“Perhaps someone hit her on the head,” James suggested.
“Bend her forward a little.”
James complied as Sampson gently probed with his fingers around the girl’s skull. His face a mask of concentration, he parted her wealth of red-gold hair, seeking a lump or a trace of blood that might indicate she had been struck by an attacker. His fingers crossed a small lump, and he glanced at James. “I think this is it.”
Parting her locks, Sampson found a trace of blood. “You were right. Someone hit her.”
“Now how can a stranger get close enough to Miss Brent to hit her on the head in the middle of the garden?” James asked. “This makes no sense, lad. She would know if a stranger hung about, she’s a sharp one.”
Sampson gazed around at the open garden, the spread of green grass with the nearest trees or hedges a good distance away. “You’re right. Miss Brent would know immediately if a stranger stalked her in the open like this.”
“We have two options, lad,” James said, his tone cold.
“What do you mean?
“Either this lass was hit somewhere else, and dumped here for us to find,” James went on. “Or we have a spy among us.”
“That someone she knows met her here, and then struck her down.” Sampson ran his hands through his hair, frustration and anger rising through him. “By God, I am going to find whoever is behind this and throttle him with my bare hands.”
“What happened here?’
Charles Kirkwood hurried toward them, his bag in hand, and stopped dead. “Oh, dear. Is she alive?”
“Yes,” Sampson answered, shuffling aside to give the physician room. “Someone cracked her across her head, however.”
“Show me.”
Sampson complied as Mr. Kirkwood examined the lump and the blood, then probed his thick fingers near the wound on Miss Brent’s head. He withdrew his hand, a small splinter of wood clamped between his fingers.
“Whoever hit her did it with what appears to be a chunk of elm,” he said, holding it up and peering at it.
“There is no chunk of elm here,” Sampson said. “Did he take it with him?”
“Or,” James said, “perhaps my first idea was right. He struck her while someplace else, then brought her here.”
“So how can a man carry an unconscious woman into this open garden in broad daylight without being seen?”
“By being clever,” Mr. Kirkwood said, rolling Miss Brent’s eyelids up to examine her eyes. “I do not believe she has been hurt badly, Your Grace. But she should be indoors and in a bed.”
“Of course.”
When James would have slid his arm under her knees to pick her up, Sampson stopped him. “I will take her.”
James nodded, and sat back so Sampson could have the room to pick Miss Brent up in his arms. “James, please, I do not wish Henrietta to see Miss Brent like this. It will distress her. Will you find a way to make sure she is occupied while I take her to her chambers?”
“Certainly.”
With James hurrying ahead and Mr. Kirkwood hovering at his side, Sampson carried the slender girl from the garden and toward the house. Her small weight hindered him not at all, and it crossed his mind to ask if she ate enough. But the number of eyes watching from the stable and from windows made him grit his teeth.
“Charles,” he said, “what happened to her must remain among the three of us. You will say she contracted an illness and fainted.”
“Of course, Your Grace, and I quite agree with you. We do not need rumors running rampant through the staff. It will only create chaos when we need calm.”
With James keeping Henrietta occupied, Sampson did not encounter his sister on his way through the house and up the steps. Yet, too many of the staff witnessed he himself carrying his sister’s governess, and that alone would be remarked upon. He could not make himself regret his decision to carry her himself.
As Mr. Kirkwood opened the doors to Miss Brent’s suite, Sampson crossed the sitting room to the bedchamber beyond. Laying her tenderly upon the bed after the physician pulled the covers back, he straightened her gown so that it covered her legs decently. Then he stood and gazed down at her perfect features, the rise and fall of her breasts as though she merely slept.
And rage roared through him.
“I will send a female servant to assist you,” he said around clenched teeth.
“If you would be so good as to send the housekeeper, Your Grace,” Mr. Kirkwood responded, pulling a chair up to sit beside his patient. “She has a good head for medicine and she frowns upon gossip.”
“I will.”
Sampson left Miss Brent’s chambers, his fists clenched. A housemaid stood nearby, trembling at his presence. He glared at her. “Fetch the housekeeper to assist Mr. Kirkwood with Miss Brent.”
The woman dipped a curtsey, then fled, leaving him alone in the corridor. “Damn it!” he yelled, and struck the wall with his fist. “Damn you, whoever you are. I will find you. And I will kill you.”
His rage hardly dented with his outburst, Sampson made his way down the broad staircase to the main level. Servants hurried out of his path after one look at his face. He did not encounter his sister, and he only hoped she was already in her chambers with Rosemary. Loosening his cravat until it hung loose down his chest, he went into the dining room.
Thomas stepped forward. “Your Grace.”
“Brandy. And lots of it.”
Thomas bowed and walked at his sedate pace to the sideboard and the decanters there. Selecting one, and a cut crystal glass, he returned to where Sampson sat at the table. “Might I suggest some food, Your Grace?”
