“I see you’ve come around. I rather feared you wouldn’t… already being a dead woman and all.” His voice was tinged with sardonic amusement, but like his gaze, it was warm and rich. It seeped into her and further kindled the fire that was building inside her. He was a dangerous man.
Frowning as much at his words as to hide her own reaction to him, Viola said sharply, “You speak in an unaccountably strange manner for a physician. Clearly, I am not dead. Or if I am, the afterlife is certainly not at all what I anticipated.”
His lips quirked slightly in an amused smirk, as he replied, “You are Lady Ramsleigh, are you not? Wife of the recently deceased Percival never-to-be-called-Percy Grantham, Lord Ramsleigh?”
Her frown deepened. “Yes, Lord Ramsleigh was my husband. When word reached me in Scotland that he had passed, I returned. It seems you knew my husband well,” Viola surmised from his words.
“We had not met. But upon your return, I have been regaled with many stories of him… most of them very unflattering. It appears he spent most of his time in London and very little of it here, even when he should have been rusticating in the country during his period of mourning… for you. But then, I think his time in London was likely welcomed by you. Eagerly anticipated even as it spared you his less than tender mercies.”
Viola did not shake her head with the confusion that plagued her at his words. She was not foolish enough to make that mistake again. “I may have been the one struck about the head, Doctor, but it is you, I fear, who has become insensible! What is this infernal talk of my death?”
He blinked at her. “You really have no idea? You honestly have no notion that after you abandoned your husband—and likely for good cause—he told the entire community that you had perished! There’s a casket holding heaven knows what and a gravestone, Madame, that bears your epitaph. It appears you succumbed to a fever, far too young and beautiful for this ugly world. It’s quite moving.”
It should not have surprised her. Not in the least. Percival had always been about saving face above all, at least for himself. He might have abandoned her happily. But because it had been she who had done the leaving, an elaborate fabrication had been woven to prevent others from knowing that he had been abandoned by his battered wife. She had known that her return would pose difficulties, but certainly not to that degree. His lies would complicate matters dreadfully, without a doubt.
“You’ll forgive me, Doctor, for asking so boldly, but now that we’ve established how I supposedly died, perhaps you could enlighten me as to the nature of my late husband’s death?”
He shrugged. “I cannot offer any certainty on that score. He preferred the archaic ministrations of Dr. Shepherd… leeches and bloodletting. Though I don’t suppose I can protest too much as I did quite a bit of bloodletting today myself.”
She frowned again, once more heartily confused by his words. “I don’t understand.”
He rose and moved to the side of the bed, sitting down beside her. It was instinctive, almost an involuntary reaction, for Viola to shrink back from him. His eyes darkened, filled with a kind of rage that terrified her. Yet, when he spoke, his voice was gentle, soothing her the way one would soothe a child. “I have no intent to harm you, Lady Ramsleigh. I need to check the wound on your scalp. There was quite a bit of blood trapped beneath the skin. The pressure from that was what was causing your pain. I made a small incision to drain away the blood and, hopefully, relieve the monstrous headache that resulted.”
Viola could feel her face flush with the acute heat of embarrassment. He must think her a complete imbecile or, even worse, a timid mouse of a woman who skittered and cowed. In spite of everything, that was not who she was. It was certainly not who she intended to be going forward. “Certainly, Doctor. You may proceed.”
“Allow me to help you sit up,” he offered, extending his arm.
Reluctantly, Viola accepted it. It was strange to be so near a man again, stranger still that it was not a man that she found utterly revolting. Or even slightly revolting. If she were honest, not revolting at all. Even dazed with pain and near frozen from the cold, she’d looked at him and felt that spark of interest, of her own traitorous body responding to him. Now, feeling marginally improved and no longer fearing an impending death, that spark had given birth a blaze. Averting her gaze, she kept it locked resolutely on the carpet beyond the edge of the bed while he tended her wound.
