Cut from the Same Cloth: A Humorous Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt Book 3)

by Kathleen Baldwin

  She was right, of course. Elizabeth rubbed at the neck in question while the doctor still snored and probably hadn’t budged all night. She wondered where the evil little leech had gotten off to. In a fleeting panic, she checked her ankles. To her great relief, she did not find an ugly globular worm sucking on either of her legs.

  Springing up, she checked Valen’s color and folded down the sheets to make certain the wound was not festering.

  Lady Alameda put her hands on Elizabeth’s shoulders and pulled her back. “Why don’t you go and wash up, dear. I had the servants move your things to a room down the hall.”

  Had she slept through all of that? Still. She couldn’t leave him. “No. I—”

  “Elizabeth. There are others to care for him now. You must tend to your own needs for the moment.”

  She shook her head. “No. I have to stay. I gave him my word. No bloodletting. No more leeches. He made me swear to it.”

  “Yes. I see he dashed the little darlings against the wall.” She glanced pointedly at the tapestry. “You mustn’t worry. I will see to it that your promise is kept. Isn’t that correct, doctor?” She kicked out with her right shoe and connected with the physician’s foot.

  “What? What?” he sputtered. “Certainly.” The surgeon stood, adjusting his waistcoat and jacket. “Wretched mosquitoes.” He grimaced and swatted at his calf before snatching his watch from the bed table and tapping on it. “Is that the time?” He wound it and clipped it back onto his waistcoat, itching at his pant leg with the toe of his shoe.

  Elizabeth hadn’t noticed any mosquitoes and suspected the doctor would soon discover the whereabouts of his missing leech. She left Lady Alameda to deal with his ire.

  Valen stirred to the faint sound of his father’s laughter, a sound that seemed more a dream than reality.

  Through half-opened eyelids, he glanced to his side and found the place where Izzie had laid her head during the night, empty. Valen sighed and closed his eyes. He had hoped to see her face, see again the concern and worry in her blue eyes. Witness the affection in her gaze. She loved him—it was undeniable. He vowed to himself that she would fill that empty place in his bed as soon as possible.

  He had to convince her. If necessary, he would trick her into it. As a last resort, he’d abduct her and carry his stubborn bride off to Gretna Green. Considering the condition of his shoulder, he hoped one of the less strenuous methods would serve.

  The alternative was unthinkable. No Izzie in his bed. And if she should foolishly accept some wealthy nodcock, well then he would have to commit murder. All the hounds of hell could not prevail upon him to allow that milksop, Horton, to have her, nor anyone else.

  He drowsed, unwilling to surrender completely to sleep. He had no wish to return to the unpredictable dreams in Morpheus’s jurisdiction. His father’s quiet murmur nudged him toward greater wakefulness. “Yes, it’s the sad truth. His grandfather robbed the secondary title.”

  He heard a small click. “Aha! My bishop takes your knight.

  “Why, Lord Ransley, how very generous. You left my rook open to confiscate your bishop.”

  Valen’s eyelids fluttered. She was here. He blinked, squinting against the brightness. They sat by the window, his father and Izzie, a chessboard spread on the table between them.

  “Neatly done, my lady.” His father coughed. “Hmm. I will consider my next move more carefully.”

  “See that you do,” she goaded. “It’s a pity his grandfather took such cruel measures.”

  Valen saw sunbeams twirling in a shaft of warm yellow light from the window. Extraordinary. Perhaps he was still dreaming. His father sounded surprisingly well and alarmingly cheerful.

  “Queen’s pawn, one step.” No, he wasn’t dreaming. Lord Ransley sounded real enough. “Did he not tell you about his allowance?”

  “No. We’ve never spoken of such private matters. Naturally, I assumed it was modest, since his grandfather divested the lesser title.”

  “Oh no. I wished to correct my father’s treachery. I saw to it he receives a—”

  “Best not give the marmot such juicy tidbits.” Valen interrupted before his father divulged all. He wanted her, but he would have her on his own terms, not because of her mercenary streak.

