The Duke's Hidden Desire (Scandals of Scarcliffe Hall Book 2)

by Gemma Blackwood

  The men who soon arrived at her father’s house had clearly been up to no good. Their faces and hair were blackened with soot, and one of them still wore a mask around his neck which he hastily tore off the moment Anna saw it.

  Dr Hawkins made no comment on their appearance, but pressed his lips tightly together. There was only one serious injury. Sam Digby, a boy Anna knew from Loxton, and at eighteen years old the youngest of the men by far. He came in carried between two of his companions, face white and a makeshift bandage tied around his shoulder. He was close to fainting.

  “Lay him on the bed in the consulting room,” said Dr Hawkins. Sam let out a cry of pain as they manoeuvred him. “Easy now, Master Digby. Floyd! Fetch him a glass of brandy.”

  “I’ll go,” said Anna. She had no desire to remain in the presence of Sam’s dangerous-looking companions.

  “Wait here with me, Anna,” said her father, a note of warning entering his voice. He took her hand and led her into the consulting room. “Stay here and hold the boy’s hand.”

  “Oh, Miss Hawkins,” sobbed Sam, clutching Anna’s hand so tightly it hurt. “I’ve done something I shouldn’t…”

  “Hush,” said Anna, glancing up at the rough men who were still watching. “Don’t speak a word of it, Sam. It’ll be alright.”

  “Thank you for your help,” said Dr Hawkins, standing between the men and Sam Digby. “If you are not wounded, I will ask you to leave this house.”

  One of the men raised a dirty finger. Sam whimpered.

  “Just you remember what I told you, Digby,” the man hissed. “Not a word. Not one word, or it’ll be the noose for all of us.”

  “I asked you to leave,” snapped the doctor. “This is my house. No patient has ever come to harm under my roof, from the law or otherwise. Is that clear?”

  The men glanced between each other. “If you say so,” their ringleader muttered. “But if you betray us, doctor –”

  “What’s to betray?” demanded Mr Floyd, pushing his way back into the consulting room with a glass of brandy in hand. “It was a hunting accident, wasn’t it? Now, you heard Dr Hawkins. Out!”

  He held the glass to Sam’s lips. “Here you are, lad,” he said. “Drink up and you’ll soon feel better.”

  Behind him, Dr Hawkins glared the men down until, one by one, they turned and left. He followed them into the hallway. Anna heard him sliding the bolts behind them.

  “Now, then,” he said, coming back into the room with his professional smile fixed back on his face. “Let’s see what we can do for you, my lad. Floyd, cut his shirt away. Anna, you stay here. We may need all hands to hold him still.”

  Sam Digby had been shot in the right shoulder. He started crying like a child as Dr Hawkins cleaned the wound.

  “We will have to take the bullet out, Sam,” said Dr Hawkins. “I will work very quickly, I promise. It will only hurt for a moment.”

  “That’s alright, doctor,” sniffed Sam, tears making streaks through the soot on his face. “I deserve the hurt. I brung it on myself!”

  Anna sat at his side and squeezed his left hand while Dr Hawkins and Mr Floyd worked swiftly, removing the bullet, stopping the bleeding, and stitching up the wound. Sam felt it all very badly despite the brandy, though he tried his best to be brave.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Hawkins,” he whispered, as Mr Floyd propped him up and the doctor tied the bandage. “I didn’t mean to bring them men into your house. A nice lady like you shouldn’t have to speak to those people!” He scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve. “And when I think of the way I spoke to Lady Cecily –”

  “What was that?” asked Anna sharply, as she handed him her handkerchief. Sam Digby froze, his eyes darting about guiltily.

  “I mustn’t say nothing more! They’ll kill me if I do!”

  “Nothing you have to say will ever leave this room,” Dr Hawkins assured him. Mr Floyd offered him another swig of brandy, and, thus fortified, Sam Digby began to speak.

  There was no work to be had in Loxton. He’d been searching around for something to do when the leader of a group called the Loxton Lads approached him. There was money to be earned, he’d said. Good money, for men brave enough to take it.