*
Nicholas kept his temper in check, but only just. She’d shied from him like a dog kicked once too often. If Ramsleigh weren’t already dead, he’d have been meeting the bastard with pistols at dawn. Brushing aside the still tangled and matted mass of her dark hair, he examined the rather nasty abrasion to the back of her head. The swelling had gone down greatly, so that was a relief. Moving on, he examined the small incision where he’d drained much of the blood that had pooled at the base of her skull. There was no fresh blood, and very little had seeped onto the bandage after it had been applied. The cold seawater that had all but frozen her stiff had likely helped on that score. It was hell on the body but excellent for wounds.
The borrowed nightrail she wore slipped from her shoulder just a bit, revealing a bevy of bruises. She had endured a great deal, not simply from the shipwreck and being tossed about on the open sea, but from her previous life with the late Lord Ramsleigh it seemed. He was reminded of a woman he’d cared for in Jamaica. Broken arms, dislocated shoulders, a broken nose, repeated falls and tumbles and clumsiness that could all be laid directly at the heavy fists of her brute of a husband. Of course, the similarities ended in their suffering. While that woman had been meek and downtrodden, offering no resistance, Lady Ramsleigh appeared to be cut from a very different cloth.
“Tell me, Lady Ramsleigh, did no one offer assistance to you when you were at the less than tender mercies of your late husband?” he queried. It was not a question he expected her to answer, but it was one he still felt compelled to ask.
“There was no one to help, Doctor. We did not entertain. While Percival was in London, I remained at Ramsgate Hall under the ever watchful eye of his most trusted servants. I was never permitted to call on any of the local gentry or the respectable ladies nearby. Most people assumed I was standoffish, aloof, or thought myself above such provincial entertainments and company. Very few realized that I would have done anything to have a single person to confide in during that time.”
That she had not tried to hide her past or pawn him off with some painful excuses was something of a surprise. She offered the information brazenly, almost challengingly. “I see. And I take it that when your injuries were severe enough, you were treated by Dr. Shepherd?”
“I was. If one can call it treatment,” she answered breezily.
“I detest that man,” Nicholas said under his breath. “I’ve never encountered anyone who less deserved to call himself a physician. In my experience, he has done far more harm than good to every single patient that we have shared.”
The conversation was more to keep her calm, to ease the tension between them and to put her at ease in his presence. It was quite obvious to him that she trusted few people and with very good reason. He wanted her to be at ease with him, to feel safe and secure in his presence. He also acknowledged that it had very little to do with his role as her physician and much more to do with the hollow feeling that settled in his stomach whenever she met his gaze. Battered, bruised, with wild hair and a haunted look about her, she should not have stirred his lust, yet she did. She also stirred a surprising tenderness inside him that was far more concerning.
“Out of curiosity, Doctor, how long have I been dead?” She’d couched the question in an idle tone, but it was apparent that she was concerned. And he had an inkling why.
“I imagine that your unfortunate demise occurred not long after you departed… likely before your child was even born.”
She gasped softly. “How did you know?”
“I am a doctor, Madame. I examined you compl
etely to treat and bandage all of your numerous, if somewhat trivial wounds. I am familiar enough with the effects of child bearing on a woman’s body. How old is the child now?”
She was silent for a moment, so silent that he thought she might not answer at all. He sat back, moving toward the end of the bed so that he was looking at her face, meeting her dark gaze directly. It was less for his benefit than hers. He intended to let her take his measure and decide whether or not to confide in him. It was his most fervent hope that she would and he could not quite fathom why. Whether she chose to treat him as a confidante or not had no bearing on her well-being from a medical standpoint. And yet he felt compelled to earn her trust, to offer her the kind of comfort it was clear no one else had. He was not foolish enough to think he was being entirely altruistic. She was a shockingly beautiful woman and an enchanting mystery. Curiosity had been his downfall on more than one previous occasion.
“He has only just passed his first birthday,” she answered. “And despite what others may suggest, he is a Grantham, though I have often regretted that for his sake.”
“And why is that?” he asked with a frown, wondering at such an odd statement.