  “Oh dear,” Lord Ransley clucked his tongue. “He’s delirious again.”

  “Not this time.” Izzie stood and came to him, smiling. “I believe you will find your son has finally returned to his right mind. He is simply indulging in his favorite pastime. Insulting me.”

  Valen laughed, which hurt like hell.

  “Welcome back to the land of the living, my lord.” She took his hand, and he grinned at her.

  “Good morning, marmot.”

  “I suggest, if you wish to remain alive, you cease using that name when referring to me.”

  “It is good to see you’ve not lost your bite.”

  “And you. How do you feel?”

  A well meant but absurd question. Unfortunately her inquiry caused him to examine the facts. “As if Satan himself has run me through with a blazing spear. And you may tell my aunt, as kindly as you like, that I will have her put in chains and thrust into a dungeon if she ever dares administer laudanum to me again.”

  “Oh my.” Izzie reared back, but he could see she was feigning her protest. “I didn’t realize Ransley Keep had a dungeon, my lord.”

  His father stood at the end of the bed leaning against one of the posts, looking to be in surprisingly good health. “Daresay if we had a dungeon, my dear sister would have been locked away decades ago.”

  Valen mused that not many weeks had passed since he had been standing at his father’s bed.

  “As it is, Honore runs free, wreaking what havoc she may on everyone in her vicinity.” His father shrugged happily. “You may be certain, my boy, she intends no harm.”

  “Not certain at all. Trapped me in a bloody nightmare. Thought I might never escape.”

  “She is rather free with the stuff.” Izzie wrung out a cloth and washed his forehead. “I feared she might kill you she dosed you so heavily the first night.”

  “First night?” He frowned. “Wasn’t that last night? The night you...”

  The expressions on their faces gave Valen his answer. Obviously his meddlesome aunt had dosed him with more opiates since. “How long has she kept me in this stupor?”

  “Three days,” she whispered and wiped his temples.

  “And Merót?”

  “Dead. Do you not remember?”

  He leaned up on his good shoulder. “Paper and ink. I must send word to Robert. The authorities need a report.”

  “Robert was already here.” Her voice flowed over him, as soothing as the warm cloth she glided along the side of his neck. “You needn’t trouble yourself. He and his men took Merót’s body away.” She gently pressed him back to the pillows. “Lady Alameda gave them a full accounting of the events.”

  He groaned and tried to sit up again. “In that case, it is even more urgent I send word. You know how she is.”

  “You must eat first.” Elizabeth smiled at him, a smile that drenched him in satisfaction.

  Satisfaction notwithstanding, he had his duty to perform. “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand perfectly.”

  He sighed. “If you did, you would comprehend the imperative nature of—”

  “I will strike you a bargain. If you eat first, I will act as your scribe, and you may send word to whomever you wish in all haste.”

  His stomach rumbled, and he considered her offer. She was wearing the green muslin, the same one she’d worn that day at the ruins. He could remember the feel of her in his arms. If he played his hand artfully, he might gain more out of this bargain than a meal and a dispatch.

  “I’m afraid it’s out of the question.” He said it softly as she leaned close, bathing his shoulder. “I’m too unsteady yet to feed myself. If you will be kind enough to bring me something to drink, that will su
ffice.”

  She handed him a glass of water from the bed table and frowned at him skeptically. “And yet, you contemplated writing?”

  Clever marmot. He pinched his brow together, struggling to compose his features and disguise his ulterior motive. “I hadn’t considered the matter thoroughly.”

  “Very well then. I will feed you.”

  He smiled.

  If Valen had thought having Izzie dribble soup down his gullet would be romantic, he had erred. After the second time she dabbed at his mouth as if he were a helpless infant, he’d had enough. “Have you nothing of more substance? Meat for example? Something I might stab with one hand and eat on my own?”

  His father, resting in the armchair, waved away his request. “The doctor said to introduce solids gradually.”

  “Hmm,” he grumbled. “Doubt the sawbones has ever gone three days without a proper meal.”