“I am not hungry.”
Thomas left the decanter and the glass in front of him, bowed, and retreated. Sampson poured the brandy into the glass until it reached the brim, then took a long gulp from the glass. The brandy flowed like molten gold down his throat, but failed to extinguish the rage that still burned deep within him. He took another long drink, feeling the alcohol slosh in his empty stomach and knew that to continue like this meant he would need to be poured into his bed. He did not care.
The hour grew late as he sat and drank, and still no word came from Mr. Kirkwood as to Miss Brent’s condition. A servant entered quietly to light the lamps, then vanished through the doors upon seeing Sampson’s dangerous scowl. Little by little the brandy took a firm hold, and he swayed on his chair. Yet, still he drank, unable to get the sight of Miss Brent’s silent body on the grass from his mind.
Behind him, the door opened and closed. Sampson paid the new arrival no attention, and poured more brandy from the decanter into his glass. Only then did he discover the bottle was empty. He frowned, and dropped it, leaving it to tumble across the table.
“Drowning our sorrows, are we?”
Sampson thought that was James’ voice, and peered through the gloom. “Eh?”
“Mr. Kirkwood tells me the lass will be just fine,” James said, taking a seat at the table. “She woke up and spoke with him, and he left her to rest. We can get her story of what happened tomorrow.”
Sampson nodded. He thought he stopped, but his head went right on nodding. “Right,” he managed to say, forcing his head to be still. “Right.”
“You never did have a good head for brandy, lad.”
Sampson gazed at him, blinking owlishly. “Right,” he agreed.
James sighed. “I suppose it is up to me to get you to your quarters,” he said. “Though I believe it would be your just desserts to pass out in here.”
Sampson smiled. “Right.”
“Come on, then.”
With James’ hand under his arm, Sampson rose from the table, then suddenly pitched forward. He landed face and belly first on the floor with a thud. He stared at the carpet beneath his nose, wondering how he got there.
“My poor back will be hurting tomorrow,” James said.
Sampson felt himself lifted from the carpet and flung, head down, over James’ shoulder, then carried
from the dining room. His vision blurred, then came into focus, then blurred again as his head bobbed loose on his neck. Images of stairs crossed his eyes, and he thought he heard James’ voice, but he could not be sure.
Then he recognized his own chambers, and Martin’s face from upside down. He tried to smile, but he was not certain if he managed it.
“I will care for him,” he heard Martin say.
“Oh, let him sleep it off. He will be fine after his hangover passes.”
The room spun before his eyes when James flung him unceremoniously onto his bed, and he blinked hard to clear his vision. But it did not help. The room continued to spin as Martin closed in on him and began to undress him.
Then he passed out.
* * *
He stumbled out of bed the next morning, his head pounding, his mouth tasting of filth. Squinting at the light streaming through his window, he guessed the time to be late morning. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he held his head in his hands, trying not to groan. He vaguely remembered being carried up to his rooms over James’ shoulder.
Did he not also say that Miss Brent would be fine?
“Good morning, Your Grace.” Martin bowed from the doorway.
Sampson grunted in reply, thinking to lie back down until he felt better. But he had an assassin to catch. Some unseen villain roamed his estate, cutting saddles and hitting governesses over the head. This has got to stop.
“Mr. Kirkwood sent a posset for you to drink, Your Grace,” Martin said. “It should assist with your hangover.”
He peered up at his valet. “Does the entire house know about my drinking last night?”
“Most likely, Your Grace.”
He put his head back in his hands. “Bring it.”
A moment later, Martin held a glass in front of him. Sampson accepted it with a hand that shook noticeably, and he feared he would spill it before he got the brim to his mouth. He expected it to taste nasty, but Mr. Kirkwood had sweetened it with honey, and the brew flowed smoothly down his throat. He handed the glass to Martin.
“My thanks.”
The posset seemed to help, for by the time he got dressed, his headache had dimmed and he actually felt hungry. “Inform the cook I will need a late breakfast,” he told Martin.
Martin bowed. “Very good, Your Grace.”
Upon leaving his rooms, feeling like his old self, Sampson walked quickly down the corridors to Miss Brent’s rooms. He expected to find her still abed, attended by Charles Kirkwood. Instead, he found one of the housemaids cleaning. The maid bobbed a curtsey, her face filled with fear and awe.
“Where is Miss Brent?”
“Your Grace, I—I do not know.”
Leaving the rooms, he thought to find Charles Kirkwood, but instead found himself passing the solar. On impulse, he opened the doors and went in. And startled Miss Brent, Henrietta, and Rosemary. All three leaped from their chairs to curtsey. He blinked, for he had not truly expected her to be there.
