Virginia And The Wolf

by Lynne Connolly

  “What do you mean, change?” Fear clutched at her chest.

  Cunningham spoke quietly and deliberately. He must have met many situations before where he’d had to impart bad news. “When he wakes, he may be impaired in some way.”

  “Impaired? How?” she demanded sharply.

  “Blows to the skull such as your husband has suffered have unpredictable consequences, especially in the following week or so. He could recover in a few days, or it could take more time. The brain is swollen, you see, and we have no way of curing injuries of that nature. We have to wait and see. Bleeding him will not help in this matter, neither will cupping or any other cure. I speak from experience, madam, not from theory, as more fashionable men would have it.”

  He paused, watching her carefully.

  Virginia steeled herself. “Tell me everything.”

  He kept a sharp gaze on her while he told her, plainly and clearly. “Very well.” He spoke slowly. “He could be blind, either temporarily or permanently. His hearing could be affected, or his sense of smell. Or all three.”

  She clutched her chest. “Oh, God!”

  Cunningham continued. “The most likely outcome, however, tends to affect the memory. Your husband may not know you when he wakes. Or he may remember everything. Generally, a section of the memory is lost, but not all of it.”

  “He will not know me?” Dazed, she tried to take in what he was saying. Blind, deaf, what could be worse? Oh, a complete loss of memory.

  “That is unlikely, madam, or if it is, the most severe effects tend to be less permanent. As the swelling in the brain subsides, the memory may return.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Keep him quiet and calm, and allow him time to recover. Do not alarm or irritate him.”

  Her mind began to work again. Her plans teemed back. She pushed them aside. She would handle them as she thought of them, but her first concern was for Francis. “What is the worst that could happen?”

  “He could die.”

  Virginia’s mind immediately rejected the words. She hadn’t heard that word, the most terrible of all. He wouldn’t die. He couldn’t. Why, two hours ago Francis was perfectly well, in rude health. Nearly making love to her. Would she ever feel his hands on her again? Would he ever wake?

  Did the physician have to be so brutal? He would not die. Not here, not today, or tomorrow. Oh, why had she said no to him? Why had her cowardice forced her to turn him down? Yes, cowardice. Fear of the unknown, of giving herself to another man. As if all men were the same.

  Her throat tightened, her heart sank, but reason seeped back. “What is most likely?”

  “That he will wake late in the night, or tomorrow morning, and fail to remember events from a few days ago to a year or more. If he does, do not try to force him, but tell him the memories will return in time. Let him know what he needs to, and no more. Assure him that rest will restore him.”

  “I see.”

  “And don’t forget, if there is a change, any change for the worse, send for me immediately.”

  She did not ask his fee. Instead, she pushed a purse into his hand, fat with coin. He didn’t demur.

  He left Virginia to her fate.

  Chapter 9

  Groaning, Francis opened his eyes, then snapped them shut as a shaft of bright light pierced his skull. What the devil had happened to him? This was worse than any headache he’d ever suffered, even after the time he’d stayed drunk for five days in a row for a bet.

  A soothing hand stroked his brow. “You’re safe.”

  What an odd thing to say! Nevertheless, he recognized the voice and the touch. Virginia was with him.

  A male voice, one he didn’t know, said, “Is he awake, ma’am?”

  “I think so. He’s coming around. Close the curtains, please, Hurst. The light might hurt his eyes.”

  He smiled. Always practical, his Virginia.

  Except she was not his Virginia, was she? Vivid recollections throbbed through his head. He’d come close to making love to her, but something had stopped them. She’d been wearing a green velvet caraco jacket, the color of grass on a spring sky, and he’d done his best to get her out of it.

  He had pictures rather than a clear memory, but they were more than enough. The sight of her hair coming down from its pins, the way it felt in his hands, her delectable body, the mouthwatering curves, the taste of her throat, her mouth, and her response…

  To his shock, his body stirred. He hadn’t thought there was room in his body for anything but pain. And it wasn’t as if he could do anything about it now. At least he was safely tucked away, under the covers of this bed. Whose bed? It didn’t belong to him. Subtle differences told him that.

  After the rattle of curtain rings against a rail, he tried opening his eyes again. It still hurt, but this time he persevered.

  There she was, sitting next to the bed, a nightstand bearing a variety of objects, from a decanter of some cloudy liquid to a dark glass bottle containing what he suspected was physic.

  “Francis!”

  When he tried to reach out to her, his arm exploded in pain. He cried out. She put her hand over his, gently moving it back to his side. “You landed on this side, so it’s badly bruised, but the physician says it will be much better in a week and healed in two.”

  “Physician? Have I been ill?” He searched her eyes, hating the anxiety in them. Had he caused that distress?

  “Not exactly. You had a fall from your carriage.”

  He tried to laugh, but more pain shot through his head, so he stopped. “I’ve never fallen out of a carriage in my life. Did I hit a rut in the road?”

  “No.” She sighed. “Somebody tried to make a hole in your head, but you are tougher than that, my friend.”

  No, not friend. “Who? Someone shot at me?”

