Feeling considerably better, Whit took a seat across from Alex and watched in some amusement as his friend made a guilty glance at the door. “I’d appreciate it if you’d not mention this little wager to Sophie.”
“Any particular reason?”
“You know how women can be about these sorts of things,” Alex replied, turning back. “And she has enough to occupy her mind at present. Which reminds me—she’s asked that Kate, Evie, and Mirabelle be present at the…er…event.”
“Present?” he asked, taken aback. “In the room, do you mean?”
“I don’t,” Alex assured him, “but it’s entirely possible that she does. She acquired some very strange ideas on her travels. Will you bring the girls?”
“Me? I—” He was going to offer to have his mother bring them, but stopped himself just in time. A man didn’t abandon a friend in need, and Alex, for all his jesting, was clearly anxious. And rightly so—birthing was a dangerous, and terrifyingly female, event. He had some clear memories of his sister’s birth—memories he contrived very hard not to dwell on.
“We’ll all be there. How long until…” He waved his hand about.
“A little under three months.”
“So soon?” It seemed as if it ought to be further away. Years and years away. “Only three months and then…”
“Yes, and then,” Alex responded grimly.
“I see.” Whit tapped a nervous finger on the chair.
Without being aware of it, Alex mimicked the movement. “Yes. Exactly.”
“Hmm.”
Alex shot a considering glance at the brandy.
“It’s not that early, really.”
“It certainly isn’t,” Whit agreed, and made a hasty trip to the sideboard.
Nine
While Whit and Alex consoled themselves in the study, Mirabelle was poked, prodded, and then—when it was ultimately decided she would survive—fussed over extensively. A footman came to carry her to her own room, which she only demurred against a little. She was more comfortable in her own space than in the guest quarters, and she was much more comfortable with the idea of someone other than Whit carrying her there.
Loyal friends that they were, Kate, Sophie, and Evie joined her to make all the requisite sympathetic noises. They also made quite a few nonrequisite ones in the form of teasing jokes, but Mirabelle had expected no less.
“You’ll not live to hear the end of it, you know,” Evie said. “Not if you live to be a hundred. It’s much too entertaining to the rest of us—Whit, forced to carry the imp up a jagged cliff—”
“It was a hill,” Mirabelle corrected.
“Not in a hundred years, it won’t be,” Evie assured her. “It’ll have grown to biblical proportions.”
“Someone will write an opera based on the tale,” Kate predicted. “A comedy.”
“Composed by Lady Kate, like as not.”
“I think it’s romantic,” Sophie interjected. When that statement was greeted with stunned silence, she merely shrugged. “Well, he didn’t have to haul you up, did he?”
“Of course he did,” Mirabelle countered. “It was too steep for a horse—”
“You see? Jagged cliff.”
“—and he was the only one there,” Mirabelle finished, poking Evie in the ribs for the interruption.
“All right now, ladies,” Mrs. Hanson broke in. “It’s past time Miss Browning got the rest she needs. Off with you.”
“But I don’t want to rest,” Mirabelle argued as the house-keeper made shooing noises at the girls. “It’s the middle of the day.”
“Didn’t ask what you wanted, did I? Said it was what you needed. Off you go, girls. You too, Your Grace. Lady Kate, you should be seeing to your guests, and you, Miss Cole, I believe you promised a tea party with young Isabelle Waters.”
Sophie grinned at Mrs. Hanson as she was pushed to the door. “You really must conquer this unfortunate propensity to cower in the presence of rank, Mrs. Hanson.”
Mrs. Hanson gave a good-humored snort and another push. “I may not have changed your nappies, Your Grace, but I had occasion to change the duke’s a time or two.”
Sophie laughed as she left, then stuck her head back in before Mrs. Hanson could close the door.
“Whit could have waited for help, you know,” she told Mirabelle. “No one would have faulted him for it.”
