faint.”
Dr. Trimble didn’t reply but looked pointedly at the housekeeper.
“Come, lovey,” Mrs. Roth said, clutching Caroline’s arm. “Do as the doctor says. I’ll help him.”
How ridiculous! Mrs. Roth should be the one leaving the room. Her coloring was as white as the linens she’d brought in.
As the housekeeper pulled her toward the threshold, Caroline set her bare heels into the cold stone floor and peered at Anthony’s still body. Even the angry bruises on his face had lost their red color. A warm tear dripped off Caroline’s cheek and she realized she was weeping. How long had she been doing so? She scrubbed her sleeve over her face. No wonder the physician wished her to leave.
“I shall stand right outside, Anthony.” She waited for his response.
Nothing. Not even a flicker of his lashes.
“Doctor, if you need anything . . .”
The physician nodded but said nothing as he dried his hands on a clean cloth.
“Come, miss. You wait in the servants’ dining hall for the young man’s family.” Mrs. Roth’s fingers tightened.
“Leave, Miss Lawrence, and close the door behind you,” Dr. Trimble said in a firm voice that brooked no argument.
* * *
James stared at the letters strewn across his desk. For the last couple of hours, he’d mulled over the stack of articles C. M. Smith had mailed to the London Reformer, the ones Hinklesmith had handed over.
He agreed with much of what the she-devil penned. Her call to further amend the property rights of married women was soundly based. She also rallied for more women’s colleges. He concurred. Two and a half years ago, he’d donated the land for the nearly completed Waring College for Women. He’d even tried to convince Nina to take the exam for admittance this fall instead of rushing to get married. A futile waste of breath.
He snatched up the article titled “Sins upon Women.” Once again, he agreed with what Smith had written about the need for magistrate intervention to protect abused women, except for the implications that he was one of those heinous men.
Fighting the urge to crumple the parchment in his hands, he listened to the long-case clock chime the midnight hour. Where was Anthony? He hoped not at Caruthers’s ball. James knew what went on there, and most of it skirted propriety, if not outright spit in its face. There would also be high-stakes cards.
Standing, James gathered C. M. Smith’s articles and shoved them into the top drawer of the desk. Perhaps he should go to Caruthers’s. Make sure Anthony didn’t end up over his head. He slipped his coat on as he strode from his office.
The sound of a carriage pulling up caused James to release a heavy breath. Thank goodness Anthony was home. Hopefully, the rascal hadn’t pissed away his future at a card game. He jerked the door open.
A large black carriage stood in front of his residence. The driver jumped down and lowered the equipage’s steps.
Leticia alighted.
Damnation.
She strolled up the short path. He motioned her inside. It would not serve either of them well to settle their differences outside.
“Leticia, it’s late. Go home.”
“I just heard you intend to return to the country. You didn’t even bother to tell me about your departure. Are you willing to toss our friendship aside over a silly squabble?”
Silly? Sending Mrs. Wallace into that room was nothing short of malicious. “I’m not in the mood to argue with you. I need to find Anthony, then go to bed.”
She flattened her hand on his chest. “I don’t wish to fight either. Though bed does sound like a wonderful idea.”
Did she think her body enough to soothe his anger over what she’d done? He resisted the urge to open the door and toss her out. She’d probably cause a scene for the sport of it and rouse the others in the house. “Leticia, as you know, not only my grandmother but my siblings are in residence.”
“You know the idea of getting caught can build excitement. I’m sure we could find a dark corner in a vacant room.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Let me apologize.” She pressed herself against him and placed her lips on his.
He jerked back. “Leticia, go home. I”—her palm slid down the front of his trousers to cup his manhood—“need to track my brother down.” He removed her hand from his groin.
“Darling, I saw your brother at Caruthers’s. He’s fine.” She ran her finger over the swell of one of her breasts, circling her nipple. “James, you and I were so good together. You never disappointed me, and I’m sure if we start up a liaison again, you won’t be disappointed either.”
The knocker tapped against the front door.
Bugger it. What was this, Victoria Station? His staff had retired, but with all the commotion, they’d be peeking about corners soon. Worse, so would his grandmother. With a mumbled curse, he flung the door open.
A petite young woman dressed in a simple navy dress stared at him. She set a hand to her belly, while her other hand clutched a folded piece of parchment in a white-knuckled grip. By God, he hoped she wasn’t here for Anthony. He’d strangle his brother if this girl was with child.
“Are you the butler?” she asked.
Leticia moved to stand beside him. “Dear girl, does he look like a servant?”
The young woman’s gaze raked over him. “My employer said I was to give this note to Lord Huntington. Would you be him, sir?”
“Yes.” James inspected the fancy equipage parked behind Leticia’s carriage. He held out his hand, hoping to prompt the girl to give him the missive she protectively clutched to her bosom like a suckling infant.
The girl hesitantly handed it to him. “My mistress offers the use of her carriage to convey you to her home.”
“Who is your mistress?” Leticia snapped.
“I’m only to speak to his lordship,” the servant replied, squaring her shoulders.
James unfolded the paper.
James,
Anthony has been injured. Please come to my father’s residence. Posthaste!
Caroline
Anthony? Hurt? James’s heart thudded against his chest. He shoved the missive into his coat pocket.
“Leticia, I have an urgent matter to attend to.” He set his palm on her back and ushered her out the door, pulling it closed behind them.
Leticia blinked at him. “What is wrong? Who is that letter from?”
; Caroline.
And Anthony was with her. He didn’t wish to think about that now. First, he had to make sure his brother was well. Then he’d kill him. Without answering Leticia, he ushered her to her carriage, then rushed to the second vehicle. Caroline’s servant moved to climb up with the coachman. “No, I’ll get up there. It’s cold. Climb in the carriage.”
She stared at him for a moment.
It was too bloody damp for her to sit up there. “I have no time to argue, get in!” he said, climbing up and seating himself next to the coachman.
A few minutes later, the carriage had traversed the short distance from Park Lane to the mews behind Caroline’s Grosvenor Square residence. James jumped down from the perch. He peered up the dark stretch of cobbled roadway. At the entrance to the narrow alley another carriage rolled to a standstill. It didn’t turn down, only stood still as if the occupant watched them. The clopping of the horses’ hooves echoed as the vehicle pulled away.
Blast! Was that Leticia’s carriage? No, surely she wouldn’t have followed him. God help both him and Caroline if she had. But right now, he’d not think about that. He needed to confirm his brother was all right.
* * *
Fighting the urge to enter Mrs. Roth’s sitting room, Caroline paced the corridor.
The back-entry door swung open and Maggie appeared.
Caroline tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Were you able to reach Lord Hunt—?”
James’s tall figure appeared behind the lady’s maid. He stepped into the dimly lit entry, shrinking the space with his broad-shouldered frame. His face looked tense, his complexion a shade lighter than normal. She wanted to run to him and tell him everything would be fine, yet she couldn’t make such a promise.
He strode forward. His gaze locked on the crimson stains marring her white dressing gown. “Christ,” he mumbled. The words sounded more like a prayer than blasphemy. “What happened? Where is he?”
She motioned to the room. “Dr. Trimble is tending to him. He’ll explain.”
Never Kiss a Notorious Marquess Page 18