  “A small boy used a sling. You have a gash on your head and a large lump behind it.”

  He winced. David had killed Goliath using a sling. Well, at least he’d emerged better off than the Philistine. His head was still on his shoulders, even if it did hurt like the devil.

  So he’d been hit, fallen from the phaeton and struck his head. Which accounted for the conviction that his head was splitting in two. Or perhaps into tiny pieces.

  How long had that happened after she’d said she could not consider marrying him for six years? He remembered that part. But if he reminded her of that painful conversation, she was likely to close down. He’d seen her do it, but she wouldn’t do it with him. He wouldn’t give her the chance.

  Nor would he mention the attack on him the night of the ball, and the muttered instruction to leave her alone. The determination to remain with her, that someone wanted to hurt her, firmed in his mind.

  “What’s the date?”

  “It’s Saturday, the twenty-eighth of June, the day after the attack.”

  He grunted. Even that hurt.

  “Do you think you could drink some barley water?”

  “To hell with barley water. Bring me brandy.”

  The man standing on the other side of the bed laughed. Indignant, Francis turned his head to confront the burly servant and then regretted his impulsive move. His head didn’t just throb internally, it hurt outside, too.

  Hurst was a footman, he guessed, from the man’s size and simple clothing. “I’m sorry, my lord, but my lady is as likely to give you brandy as she is to give it to me.”

  He raised a brow, an action that froze most servants, but it had no effect on this one. “I see.” He had to admit he was thirsty. “I detest barley water. How about a small beer?”

  Reluctantly, the man nodded, but glanced at Virginia for permission. She must have given it, because he left the room.

  “Where am I?”

  A wary look entered her eyes. “In my bedroom at my London town house.”r />
  “Ah.”

  “Nobody from your house has come to see you,” she said. “I sent Hurst with a message this morning, but he said it was shuttered and nobody was inside.”

  He nodded, then wished he hadn’t. After gulping some cool air to conquer the rising wave of nausea, he said, “That’s not surprising. I only hired that house for the season, and I gave it up after my mother left for the country earlier this week. I used a room at my club instead. Why is this house so quiet and bare? Where are all your servants?”

  There were no crystal containers on the dressing table, no scattering of delicate robes. The drapes around the bed had gone.

  “I was leaving town, so the house is under holland covers. I have only five servants here, and the doorknocker is off. I was planning to leave on Monday, but I won’t do that now.”

  He remembered, but he chose not to let her know. “Why not?”

  She shook her head, smiling. “Why do you think? A man collapses outside my house, and I’m expected to walk away? That is not likely under any circumstances. Much less when it is—” She broke off, biting her lip.

  “Me,” he finished for her. “Thank you.”

  “I thought the man who was with you would have driven the phaeton back to your home and reported it. When nobody came, I sent a message.”

  Damn. The pair of matched grays were the only cattle he’d allowed to be harnessed to the phaeton. “The phaeton has probably magically vanished into the rookery of Seven Dials, never to return. The horses with them.”

  Her eyes rounded, bless her. “What about your tiger?”

  “A new hire from Chambers’. Adequate at his work, but I never intended to keep him on after the end of the season. I told him so a few days ago, so I can assume that he has made off with the phaeton and horses as his reward.”

  She gasped. “We should send for the authorities, lay a complaint. Horse stealing is a capital offense.”

  The phaeton and horses were the least of his worries. He reached out, far more carefully this time, and laid his hand over hers. “Normally I would do so, but I fear we’ll never see them again in any event. Let it be, Virginia. The long and short of it is that there is nobody in London to ask after me. Nobody who knows where I am.”

  She swallowed, watching him.

  He groped past the pain threatening to split his head open, trying to think. When she’d told him about her husband’s will, anger had consumed him. Why should she wait on the whims of a dead man? What was it about her marriage and her early life that had put that terror in her eyes? It wasn’t him, he was sure of it. Was it the prospect of losing her wealth? So many questions, so few answers.

  Perhaps if she trusted him more, she would let her husband’s estate go. He could provide for her, and he had every intention of doing so. But until then, he had to be patient. Not six years patient, but until he regained his strength.

  If she knew he remembered everything, telling him the real reason she wouldn’t marry him, she might back off again. He’d left her house thinking that he’d handled her badly, that she would never allow him close to her again, and now he was back.

  So let her think his memory had been affected by the blow to his head. Let her think she had her secret safe. The next time she told him, he would not be so insistent, nor would he react so angrily.

  But he would have her and keep her. He refused to allow her to obey a dead man. The spiteful toad had tried to ensure that nobody would have her but him.

  And somebody—would Jamie Dulverton go that far?—had tried to kill him to keep him away from her. He’d ignored the warning from the first attack and been punished for it. He did not doubt that the two incidents were connected.

  Anyone desperate enough to attack him was dangerous.

  “I will escort you to Devonshire when I’m well.” Because she was not traveling on her own.

  She patted his shoulder, the uninjured one, as if soothing a mad person. He didn’t have the energy to protest now, but once this screaming headache subsided, he’d take her to task. They could not stay here too long. Who knew when the attacker would choose to break into the house?

