Blaike: Secrets Gone Askew (Conundrums of the Misses Culpepper Book 4)

by Collette Cameron

  “Oliver?”

  Blaike swept into the room, her lovely face taut with worry, and her bonnet clutched in one hand. She barely spared the other men a glance.

  “My lords.” In her typical, no-regard-for-what-is-customary-fashion, she bustled to the bed. After tossing her hat near his feet, she laid a hand on his good shoulder and bent over him.

  “There was a fire? Aboard your ship? Is Abraham responsible, that snake? Are you hurt? Was anyone injured?” She threw a frustrated glance to the doorway. “Where is the doctor?”

  Before he could answer, Miss Culpepper and Ladies Ravensdale, Leventhorpe, and Wycombe glided into the chamber, each still wearing their bonnets.

  Hound’s teeth. From their expressions, you’d think he’d died or was horribly maimed.

  “Heath, what can we do to help the captain?” Lady Ravensdale asked, her tone fraught with worry.

  Not a captain any longer. That truth shredded Oliver’s already ragged soul further.

  “Jenkin,” said her ladyship, “send a footman to fetch one of his lordship’s nightshirts, please.”

  The butler was here, too? Yes, just inside the doorway there.

  Why not sell tickets and invite the whole of London? Oliver could well use the proceeds to keep out of the poor house.

  Lady Ravensdale removed her bonnet and gloves, then passed them to the butler. “Also request wash water, and I think perhaps tepid tea with honey to soothe Captain Whitehouse’s throat. Oh, and please send a note to Mrs. Tremblay asking her to come an hour later.”

  Jenkin accepted the other ladies’ bonnets and gloves as well. “At once, your ladyship. I believe I heard the front knocker. I’ll have Dr. Barclay escorted up straightaway and a footman bring a nightshirt.”

  “You wear a nightshirt, Raven?” Wycombe chuckled, low and teasing. “Cannot for the life of me picture that.”

  “Shh, darling.” Lady Wycombe scooted to her husband’s side. “It’s not nice to poke fun at Heath just because you don’t wear one.”

  Unused to being the center of so many concerned glances, so much pity, or such warm regard, Oliver rather wished he could climb beneath the bed. He closed his eyes lest any of his friends see the sudden moisture that blurred his vision.

  “Blaike,” Lady Leventhorpe said, “is the poor captain unconscious?”

  “I am not, your ladyship.” Stifling a groan, he sat up. “And I’m not injured either, so there’s no need for fussing or nightshirts. I’ll take my leave momentarily.”

  Where he’d go, shoeless and without a groat, he hadn’t determined yet.

  “The devil you will.” Raven’s grim countenance brooked no arguing. “I’ll not hear any more of that gibberish. You’ll reside here for the foreseeable future.”

  Oliver would see about that.

  “Oliver, be careful.” Blaike grabbed the pillows, and as she had aboard the Sea Gypsy, tucked them behind him. “There, now lean back.” A smile ticked her mouth up on one side. “This is getting to be a habit, me taking care of you.”

  Aware of the multiple pairs of eyes trained on their every move, he swallowed, then cleared his throat.

  Finally, more for something to distract them from his pathetic state, and their avid glances swinging between him and Blaike, he lifted the gems from around his neck. He took Blaike’s hand and placed the pouch atop her palm.

  “These were my mother’s. I’d be honored if you’d accept them.”

  Too bold by far and assuredly beyond the mark.

  Women didn’t accept gifts from men unless they were from a family member or their betrothed. He could never sell the set though; even if it meant he’d face debtor’s prison. And there was no one else he’d rather have the jewels. Besides, on London’s streets, he’d likely be robbed of the emeralds in a trice. Far, far better Blaike have them than take the risk of his mother’s most prized possession being hawked.

  Attention riveted on the exchange between him and Blaike, no one made a sound.

  Fair brow puckered, she loosened the cinched leather closure, and then dumped the contents on the bed.

  From the bedside window, soft late morning sunlight illuminated the brilliant green and white stones.

  “Her gems?” She picked up a comb and ran her pointer finger across the bright jewels. A shrewd look entered her startling blue eyes before she narrowed them, pinning him to the fluffy pillows. “You told me she meant these for your wife.”