That final comment left Mirabelle gaping. First at the door Mrs. Hanson promptly shut after Sophie’s head had disappeared, and then at Mrs. Hanson as she and Lizzy put the room to rights. When it finally occurred to Mirabelle that she really didn’t have a reason to be gaping at the house keeper, she closed her mouth and picked up her tea.
Sophie was right. Whit needn’t have carried her up the hill. It hadn’t been required of him. It hadn’t even been expected of him. He must have known he’d be teased for it later, and while he might have a greater appreciation of the absurd than most peers of the realm, no man she knew actively enjoyed being poked fun at.
So, why hadn’t he waited?
He’d been worried at first—that much had been clear—but not once he’d seen she wasn’t seriously injured. Had he? He had seemed perfectly calm. He could have hidden it, she supposed, but that explanation only opened up a whole other set of questions. Why would he have continued to worry? Why would he bother hiding it? Why carry a person up a hill when one can worry just as well with their arms unencumbered?
“Are you after seeing your future, Miss Browning?”
“I…” She blinked herself out of her musings to find Mrs. Hanson smiling at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“I asked if you were after reading the tea leaves. But as I can see you haven’t gotten around to drinking the tea, I’ll assume you’re not.”
“Oh,” Mirabelle frowned into her cup. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mrs. Hanson, but it tastes a trifle off. I think whoever prepared it was overenthusiastic with the sugar.”
“That’s just my special brew, dear. Now you drink it down.”
“But—”
“Or I’ll fetch Lady Thurston, and you may be sure she’ll see it done.”
“I’ll drink it,” Mirabelle promised on a grumble.
“That’s a dear. I need to see to the dinner preparations, but Lizzy here will wait for the cup so it won’t be left sitting about when you’re through.”
“And so you’ll know I drank it,” Mirabelle added.
“That as well,” Mrs. Hanson admitted without even a hint of shame. “Get some rest.”
Mirabelle waited for the sound of the house keeper’s footsteps to disappear down the hall before turning to Lizzy. “I’ll give you two pounds if you’ll toss this out the window and tell her I drank it.”
Lizzy laughed but shook her head. “Not worth my position, miss.”
“Two pounds, half.”
“Nor my head, which is what I’d lose if Mrs. Hanson caught wind.”
“You’re a very selfish girl, Lizzy,” Mirabelle admonished. “Kate has a novel in which the heroine’s abigail sacrifices her very life for her mistress. It was most touching.”
“I believe I read it, miss.” Lizzy casually folded a blanket at the end of the bed. “I recall thinking at the time that it was very kind of the lady to employ the infirm and that it was probably best the poor girl went at the end. Can’t have that sort of thing being passed down, can we?”
Mirabelle laughed until Lizzy pointed a finger at the cup. “Hold your nose and gulp it down quick. It’s the only way to take that sort of medicine.”
“You’re right,” Mirabelle agreed on a sigh, and followed the instructions. “Ugh, that’s dreadful.”
A light knocking and the appearance of Whit’s head at the door kept Lizzy from responding.
“Am I interrupting?” he asked before his eyes fell on the head of the bed and Mirabelle. “Ah. And how are you feeling?”
“Sore, but otherwise well.” She watched him enter the room fully, his hands hidden behind his back.
<
br /> “I’ll just see to the cup,” Lizzy began.
“If you’d be so kind as to stay,” Whit said. “I’d like a few words with Miss Browning.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
“Take a book,” Mirabelle suggested, knowing the girl wouldn’t do so without invitation while Whit was in the room. “I believe you’ll find several of Kate’s recommendations on the vanity.”
“Thank you, miss.” Lizzy selected one before settling herself in a chair at the far corner of the room.
“Won’t you sit down, Whit?” Mirabelle asked, while wondering how she might go about asking him why he’d chosen to carry her up the hill.
“In a moment. I’ve brought something for you.”
She sat up straighter in the bed. She adored presents. Not charity, which smarted the pride, but presents for an occasion—and she rather thought being injured was an occasion—were always welcome. “Have you? Are you holding it behind your back? What is it?”