  “How many people are in this house?”

  “Apart from us? Five servants, three women, two men.”

  His stomach hollowed out. They were too vulnerable here. They had to move. But he couldn’t do that yet, however much he wanted to.

  The beer arrived, along with tea and bread and butter. Content to watch Virginia gliding around the room, pouring the tea and placing a few slices of the food on a delicate plate, he enjoyed the sight and the intimacy of lying in her bed, savoring the simple domesticity. He wanted that to happen again, frequently. He longed for it.

  But in order to have it, he would have to deliver her home, alive and well. And that might take a little finessing.

  He lay there, trying not to aggravate his headache by breathing too hard, and made his plans.

  * * * *

  After she managed to get him to eat a little, Francis slept for most of the day. Virginia sat by the bed, watching him.

  When night came she stayed by his side, thinking. Her mind raced in circles, and she didn’t seem able to keep a thought for long. The servants entered and left and came back. Today was Friday. Tomorrow she would cancel the carriage she’d hired for Monday and stay here until he was well. Leaving him in this state was unthinkable.

  Winston had served food to her on the table by the window, but she’d taken care not to sit in front of it, so as not to alert anyone that she was still in residence.

  They dressed Francis’s wound twice, and once again before Hurst came to relieve her. The gash was nasty, but they saw no sign of infection and only sluggish bleeding when they cleaned it. The tension winding her tight began to dissipate, especially when she heard Francis’s yelps and curses. He wasn’t too weak to make use of his varied vocabulary, then.

  Hurst insisted she left while Francis was still awake, so he could help him with what he called “male necessities.” Francis still seemed dizzy and confused, with periods of lucidity, but recalling what the doctor said, she did not push his memory.

  Last night she’d used the guest room nearest to his, not bothering to have the bed made, but lying on top of the mattress with a quilt over her. She had not slept well.

  She returned in the early hours of Saturday morning and sent Hurst away. She’d listened to the rasp of his breathing and ensured his pulse was steady. When she’d woken him, as the physician had told her to, he’d moaned in pain, but he’d answered when she spoke his name, before subsiding back into sleep.

  She was worried for his life. That attack had been deliberate. She’d watched that boy load and aim his sling, not understanding that he intended to use it on a person. It wasn’t as if the street was full of vehicles, as it had been when the season was at its height. Only a couple of chairmen were on the street, and when Hurst had questioned them, they’d claimed to see nothing, which was suspicious in itself.

  Who wanted Francis dead?

  Exhausted by her near-sleepless night, she leaned forward in the chair Butler had found for her. Finding a soft support under her cheek, she drifted off. She’d meant to stay awake to watch over him, but sleep crashed over her like a great wave, and she was gone.

  When she woke, the clock was tinkling the three-quarter hour.

  “It’s nearly nine o’clock,” a soft voice informed her.

  A gentle hand rested on her back, a weight she only became aware of when she tried to sit up. He rubbed between her shoulder blades, helping her ease her tired muscles. “Good Lord. I had no intention of sleeping like that.”

  Her back creaked, and the bones in her elbows and shoulders strained as she sat up. Hair fell into her eyes from her destroyed hairstyle. She must look a complete mess.

  “Well,” she said, “that puts paid to any ro
mantic feelings you might have had for me.”

  She shouldn’t have said that.

  “On the contrary,” he answered softly. “Seeing you like this makes me more appreciative, not less.”

  She shook her head, a denial and an effort to wake up. “Don’t be foolish.”

  He was sitting up in bed, a bank of pillows behind him. Someone must have helped him with that, but it had not been her.

  Had the servants seen her that way? Someone must have.

  “Butler told me you stayed with me nearly all night,” he murmured.

  Telltales. She hadn’t wanted him to know. Did he remember what she had told him on Thursday, before he’d fallen from his phaeton? She should never have explained the terms of Ralph’s will. Even telling someone could cost her everything. Her resolve was set, and she would fulfill her husband’s wishes. By the time the six years were up, Francis would have moved on and married someone else. Someone who could fill his nursery.

  Getting to her feet, she held the arm of the chair for a few seconds to allow her senses to settle.

  “The maid brought hot water fifteen minutes ago,” he told her. “It should still be warm.”

  Normally Virginia would strip and wash all over, with her maid’s help, but that was not happening this morning, not with a man in her bedroom. She crossed to the washstand and found the can of hot water standing next to it. While she washed her hands and face, and found the brush for her hair, he spoke to her.

  “I have a great deal to thank you for, do I not?”

  “How are you feeling?” Their eyes met in the mirror above the washstand. Flicking her attention away, she reached for the towel and buried her face in it.

  “I still have a headache, but it’s bearable. I can sit without feeling sick, and by the end of today I expect I will feel completely well. I have eaten a couple of fresh rolls, and since that experiment was successful, I’ll eat more soon.”

  “And your arm?”

  He winced. “Bruised, that’s all. And I lost my earring.” He said the last in a mock-downcast tone that made her laugh.