  Blaike didn’t think . . .?

  No. No. She couldn’t.

  Not after what he’d said aboard the Sea Gypsy. He’d been perfectly clear. Brutally clear.

  One of the women in the chamber made an odd sound.

  He couldn’t be sure which, since he’d lost the ability to drag his gaze from Blaike. As he tried to figure out what she was about, and how to gently unravel this new bumblebroth, a satisfied yet challenging smile curved her dewy mouth.

  From below, voices echoed in the entry, and a bird’s chirrup carried through the window pane.

  “Not the most romantic proposal, to be sure.” She slipped the ring on one finger, then another. “I fear it’s a trifle big.”

  It dawned on him then.

  She knew exactly what she was about, the minx.

  He’d carelessly opened the door, and she’d snatched the opportunity like a starving urchin clutches a dropped half loaf.

  “Blaike . . .?”

  She wouldn’t dare go that far. Wouldn’t twist his words and his intentions. Wouldn’t exploit his oversight and trap him.

  Would that be so very awful?

  “Then again, you don’t generally do things the conventional way, do you, Oliver?” She shook her head, her pearl earrings swaying with the motion. “That’s one of the things I most love about you. You do the unexpected.”

  She was one to talk.

  “Truth there,” Raven, or it might’ve been Leventhorpe, muttered, his voice so brimming with amusement, Oliver bit his tongue to keep from telling him to sod off.

  This wasn’t funny.

  Actually, had it been someone else, he’d have been highly entertained as well.

  He searched Blaike’s guileless face. She’d admitted to loving him in front of everyone. No hint of bashfulness or uncertainty flushed her cheeks or shadowed her expressive eyes.

  “I rather prefer being unorthodox myself. It’s so freeing.” She grasped his hand and held her other up, admiring the ring’s oval setting.

  The glance she lowered to Oliver held such love and adoration, it awed him.

  Humbled him.

  Frightened the hell out of him.

  “I accept. How soon do you want to wed? As soon as the banns have been read?”

  A woman of noble character knows that secrets and lies go

  hand in hand, and our greatest secrets are the lies we tell ourselves.

  ~Scruples and Scandals-The Genteel Lady’s Guide to Practical Living

  And there it was.

  Everyone started jabbering at once, but the buzzing in Oliver’s ears muffled their exact words. He thought he heard exclamations to the effect of, “Silliness, acting rashly, unbecoming behavior, isn’t done, unscrupulous and scandalous.”

  Blaike remained stoic, her pert chin angled in defiance. “Thank you for your concern, but this is a conversation between Oliver and me. I assure you, it’s not the first time we’ve discussed marriage.”

  It almost sounded conceivable, perhaps even respectable, the way she said it.

  Disapproval pulling the planes of his face taut, Raven’s reproachful gaze took in each of the other men in the room, one by one. “Why I should be surprised you didn’t approach me first, Whitehouse, when neither Leventhorpe nor Wycombe bothered to either, I cannot fathom. Yet I am.”

  Blaike still held Oliver’s hand, only now she clung to him, as if she needed his support and strength. Yes, she had acted imprudently and impulsively, and God help him for a smitten fool, he loved her all the more for her courage to seize wha
t he’d been too afraid to pursue.

  The bed squeaked slightly as he adjusted his position.

  Never would he humiliate her by publically denouncing her impetuous, and perhaps, slightly fool-hardy decision. Didn’t he also know what it was to love so desperately?

  “Where is he? In there?” demanded an imperious, but distinctly refined voice, followed by the rhythmic thumping of a walking stick banging upon a wooden panel in the corridor.

  Blaike withdrew her hand from Oliver’s, and also removed the ring and placed it with the other gems but didn’t budge from her station beside his bed.

  “I say, where is my son?”

  Willoughby.

  Bloody maggoty hell.

  Could this day get any worse?

  How had he learned of Oliver’s mishap?

  Hawkins, the interfering busybody.

  Likely he feared Oliver had nowhere to go and no one to turn to, so he’d rounded up anyone and everyone the first mate thought might help.

  That was where he’d disappeared to the moment he’d made the wharf. Good thing the Sea Gypsy likely lay at the bottom of the River Thames, for Jack Hawkins no longer held the first mate position.