He grinned and pulled his hands out to show her.
“A cane,” she laughed.
“It’s something of a relic, I’m afraid,” he said, handing it to her. “The last member of the house to require assistance walking was my great-great-grandmother. It seems the Cole women are a sturdy lot.”
“Very sturdy,” she commented, hefting the cane experimentally. It felt stout enough to hold up a lame horse.
“If you’d prefer something more fashionable, I’m sure I could find something in Benton for you.”
“This will do beautifully,” she said, still inspecting the cane. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Whit moved to sit in a chair by the bed. “Mirabelle?”
“Hmm?”
“Were you aware that Evie doesn’t own one of those?”
“Yes.” She looked up and took in his thoughtful frown. “I take it you were not.”
“No.” He picked idly at the arm of the chair. “I stopped by her room, thinking to borrow one for you, and she informed me she’s had no need of them.”
“Evie’s leg is strong, Whit, and it rarely bothers her except in extreme cold.”
“I hadn’t realized it bothered her at all,” he said more to himself than her. “Why would she keep that from me?”
“She hasn’t,” Mirabelle responded instantly, uncomfortable with the brief glimpse of hurt she saw cloud his eyes. “Certainly, not intentionally. It simply isn’t something she speaks of. It just is—much like your blue eyes or my drab hair. And since there’s nothing she can do other than take a hot soak on cold days—”
“There are physicians who specialize in these sorts of things.”
“You take too much on yourself, Whit.”
He visibly started at the comment. “I do nothing of the sort. Evie is an unmarried woman under my care. It’s my responsibility to see to her well-being, her protection—”
“She’d buy a cane fast enough if she heard you speaking of her like that,” Mirabelle scoffed. “If only to beat you about the head with it.”
“I’ve every right to—” He cut himself off and blew out a frustrated breath. “She would, wouldn’t she?”
“With great fervor. And without mercy.”
“She’s a bloodythirsty wench. And you may tell your mistress I said so,” he added in a louder voice for Lizzy.
“Very good, my lord.”
“I would have told her in any case,” Mirabelle informed him. And then, quite out of nowhere, she asked, “Why did you carry me up the hill?”
If Whit was surprised by the abrupt question—and she couldn’t imagine anyone not being surprised by such an abrupt question—it was nothing compared to her own shock. Where the devil had that come from? Had she hit her head?
She must have hit her head.
Hit it so tremendously hard during her fall that the impact removed all memory—along with all common sense—of…of having hit it at all. It was the only explanation, even if it didn’t seem to make sense to her at the moment.
“I told you why,” Whit answered with a concerned tilt of his head. “It was too steep and full of bramble for a horse to traverse.”
“Yes, but…” She trailed off when his face blurred before her eyes.
“I’ve tired you,” she heard Whit murmur.
“No, I’m not tired.” Oh, but she was. Suddenly, she was very, very tired.
“Your head is drooping.”
“Isn’t,” she countered, and was still lucid enough to recognize how childish that sounded. She willed her head to clear. “Mrs. Hanson put something suspicious in my tea.”
Whit took the cup and sniffed at it. “Sweet,” he commented. “Laudanum, I’d wager.”
“Laudanum?” She jerked herself awake—relatively, at least. “She put—?”
“No more than a drop.”
“But I don’t want—”
“It’s too late to do much about it now.” He reached over to pull the blankets up to her shoulders. “Go to sleep, imp.”
“Later,” she muttered.
“All right, later.”
She was vaguely aware of movement in the room, of hushed voices and the door opening with a creak.
“Mirabelle?”
“Mm-hmm?”
“Your hair’s not drab.”
“All ri—” Her eyes snapped open again. “What’s that?”
“It’s the color of the chestnut tree we saw today. I find it to be rather nice.”
Before she could even begin to respond to the comment—and really, how did one respond to having one’s hair compared to a tree—he was gone, and she was asleep.