  Izzie perked up, an impish glint in her eyes. “This soup has meat. Only look for yourself. Here is a knuckle bone.” She held up a mangy boiled joint for his inspection.

  “Not what I had in mind.”

  She set down the soup dish and stood, brushing out her skirt. “Perhaps, my lord, if we were to bring you a leg of mutton, you might hold it in your good hand and gnaw it to your heart’s content?”

  “That is ludicrous, surely he can’t...” Lord Ransley frowned. “Oh, I see. You’re jibing him.”

  Yes. It was a ludicrous suggestion. Even so, it sounded infinitely better than the butter-and-broth soup Elizabeth was feeding him.

  “Exactly the thing,” Valen ordered with the same firmness he would command one of his soldiers. “That and a firkin of wine will serve admirably.”

  “As you wish.” She turned abruptly to leave.

  He wondered if he had carried his surliness too far. “Wait. Izzie.” He leaned over to reach for her, but the sudden movement sent a hot stabbing pain searing into his injured shoulder. He fell back holding his breath.

  She rushed back to his side. “What happened?”

  “Hunger pains.” He tried to smile.

  “I will get you something else,” she said in earnest.

  He groped for her hand and found it. “First, my sweeting, the letter. Please. Then I promise to swallow whatever you choose. Saving, of course, no more of that knuckle soup.”

  She arched her brow but submissively went to the desk and sat down, selected a piece of parchment, and dipped a quill into the ink. Valen dictated the details of that night to the best of his recollection, including the fact that he had noticed some movement in the shrubbery on that night, but had dismissed it as an animal.

  “Do you really think it might have been him?” Izzie glanced up sharply. “I saw it too, when we were...” She glanced uncomfortably in the direction of his father.

  “Yes.” Valen traced an invisible circle on the mattress with his finger. “When you were rejecting my offer.”

  “What’s this?” His father sputtered, suddenly attentive. “You offered for her?”

  “He did not.” Izzie’s chin and nose rose in their customary salute to the ceiling that meant she was on the defensive.

  Valen nodded. “She spurned me.”

  “It was not an offer,” she insisted.

  He arched one brow. “I asked you to marry me, did I not?”

  “Yes, but...”

  “He did?” Lord Ransley sat on the edge of his seat. “And you said no?”

  “Not precisely.” Izzie bowed her head into her hand and grimaced.

  “She did.”

  “May we please return to the letter?” She sniffed loudly.

  Lord Ransley shook his head and sat back, his brow furrowed as he contemplated first one and then the other. “You said no,” he muttered.

  “Rejected me out of hand.”

  “The letter?” She poised the quill.

  “As you wish.” Valen dictated the rest of his missive. “And in conclusion, Robert, if you will return to Ransley Keep at your earliest convenience, there is a matter of great urgency I must discuss with you.”

  She glanced up, inquisitive. He loved that bright falcon-like look she acquired when she got wind of something. He loved, equally well, watching her suppress her keenness. “And what matter might that be?” she asked, careful not to affect too much interest.

  “A private matter, my dear.”

  His father chuckled and fell into coughing fit.

  Three days went by, and Valen said nothing more to Elizabeth about her rejection of his suit. Whenever she broached the subject, he changed it. Deuced hard to get her to shift course. But Valen thought he knew best how to handle his wily little marmot.

  Hardest were the interminable nights, when he lay awake from the pain, wishing desperately that she were next to him. Instead, he had the privilege of listening to one of the footmen sitting vigil in the armchair snuffle and snort uncomfortably throughout the long nights.

  Pater and Thomas came to visit him on Monday, carrying a bushel of remedies that Meg insisted Lady Elizabeth administer to him. They both grinned at him as if they knew some secret he didn’t.

  “Well?” Pater finally asked. “Did you figure it out?”

  Thomas chuckled quietly and shook his head. “Women.”

  “You told Thomas?”

  “I didn’t say anything he and Meg couldn’t see for themselves.”

  “Writ all over you, lad.”

  Valen cocked a brow, signaling his displeasure at their overly bold interrogation. “I may have come to a conclusion or two.”