  “And I listened to him,” said Sam, a sob rising in his throat again. “I listened, and I knew it was wrong, but I went along anyway. But I got spooked, see, and – and I fired my gun – and then –”

  “You have been playing the highwayman,” said Dr Hawkins grimly. Sam nodded.

  “If I could go back in time, I’d never speak to them, sir, I swear it! But they told me if I wanted to be one of them, truly, I had to take hold of the lady – and – and I laid my hands on her, and held my gun to her, and I spoke so rough and cruel! It didn’t seem so bad until I got hurt. More of a game, like. The lady was a brave one – she wasn’t much afraid of me. But I was scared of the Loxton Lads, sir! If I didn’t do as they said, I feared they’d kill me!”

  “You laid your hands on Lady Cecily Balfour?” Mr Floyd repeated, voice low. “What the devil were you thinking? You could hang for this!”

  “It’s all I deserve,” said Sam, and lowered his face into his hands. The movement jostled the wound on his arm, and he let out a wail of pain.

  “There, there,” Anna soothed him, glaring at Mr Floyd. “You are safe now. No-one will tell. It was not your fault you were led astray.”

  She met her father’s eyes over Sam’s shaking shoulders. Dr Hawkins shook his head grimly, but spoke with false brightness. “Now, Master Digby, you must rest awhile. Stay here on the bed. I will send word to your father that you were hurt in… an accident.” He beckoned Anna and Mr Floyd out of the room.

  “What should we do?” Mr Floyd muttered, once the door had closed on the weeping boy. “By all rights we ought to inform –”

  “You will inform no-one,” said the doctor. “Our task is to tend to the injured, not to dispense justice.”

  “But, sir –”

  “This foolish boy would hang for his part in this! And the men who led him into crime would go free. Is that just, Floyd?”

  “No, sir.” Floyd looked at the ground, biting down a response.

  “Besides,” said Dr Hawkins grimly, “the real culprits will never see the inside of a prison cell. The men who are grinding the poor of this country into the dust while they live in luxury –”

  He was interrupted by a thunderous pounding at the door. All three of them froze in horror, half-expecting a magistrate to come striding in.

  Mr Floyd answered it. The footman who stood there, flushed and breathless from his ride, wore the livery of Scarcliffe Hall.

  “Dr Hawkins! You must come at once! Lord Jonathan Hartley has been shot! And more injuries are expected at the Hall!”

  “Another gunshot wound?” Dr Hawkins murmured, glancing towards the consulting room. “That is a strange coincidence.” He gave Anna’s arm a warning squeeze. “Go and fetch my bag. Make certain it is stocked with needle and thread. You know what else I will need. Floyd, you must stay here with our other patient. Anna will come with me. If there are multiple injuries, I may need assistance – and hang the marquess’s idea of what is suitable for a young lady.”

  Anna knew how to work swiftly. Within moments, she and her father were in the carriage and on their way to Scarcliffe Hall.

  8

  Anna watched Scarcliffe Hall’s sandstone crenellations appear over the treetops with a sense of apprehension. If Lord Jonathan were injured, did that mean every gentleman in the house had been involved in the idiotic gun battle with the Loxton Lads? The footman had said they were expecting further casualties. If her masked man was truly the Duke of Beaumont, was he among them?

  Anna reminded herself that she had no right to worry about Beaumont's health, let alone dwell on the circumstances of Lord Jonathan's injury. She tried to take her father's advice and focus on the task ahead: healing, not dispensing justice.

  That focus was made infinitely more difficult by t
he fact that the first man Anna encountered at the Hall was the Duke of Beaumont himself, sipping on a glass of brandy with a satisfied smile on his face and his left forearm bundled up in a bloodied bandage.

  "Ah, you must be Dr Hawkins!" he said, addressing Anna's father with the suavity of a man who had never attempted to compromise the doctor's daughter. "There's no need to look so concerned! It's Lord Jonathan you need to worry about. If I could trouble you for a needle and thread, I'll see to this scratch myself."

  Anna saw her father's face turn pale. "I'm afraid I cannot allow that, Your Grace," he said. Anna could not help but admire the way her father dealt with all manner of men with equal confidence, whether they were farm boys or dukes. "Please take a seat and keep your arm raised above your heart. I must attend to Lord Jonathan immediately, but I will be with you in due course."