“Um, Miss Brent,” he said, diffident. “I thought to inquire as to your health. I heard you were, er, indisposed.”
“A passing illness, Your Grace,” she replied, closing the book in her hand. “Though I thank you for your concern. I am quite well now.”
“Ah, I see. Very good.”
But as he peered closer, Sampson noticed her face appeared more pale than usual, and a tightness around her eyes and mouth suggested she might be in pain. The hands that held the book trembled slightly. She is feigning wellness in order to dispel rumors and keep our secret from the staff, and Henrietta. She should be in bed, resting.
While he could order her to her chambers to rest and recover fully, Sampson knew that by doing so would alarm Henrietta, and potentially set more rumors to flying. He needed to question her as to what happened the previous day, and quickly ran through excuses in his mind as to how to get her alone. “Miss Brent,” he said. “I would speak with you regarding Lady Henrietta’s progress. Meet me in my solar in one hour.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“Sampson, did you get drunk last night?” Henrietta inquired, her eyes bright. “People keep talking about it.”
“Yes, well, one should not listen to casual gossip, Sister,” he replied. “One hour, Miss Brent.”
He gave Miss Brent a nod at her respectful curtsey, then, closing the door, he retreated back down the hallway, and headed toward the dining room. By now, his hunger burned in his stomach, as he had not eaten since around noon the day before. He found James en route, and motioned for his steward to accompany him.
“You seem quite well, Your Grace,” he commented as they walked.
“Yes. I am famished, however. Have you had an opportunity to speak with Miss Brent?”
James shook his head. “I have not, Your Grace.”
“She is to meet with me in an hour in my study. I would have you there.”
“I would be happy to.”
Sampson ate a quick meal of kippers and bacon with a side of fried potatoes and toasted bread. James joined him, and they kept their conversation to matters of the estate while servants came and went from the dining room. Afterwards, they found Miss Brent waiting for them outside Sampson’s study. She dipped low in a curtsey as he approached.
“I sent Lady Henrietta to an early lunch, Your Grace.”
“Very good, Miss Brent,” Sampson replied, eyeing her closely. “Please come in.”
His gesture invited her to sit as he took his chair behind his desk and James continued to stand. Miss Brent folded her skirts neatly about her legs and gazed at him inquiringly. Sampson steepled his fingers as he leaned against the desk, studying her face and the clear signs of pain and fatigue.
“How are you?” he asked at last.
“I am quite well, thank you.”
“Please do not lie, Miss Brent,” he said. “Not to me. I am no physician, but I can see for myself you are far from well and hiding it.”
She gazed at her fingers in her lap. “I did not wish to alarm Lady Henrietta, or perpetuate more rumors around the house as to how I came to faint in the garden, Your Grace.”
“Can you tell us what happened yesterday?”
Miss Brent took a deep breath. “After I found Lady Henrietta in the garden and sent her in to dine with you, I went to the orchard before my appointment with your steward. I had no particular reason for going there – it is simply peaceful there and I like it.”
“Did you see anyone?” James asked.
Miss Brent nodded. “I saw the man who tried to kill Lady Henrietta.”
Sampson sucked in his breath. “What happened?”
“I tried to scream, but he hit me with something,” she said. “I fell down, but I was not entirely unconscious. I felt him pick me up, then he dropped me and ran away.”
“He saw or heard something that made him run,” James said, his tone thoughtful. “How did you arrive at the garden, Miss Brent?”
“I got up from the ground, and tried to walk,” she said, “I do not remember getting to the garden, but I know I tried to walk to the house.”
“So you walked to the garden before finally succumbing to the blow,” Sampson said. “That answers the mystery as to how you were hit elsewhere and got to the garden. Strange, though, that no one saw you.”
“Or perhaps they did, Your Grace,” James said, “and did not see anything amiss. Just Miss Brent walking from the orchard to the garden.”
Sampson nodded. “That is reasonable, I suppose. If she appeared fine, no one would question it.”
“Thus it gives the story of an illness more credence and halts rumors we do not wish circulating,” James added. “Miss Brent, did Mr. Kirkwood release you to resume your duties?”
“No, sir,” Miss Brent replied. “I felt well enough, despite some pain and nausea, and it halts unnecessary gossip mongering.”
“I certainly appreciate your desire to contain rumors we do not want arriving at our enemy’s door,” Sampson said, “but
you should not risk your health so.”
“Please, Your Grace,” she said, “do not concern yourself. I am fine, and will return to normal soon.”
“If I order you to return to your rooms and rest, will you obey?”
“Lady Henrietta needs me.”
Sampson threw up his hands. “Willful women,” he muttered. Speaking louder, he said, “Then I would have you dismiss Lady Henrietta early from her lessons and retire to your chambers early to rest. I will order food brought there to you.”
The Extraordinary Tale of the Rebellious Governess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 18