Will they even let me bring flowers to his grave? A sob caught in her chest. She pushed the thought away. She couldn’t think about it.
Consider Helen—not your own fears. Maybe she could stay with her in London, even if her brother had to leave England for a while. They could both have their Seasons—their last Seasons.
When they entered the grand drawing room, the rich shades of crimson, gold, cream, and green overwhelmed her, making her feel small, dull, and plain. Stepping forward, Victoria’s eyes were immediately drawn to the stiff figure of Lord Taggert. He stood in front of the huge bow window that overlooked the bustling street running in front of the townhouse. Vibrant crimson damask curtains with gold fringes framed his upright, black figure. Sunlight from the window gleamed through the curtain’s trim, turning the beams into fierce shafts of light that made Victoria blink repeatedly.
Stumbling over the edge of the green and cream colored oriental carpet, she caught the scrolled back of a nearby gilt chair.
“Martin!” Helen exclaimed, running over to her brother. She grabbed his arm to turn him around and patted his lapels in a desperate search for even the smallest wound. “What happened? Were you hit?”
He turned and brushed her off, flapping his hands with irritation. “My affairs are none of your concern, Helen,” Lord Taggert said, frowning impatiently at his sister. “And I am certain Lady Victoria is not interested. None of these female vapors, Helen. Get hold of yourself. Have you no pride?”
“Not interested?” his sister repeated, crossing her arms and cupping her elbows in her palms. “How can you say that? I am not hysterical. And Lady Victoria is just as worried as I was. She knows—I have confided in her—she is my dearest friend.”
“You have confided in her?” His brows tightened as he pushed her back another foot. “Have you no discretion?” His glance fell on Victoria. He nodded stiffly. “I beg your pardon, Lady Victoria. You must forgive my sister. She is young and often chatters about matters of which she has little understanding.”
“There is no need to apologize. We are friends and often share confidences. Rest assured, I am no gossip. One doesn’t endanger such dear friendships by repeating words meant only for one’s ears.”
He smiled with satisfaction and moved away from the window. And his sister. “You are indeed a mature woman with a fine understanding of such things. I should not have worried.” His expression softened. “Thank you for your concern. I am flattered to be the recipient, though I regret causing you even a moment of worry.”
Victoria had to press her lips together to keep from informing him that he was not the one she’d been worried about.
Good sense coming to her aid, she exchanged a glance with Helen before she asked, “Your opponent—”
Lord Taggert’s face turned to stone. He turned partially away, one hand gripping the back of a nearby wing chair. “It is unseemly to speak of such things, as I’m sure you are aware. I am unscathed, and that is the important thing, is it not?”
His words implied that Mr. Archer was not unscathed. Her stomach cramped, but she managed to walk over to the bell pull. With a wry smile at Helen, Victoria ordered a second round of refreshments and busied herself with politely arranging her guests in the seating area nearest the bow window.
She waited until Lord Taggert and his sister had both been served before she set her own cup of tea on the low walnut table in front of her and looked at Lord Taggert. “Your sister has been assisting me this morning with the design of a new ball gown,” she said, cautiously, searching for a way to obtain more information without directly questioning Lord Taggert. “She has excellent taste and has been invaluable to me.”
Lord Taggert smiled politely and sipped his tea.
“So I have invited her to stay here with me for a few weeks, with your permission, of course.”
When Victoria glanced at Helen, she was holding her full cup of tea in her lap, and was staring into the tawny depths.
A shuttered look closed over Lord Taggert’s face. He took another, longer sip of tea. “I am afraid that may not be possible.”
“Oh.” Victoria leaned forward. “I assure you, my parents are in full accord and would like nothing better than to have her remain with us. I assure you, we will look after her and ensure that she enjoys her Season.”
“We may not be remaining in London,” he replied firmly. He placed his cup on the edge of the table with an air of finality.
Helen’s face lost every vestige of color, but she didn’t move or attempt to argue.
“Not remaining?” Victoria repeated. “Why—surely you cannot mean that you intend to return to Northumberland already? The Season has barely begun.”
“No. We would not be returning to Stanegate Manor, at least for a while. I thought Helen might enjoy a trip to Vienna. It has been a long time since she saw our cousins—”
“They are only second cousins, and they are loathsome, beastly oafs,” Helen blurted out. The cup and saucer she held in her lap rattled. Some of the brown liquid sloshed over onto her gown, but she failed to notice. “I don’t want to go!”
“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 T
aggert 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.”
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