  The duke raised an eyebrow in Anna's direction, with a glint in his eye so absolutely roguish that Anna wondered her father did not call him out on the spot. "I'm sure Miss Hawkins is capable of entertaining me in your absence, sir."

  Dr Hawkins glanced at his daughter. "Anna, would you check how serious the duke's injury is?" He nodded towards Beaumont apologetically. "I would not usually allow it, Your Grace, but your health is paramount, and I assure you that my daughter is -"

  "More than capable, I do not doubt," said Beaumont. Anna pretended not to notice the way he was looking at her.

  Dr Hawkins bowed and allowed the footman to show him upstairs. The butler lingered in the anteroom.

  "A bowl of warm water, please, and some clean towels that you do not mind getting stained," said Anna. She laid her own small bag of equipment on the table. A slight wrinkle between the butler’s eyebrows revealed his displeasure at taking Anna's instructions, but he left to fetch what she requested.

  "Where do you want me, Miss Hawkins?" asked the duke. Anna pretended to be very busy choosing the right bandage so that she did not have to meet his eyes.

  "If you could take a seat, Your Grace."

  She heard him laugh, the warmth of the sound forcing her to finally meet his eyes. "That's a different form of address than the last one you used. Are you finally convinced that I am who I say I am?"

  "I concede that you are the Duke of Beaumont," said Anna, checking that the butler was not back before she continued. "Whether you are a gentleman as well as a duke remains to be seen."

  He laughed again, but offered no defence of his honour.

  Anna pulled up a chair beside him and took his arm as gently as she could. "Tell me if I hurt you," she said, as she began unfastening the makeshift sling.

  "How could a creature so divine ever cause me pain?" asked Beaumont. Anna ignored his flattery, took up a pair of scissors and cut his sleeve loose to the elbow.

  "Well?" asked Beaumont. Anna thought she heard his voice grow a little gruffer with discomfort as she turned his arm this way and that. "Will you be performing an amputation?"

  "It is a deep cut," she said. "And it hasn't been kept clean."

  "I should think not. I have been hurling myself into ditches, and rescuing fair ladies, and all sorts of unsanitary behaviour."

  Anna bit down on her curiosity. She could not ask any questions which might betray Sam Digby.

  "I'm sure you were very brave," she said, as the butler came in with the water and towels. "I am going to clean your wound now, Your Grace. It will sting a little."

  "I can endure any form of torture under your fair hand," said Beaumont lightly. Anna began to smile, despite herself. This flirtation had lost all hint of the danger she sensed when he had visited her home. Here, he was charming, brave, and a little ridiculous – all qualities more fit to please her than a planned seduction.

  She cleaned the dried blood and dirt from his arm as gently as she could, listening attentively to his breathing as she worked. She knew that nothing would induce him to speak up if he was in pain, and so close attention was the only way to gauge his suffering.

  "There," she said, when the wound was clean and dry. "It will need stitching, I'm afraid. My father will do it so neatly that there will barely be a scar."

  "A pity," said Beaumont. "How am I to brag of my exploits to the ladies if there is no evidence of my bravery?"

  Anna felt the corner of her mouth twitch upwards. "I am sure you will entertain the ladies very ably, Your Grace, scar or no scar."

  Beaumont caught her hand with his good arm. He was still wearing his riding glove, though Anna had removed hers to attend him. The shock of rough leather on her skin sent a shiver through her.

  "Will you do it?" he asked, looking earnestly into her eyes. "I think I trust you better than any doctor – even if he is your father."

  Anna was not used to her talents being recognised, least of all by noblemen. She felt a rush of warmth at his words, even as she realised that they were no more than another piece of idle flattery.

  "If that is what you wish, Your Grace."

  "Shall I fetch your father, Miss Hawkins?" asked the butler coldly. Anna, not about to have the duke's assessment of her skills called into question, was about to issue a sharp response when she met Beaumont's eyes and realised he was opening his mouth to do the same thing.

  Their gazes locked, both amused and intrigued by their mutual understanding. A gracious nod from Beaumont gave Anna the chance to speak first.

  "I am quite capable of tending to a minor injury," she said coolly. "I do not think you will wish to disturb my father as he treats Lord Jonathan, will you?"