  “Father, if you’d permit the majordomo, he’d direct you.”

  Lionel Talbot, Oliver’s half-brother also?

  Oliver cut Blaike a sideways glance.

  Jaw sagging, she gaped at the doorway before she tore her attention away. “Oliver? Is that your family?”

  He gave a terse nod and clamped his teeth as a feminine voice joined the others.

  “Yes, Papa. You mustn’t be so impatient.”

  Which sister, Vivian or Sylvia?

  “Sylvia is right. You’ll only upset Oliver further, Papa. Isn’t that so, Doctor?”

  Of course the other sister was here, too.

  The whole deuced family. Had they brought their spouses and broods of offspring?

  “As I haven’t examined the patient yet, I cannot make that determination. Mr. Drake, you might be in a better position to answer Miss Talbot’s question since you claim a close friendship with the captain.” More than a hint of annoyance weighted the good doctor’s tone.

  Oliver did groan then.

  Drake too?

  What in God’s name had Hawkins told them?

  That he lay dying?

  Blaike sank to the mattress, concern pleating the corner of her eyes. “Are you in pain?”

  Oliver spared her a haggard glance. “Aye, agony, but it’s not physical.”

  “I presume that open door is my son’s chamber?”

  Arrogant sot, claiming his fatherly prerogative.

  “Captain Whitehouse’s chamber is just here. If you’d lower your walking stick and permit Dr. Barclay to pass? ” Jenkin’s request was dry as ash and just as acerbic.

  When Oliver had Hawkins alone . . .

  Six more people crowded into the already overly full bedchamber.

  Make that seven.

  The footman arrived with a folded nightshirt, which Oliver had no intention of donning whilst still breathing. However, unlike the other intruders, once the servant had delivered the garment, he beat a hasty retreat.

  “Sir, a missive arrived for you a short while ago.” Jenkin passed Oliver the note.

  Hawkins’s familiar scrawl lashed the neatly folded paper. Best read it later when Oliver’s curses wouldn’t offend the ladies. He handed it to Blaike. “Would you put that on the bedside table for me, please?”

  “Of course.”

  Oliver exchanged nods with his sire, brother, and Drake who immediately sought Blaire, but only offered her the merest cant of his head in greeting.

  Rather than respond in kind, she remained bland-faced and turned her regard back to Oliver.

  Blaike must’ve told her twin about Drake’s change in circumstances.

  Oliver’s sisters each swooped in to kiss his cheek, as if he were a most treasured brother.

  “I’m so relieved you aren’t seriously hurt.” Sylvia gave him a watery smile, and the most peculiar sensation rattled around the vicinity of his ribs.

  “Drake, might I ask why you are here?” Oliver had guessed the truth of it, but wanted confirmation.

  “Hawkins sent word. It sounded serious.” Drake didn’t seem the least apologetic for intruding. He pulled a crumpled scrap from his pocket. “Actually, the note was brief. Explosion SG. All lost in fire. Captain gravely injured. At Ravensdale’s.”

  First time Oliver had ever known Hawkins to stretch the truth.

  “Is it true then, Oliver?” Worry lined Sylvia’s pale face as her gaze skittered over him, from head to holey-stockinged toes. “You’re hurt?”

  “I was injured in Port de Lyon. Shot, if you must know.” Oliver wasn’t about to tell them Blaike had cared for him.

  He swept his family a cool glance. Why couldn’t he accept their warm regard? Why must he always keep them at arm’s length?

  Mamma. That was why.

  “Hawkins notified all of you as well?” Oliver asked.

  “No, just Father.” Vivian’s attention gravitated to Blaike sitting beside Oliver for the third time. “Did you forget? Our families have tea together on Mondays.”

  How cozy.

  Her cheeks pinkened, and she shot Oliver an abashed look. “You’ve been invited numerous times too, Oliver.”

  He had. And never responded to a single invitation.

  Wasn’t he the churlish sod?

  After greetings had been exchanged, Dr. Barclay took charge. “I need to examine my patient, if you please.”

  He looked pointedly at the door.

  “Doctor, Lord Leventhorpe should have his hand examined as well.” Blaike had noticed, Leventhorpe’s injury, had she?