  They exchanged knowing glances, and the conversation turned to sheep and grain.

  Tuesday morning, the doctor appeared and said he had rarely seen a wound heal up with such vigor and that it was finally ready for a proper dressing.

  That evening, while Izzie was downstairs, Valen’s father slipped into the room and sent the servant away. He sat on the edge of Valen’s bed. “Well?” He crossed his arms. “How do you plan to do it?”

  “My lord?”

  “Capture your bride?”

  “Capture the...? Sounds like a new game of some sort. You’ll have to explain.”

  Lord Ransley coughed and frowned at Valen over his kerchief. “You know perfectly well what I mean.”

  The corner of Valen’s mouth refused to stay rigid. It curled with pleasure. “Very well, my lord, since you have broached the subject. Perhaps I might prevail upon you to assist me in the matter? You see…” He glanced down at his bandaged shoulder. “There are one or two elements of my plan I am not disposed to take care of at the moment.”

  His father grinned. “Delighted to be of assistance, my boy.”

  For the first time in their lives, they bent their heads together for a common purpose. Valen and his father conspired as to how they might bring Lady Elizabeth up to the mark.

  Midway through their plans Valen leaned back and said, “We wouldn’t have to go to these extremes if she weren’t the most obstinate female in all of Christendom.”

  Lord Ransley patted his son’s hand. “Ah well, she would need to be a trifle headstrong, wouldn’t she, to manage you?”

  “There is that.” Valen shook his head. “Excessively managing, our Izzie. In point of fact, she would probably put Napoleon to shame if she had been born a man.”

  They laughed, plotted, and disagreed on some of the finer points of their strategy, but they were united in the effort—two warriors hunting a prize. At the end of an hour, Lord Ransley stood up and clapped a hand on Valen’s good shoulder in a wordless gesture. The approval and pride in his expression spoke eloquently enough.

  An unfamiliar tightness gathered in Valen’s throat. He tried to clear it away, but it wouldn’t go. He faltered. In an effort to say something, he blundered into an inane comment one might make in passing. “You are looking well, father.”

  His father’s chest swelled and Valen caught the glimmer of water in Ransley’s eyes. “Yes. For the first time in decades, I am truly hap
py.”

  Valen understood. All those years without my mother, his bride. And then, scorned by his foolish son.

  His father nodded.

  As Lord Ransley walked away, Valen clamped his jaw tight, restraining the unmanly emotions that threatened to undo him. How could I have been so blind?

  Chapter 24

  Cutting to the Heart of the Matter

  “Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,

  And men below, and saints above;

  For love is heaven, and heaven is love.”

  Sir Walter Scott

  The Lay of the Last Minstrel, 1805

  AT LONG LAST, Robert arrived. Valen thought he would go mad waiting. He sat up in bed while Elizabeth read to him, a melancholy canto written by Sir Walter Scott. It claimed to be a tale about a dying soldier, but there were numerous references to love in the verses. At these junctures, she was wont to pause and sigh pointedly until it was all he could do to keep from grabbing the blasted book and heaving it across the room. So when Robert strode in, Valen felt as if the sun had finally come out, even though the skies outside his window still boded rain.

  “What the devil took you so long?” After endless days of a confinement, this was the cheeriest greeting Valen could muster.

  “Delighted to see you in such fine spirits, St. Evert.” Robert clasped Valen’s hand, gave it a jarring shake, and then turned to greet his sister. “Has he been a great nuisance?”

  “Exceedingly great.” She marked the book and shut it. “I will leave you gentlemen. You must have many private matters you wish to discuss.” She was not usually so eager to escape him.

  “Wait, Elizabeth. This concerns you as well.”

  “But, I thought...?”

  His father entered carrying a long slender wooden case, set it on the desk, and opened it. A pair of foils nested in red velvet.

  Robert hefted one of the blades, checking the weight and balance. “Excellent.” He swished it out to his side nearly striking the bedpost. “Superb balance. Where did you get them?”

  “Italy. You may of course, select your weapon.”