  "Minor injury?" Beaumont mouthed, feigning offence. Anna rolled her eyes.

  "Miss Hawkins," said the butler, barely concealing his outrage, "if I may have a private word –"

  "You may not," interrupted Beaumont. A commanding edge had sharpened his voice once more – the tone of absolute authority which had made Mrs Pierce curtsey and Anna's heart beat faster. "Miss Hawkins is attending to me. I have requested for her to do so. Whatever comment you have to make upon the subject can be made to my face."

  The butler bowed, red-faced. "I have no comment, Your Grace. Your judgement is unimpeachable."

  "Then you will go about your duties and allow Miss Hawkins to do her work."

  "As you wish, Your Grace."

  Anna had encountered the crotchety butler of Scarcliffe Hall several times before, and she had never seen him dismissed so abruptly. He left the room at the duke's command, leaving nothing behind but a barely audible sniff of outrage.

  "And now we are alone, Miss Hawkins," said Beaumont, in a low murmur that reminded Anna exactly how dangerous he was. His gloved hand dropped to her knee.

  "Hold still," Anna warned him. "I will send for a man to restrain you if you are not capable of doing it yourself."

  Beaumont removed his hand, grinning wickedly. "I promise to be the model of restraint. Whatever it costs me."

  Anna forced herself to forget that the man before her was her masked gondolier from the night of the ball, thief of her kisses and unwanted occupant of her daydreams. She reduced him to nothing more than the ragged cut in his arm. A patient in need of help.

  Taking up the needle and thread, she stitched his wound quickly and expertly. Beaumont made one little groan, deep in his throat, and his body went very tense, but he made no other admission of pain.

  "You are a lady of surprising talents," he said, when she was wrapping his arm in a bandage.

  "It is a woman's prerogative to be unpredictable," Anna smiled.

  "I hope you do not now regret your choice, Miss Hawkins," he ventured, leaning a little closer. "In light of my bravery, does becoming my mistress not seem a more appealing prospect?"

  "Your bravery," Anna repeated flatly.

  "Why, I have dispatched as many as ten roguish highwaymen this very morning! And engineered a happy match between two sweethearts – and all before breakfast."

  Anna thought of the way Sam Digby cried when her father removed the bullet from his shoulder. "I would respect you more if you did no
t boast of violence."

  "You prefer your men to be indolent and weak?"

  "There is a great distance between violence and indolence, Your Grace, which is occupied by many honourable men."

  "But not by me," he exclaimed. "By heaven! I pray I will never stand by and idly watch while there's a fight to be had. But I cannot expect you to understand this. Men prove themselves to women with words, and to other men with their fists."

  "I was raised to prize healing and care far above battle scars," said Anna coldly. "If you stopped to remember my father's profession, perhaps that would not surprise you. But I do not expect you to give any thought to my situation. I have never suffered from the delusion that I am more to you than one pretty face among many."

  Beaumont was prevented from responding by the entrance of Anna's father. He merely fixed her with a hot look of injured pride. Then, just as Anna’s heart began to beat faster, his heated expression vanished. He rose to shake the doctor's hand and demonstrate how beautifully Anna had fixed his arm.

  The duke really was a creature of high society. His demeanour was all grace and ease. No-one would have guessed that he had been on the brink of an argument mere moments before.

  Anna was not so well-trained in concealing her emotions. Her face was hot and her pulse was juddering. She could only hope that her father would attribute her red cheeks to pleasure at the duke's praise.

  Unable to speak her mind, she remained demurely silent while the marquess and the Earl of Scarcliffe came in to thank her father. It seemed that Lord Jonathan had taken a bullet to the collarbone. He had lost some blood and would be in a great deal of pain for several weeks, but he would survive.

  When they were in the carriage home, Anna took her father's hand in hers and squeezed it. There was a smear of blood upon his cheek and a world of fatigue in the creases at the corners of his eyes. "Was it very difficult, Papa?"

  Dr Hawkins looked at her shrewdly. "I am afraid you had just as unpleasant a task. Did the duke give you a great deal of trouble?"

  Anna lowered her eyes. "I don't want to speak ill of him."