  Dr. Barclay glanced to where she pointed. As he puttered in his bag he asked, “What happened, my lord?”

  Leventhorpe glowered at his makeshift bandage. “A cranky cockatoo wanted a taste of me.”

  That elevated Dr. Barclay’s grizzled brows several inches. “A cockatoo, you say? Don’t believe I’ve ever treated a bird’s bite before. I’ll tend you when I’ve finished with Captain Whitehouse.”

  “Why don’t we all go through to the drawing room, and I’ll have a light repast prepared?” Lady Ravensdale held her arm out, indicating the others should go before her.

  Everyone but Blaike, her twin, and Willoughby filed out.

  “Blaike? Aren’t you coming?” Her sister, one hand resting on the door jamb, paused at the entrance.

  Blaike reluctantly stood, then brushed Oliver’s hair off his forehead. “Yes. I’ll come back when the doctor says I might.” She faced Willoughby and dipped into a half curtsy. “I look forward to conversing with you below, my lord.”

  Willoughby inclined his gray streaked head. “And I you.”

  “We’ll speak later, Captain,” she said, skirting the bed.

  Back to propriety was she?

  Because of Willoughby’s presence?

  With an unreadable final glance at Oliver, she accepted her twin’s arm, and they departed.

  “That young woman is in love with you.” Willoughby, still hovering at the foot of the bed, leaned on his elaborate walking stick.

  “I know, but—”

  Before Oliver could finish, Willoughby’s attention sank to the gems scattered beside Oliver’s thigh, and he inhaled a ragged breath. He came round the side of the bed. His haughty countenance softening, he lifted the necklace.

  “I gave these to your mother the first time I proposed.”

  Though there are no bars or locked doors, a long kept

  secret can still imprison one. Consider carefully the cost of freedom.

  ~Scruples and Scandals-The Genteel Lady’s Guide to Practical Living

  Oliver didn’t seem perturbed.

  Half listening to what Mr. Maddox sitting to her left said, Blaike observed Oliver from beneath her lashes.

  My, but he looked so different.

  We
aring borrowed evening clothing, his beautiful midnight hair shorn and beard shaved, he appeared every bit the proper English gentleman. Relaxed and amiable, a ready smile upon his firm mouth, his infamous glower hadn’t put in an appearance the entire evening.

  Earlier, when he’d entered the drawing room with his new fashionably short hair and clean-shaven face, the others’ compliments had muffled her stifled gasp. She’d thought him striking before, had adored his long hair and beard, but now?

  Well, he quite took her breath away.

  In the most feminine, fluttery manner.

  Blaike glanced across the table for the umpteenth time.

  His tanned cheeks contrasted with his well-defined, slightly paler jaw.

  Ninny, stop staring.

  Her gullible heart pattered faster, as it had whenever her eyes met his tonight.

  Thank goodness, Dr. Barclay had declared him none-the-worse from escaping the fire aboard the Sea Gypsy, but had prescribed an abundance of fresh air to cleanse Oliver’s lungs. Such a thing wasn’t to be had in London, for Town’s skies were notoriously sooty.

  Much to her astonishment, the good doctor had praised Blaike’s care of Oliver’s shoulder. Nonetheless, he expressed the merest concern that infection might set in after the dip in the less than pristine Thames. Promising to return in a couple of days, the doctor left instructions about what signs to look for, and he was to be sent for at once should any symptoms occur.

  Dropping her focus to the roast partridge on her plate, Blaike wadded her napkin as remembered panic stalled her breath for a moment. Such terror had gripped her when Jenkin had said there was a fire. Even now with Oliver sitting but feet away from her, hale and hearty, her stomach remained woozy. How he’d managed that swim with his shoulder not completely healed, she couldn’t comprehend.

  Sensing his perusal once more, she lifted her head.

  He sent her a dazzling smile, so intense, she quivered from neck to knee. From the confident arcing of his black brow, he knew how he affected her.

  This genial demeanor was good, wasn’t it?

  There’d been no opportunity for them to talk, but surely he wouldn’t be this affable if he remained vexed with her. Truth to tell, for a man who’d just lost his ship, he didn’t appear wholly devastated.