“I fear that whatever madness and rage drove my husband, whatever demons within him made him so violent and unpredictable, might be a disorder of the blood… something that would be passed from father to son. Are you familiar with such illnesses?” she asked.
And that was the reason for her willing confession, because he, as a physician, might offer her a peace of mind that she had been unable to attain independently. “I have seen such things… but I have also seen men and women who did not have a violent parent become quite violent themselves, and vice versa. I think it is determined by character more than blood and so long as you raise him to be brave and kind, I doubt his father’s tendencies will ever present.”
She let out a deep sigh, so full of relief, almost as if the weight of the world had suddenly been lifted from her slender shoulders. “I am occupying too much of your time, Doctor. Surely there were other patients who will require your assistance after an accident such as this one. There was a woman… I did not know her well. We met in Aberdeen. She wished to reach London and I needed an escort for the sake of propriety. I agreed to bring her as far as Yorkshire and put her on the stage to London. Do you know if she survived?”
“There were very few survivors and you were the only female rescued or recovered. I fear your companion was lost to the sea,” he admitted regretfully.
She nodded. “When I am well enough, I shall go to the church and say prayers for her. Perhaps I can prevail upon the vicar to have a small monument placed for her in the churchyard… for all of the victims.”
“I believe that is a fine idea, and I daresay he would be hard pressed to find any reason to refuse.” Given that he’d likely been party to burying an empty box in what was to have been her grave, Nicholas thought, it might behoove the man to be moved by her request. Rather than say something out of turn or create more distress for her, he excused himself. “You were not the most gravely injured of the survivors, but you bore more ill effects from the cold sea than did the others. However, now that you are awake and sensible, I will go look in on them. I shall return after dinner to look in on you.”
“That isn’t necessary,” she said. “I’m quite sore, but I imagine that I will recover well enough without further assistance. Thank you for your consideration, Doctor, but further services will not be needed.”
Nicholas smiled. “That’s good to hear. But it was not in the capacity of physician that I meant to visit again, Lady Ramsleigh.”
“And in what capacity could it be, Doctor?” she asked skeptically.
That of a man who wanted her, even when he knew he shouldn’t. But that was not something she was ready to hear, and he had not determined yet if acting on that desire would be wise for either of them. So he answered, “In the capacity of a friend, Lady Ramsleigh… it seems quite apparent to me that you may be in need of a few of those.”
He walked out then, leaving her gaping after him as he made his way downstairs to ply the servants for any gossip he might find useful about Lady Ramsleigh and her liar of a late husband.
Chapter Four
The servants of Ramsgate Hall moved through the house like shadows. Eyes downcast, shoulders hunched forward, each moved as if expecting a blow to land upon their head at any moment. It was true enough. Lord Ramsleigh, both the former and the current, had heavy hands and vile tempers. Unlike his predecessor, the current Lord Ramsleigh wasn’t a slave to his anger. His blows landed with fury and glee alike.
The rumors had already reached the house. They had likely reached Lord Ramsleigh before the unconscious form of Lady Ramsleigh had even reached Castle Black. He’d been in a rage since then, ranting and throwing things as he screamed about her conniving to steal what was his.
“I’ll not give that worthless quim a single sovereign!”
The shout echoed down the corridors, followed by the soft spoken reply of his solicitor. “My lord, even if she is actually Lady Ramsleigh, the house is yours. Ramsgate Hall is entailed!”
“And the money, Weston? To whom does it belong?” Ramsleigh hissed, throwing an empty brandy snifter against the tiles of the hearth. It shattered, but offered no peace to the raving lord.
The solicitor swallowed nervously. “The marriage contracts were very generous to Lady Ramsleigh. And while very little of the funds that were transferred upon their marriage to your uncle will remain with the estate, there are options—”
A vase, likely a reproduction of a priceless artifact that had been sold off by previous generations, was tossed against the opposite wall to shatter. Shards of pottery flew in all directions. “I want her gone.”