Those persons who spend an above average portion of their time attending secret meetings in the dead of night—for reasons other than a pleasant tryst—often prefer to hold said meetings in varying and out-of-the-way places, so as to keep their secrets, secret. As such, the two gentlemen whispering to each other now were not doing so in the library, but rather the currently vacant nanny’s quarters, where even the nosiest guests were unlikely to visit.
“Is this it?” the younger gentleman asked as an older man held out a brown package.
“It is.”
“And where do you want it?”
“In the study if you can manage it. Anywhere it can be found, but not stumbled upon.”
“Easy enough.” The younger man turned the package over in his hands. “Are you certain you want the both of them involved in this?”
“Of course. There’s no reason for her not to be. It would defeat half the purpose, really.”
“If something happens to her—”
“You’ll break my nose,” the older man interrupted with a much put-upon sigh. “I know.”
“Whit will break your nose,” the younger corrected. “I’ll break your legs. And the women will take turns breaking everything else.”
Ten
Was there anything more lovely, Mirabelle wondered, than spending a lazy day in Haldon’s library, curled up in a window seat with a good book, while the warm sun played against one’s skin?
She pondered that for several minutes before being forced to admit that, yes—yes, there certainly was. In fact, there were any number of more appealing things to do on a warm and sunny day.
One could go for a picnic, for example. The picnic most of the guests were even now gathering in preparation for, outside. At least, one could if one wasn’t surrounded by overprotective worrywarts.
She gave up trying to make the best of her situation, snapped her book shut, and tossed it aside. She absolutely refused to acknowledge the shot of pain that movement caused her ankle. She considered it her own small penance for telling the worst of the worrywarts her injury might look a bit ghastly, but hardly hurt at all. She hadn’t cared for the lie, but there’d been nothing else for it. She’d simply had to get out of bed, or go stark raving mad.
At the insistence of Lady Thurston, Mrs. Hanson, and Kate—the traitor—she’d spent the whole of yesterday in that bed, restin
g. She hadn’t done it willingly, or even particularly gracefully, but she’d done it. And now she wanted to do something, anything, besides rest.
She wanted to go on that damnable picnic.
It was only a sprained ankle, for heaven’s sake, and she’d found she could get about well enough with the cane Whit had brought her. There wasn’t a single reason she could see for keeping her confined to the house.
“Ready to go, imp?”
Her head snapped around at the sound of Whit’s voice. A voice that sounded tremendously jovial at the moment, which, given her current circumstances and mood, she found tremendously irritating.
“Ready to go where? I…” She trailed off and narrowed her eyes at him. “If you think I’m spending one more second of daylight in that bed, you are utterly, utterly mistaken.” To emphasize the point, she reached for the cane and grasped it as one might a weapon.
“This is quite a reversal from the last time I saw you.” He studied her with concerned eyes. “Is your ankle paining you? Let me see—”
She lifted the cane and sent him a scowl she very much hoped came off as menacing. “My ankle has never felt better,” she bit out. “But my patience has suffered irreparable damage.”
“Don’t be a brat,” he chided. “Lift your skirts.”
She raised her makeshift club another inch. “Stay away from me. I thought we’d agreed not to insult each other.”
“So we have.”
“You just called me a brat.”
“No, I advised you against behaving like one. That’s entirely different,” he informed her.
“In that case, I advise you to stick your head in—”
“If you choose not to take my advice,” he continued in a casual tone. “I’ll simply assume your foul mood is a result of your injury and leave you to heal.”
If her arm wasn’t already tiring, she would have lifted the cane a bit higher. “I’m not—”
“If you do behave, however, I’ll take it as a sign you’re feeling better. Possibly even well enough to join us on our little picnic.”
She dropped the cane with a clatter. “Do you mean it?”
“Are you going to let me inspect your ankle?”
Without so much as a hint of hesitation or embarrassment, she pulled up the hem of her skirts and stuck out her leg. “Inspect away.”
Tempting Fate Page 10