“My lord,” the solicitor began again, brushing bits of porcelain from his coat, “If she is Lady Ramsleigh, then she abandoned your uncle… therefore, she violated the marriage contracts herself.”
“And he faked her death to save face! The scandal will ruin us if you pursue this through legal channels,” Randall snapped. “Everything would be frozen while we’re tied up in the courts and I’d be living like a pauper! I will not have it, Weston. I will not. I shall find my own way of dealing with my resurrected aunt!”
The solicitor appeared stricken. “My lord, I must encourage you to proceed cautiously and not to allow your temper to get the better of you.”
“My temper will not get the better of me, sir. I know precisely what must happen, and you will stay well out of it… or my aunt will not be the only casualty,” he warned. “Is that perfectly clear?”
The solicitor nodded, his eyes glazed with fear. It was not the first time he’d witnessed the lengths to which Lords Ramsleigh would go to get their own way. He knew better than to cross anyone of that line. “Yes, my lord. Certainly. I will do whatever is required to assist you.”
“Silence is the only assistance I require. Be gone from me, Weston. I cannot abide the sight of your quivering cowardice!”
After the solicitor had left, Randall moved back to the desk and plopped down into his chair. He propped his booted feet on the desk and tapped his finger against his chin as he considered. To get her where he wanted her, he’d have to get her ensconced at Ramsgate Hall. Given their past relationship and the unfortunate confession he’d made, it was unlikely for her to accept an invitation. Yet, she’d returned for a reason. What was it? What had brought the bitch back into his life now?
“I’ll bury more than an empty box this time. The bitch will suffer… slowly and agonizingly, if need be, until she tells me the reasons for her return,” he said softly. Decision made, he whistled a tune under his breath as he rang the bell pull.
One of the maids entered. She had that soft, blousy look about her, like she was sneaking cakes from the kitchen when cook wasn’t looking. He didn’t much care for that in a woman, but she’d do for the moment.
“Did you need something, my lord?”
she asked softly, keeping her head down and her gaze locked firmly on the floor.
Randall walked toward her. Reaching out with one hand, he trailed it over her arm, up to the soft skin of her neck. “Oh, I need something… and you’ll do nicely.”
She let out a soft sob of fear and it sent a thrill through him like nothing else ever would. But her sobs weren’t as sweet to his ears as Viola’s shrieks had been, or the way she’d fought like a wildcat beneath him. This one would be meek and submissive. She’d sob with pain and fear, but she wouldn’t fight the way Viola had. He’d kill his aunt, but he might indulge in her charms again first.
*
Graham, Lord Blakemore, entered Ramsgate Hall and frowned. While Castle Black was hardly a model of luxury given its ancient origins, he’d seen enough fine homes to recognize things were very wrong at Ramsgate. The servants were all remarkably timid, and yet the housekeeping was hardly up to par. Dust and cobwebs were present in abundance. Luxurious at one time, there were missing paintings and rugs, their shadowy silhouettes still visible. He had to wonder whether those absences were from Lady Ramsleigh’s late husband or his successor.
“Is Lord Ramsleigh in?”
The butler looked, if such a thing were possible in the typically stoic servants, panic stricken. “He is not to be disturbed, Lord Blakemore. If you wish to leave a card—”
“Not to be disturbed means he is here,” Graham insisted. “This isn’t simply a social call. It’s vital that I speak with him. I have news of his aunt, Lady Ramsleigh.”
The butler’s gaze shuttered immediately. “Lady Ramsleigh has passed away, my lord. Almost two years past.”
Lies. The man knew she was alive. As Graham took his measure again, he realized that the servant had likely known all along, even when they were burying what was hopefully just an empty box in the churchyard. “Lady Ramsleigh has just been rescued from a ship that has run aground in the cove, sir. I assure you she lives and is recovering from her injuries at Castle Black as we speak. While Lord Ramsleigh may not wish to be disturbed, I’ve no doubt such news is just cause to do so.”
The Resurrection of Lady Ramsleigh Page 3