“I’m pretty sure he won’t be trying that again.” She allowed herself a smug smile.
“No sir! Heh heh…” Foster slapped his thigh and wheezed an evil laugh. His eyes leaked tears of mirth. “Bet he never thought he’d get shot, did he?” Then he sobered up. “I’ll make certain he understands that if he ever does anything to harm you or any other lady, his life won’t be worth living.”
She struggled not to smile. The intruder was almost six-foot tall and looked quite strong. How did the old dear think he’d get the upper hand?
That darn blunderbuss, she supposed. She should hide it until their uninvited visitor was safely away. Still… the man might be dangerous. Likely was, in fact. Idiot, she lamented her soft heart. He’s just climbed in your bedroom window! Of course he’s dangerous!
“I’ll take the first watch, Miss Tally. You go get some sleep.”
“Fine. But there’s no need for you to stay up here.” She didn’t tell him she planned on spending what was left of the night keeping watch herself. As if she could sleep knowing a strange man, an interloper, was in the house!
Or, worse, having him die from loss of blood while she slept!
“What good am I downstairs?” Foster complained.
Her long-suffering, loyal ally could sometimes become a mite cantankerous. She’d have to convince him it would be safer that way.
“What if he has accomplices and, when he fails to come out, they decide to come in to look for him.” She hated to worry her devoted servant like that, but she knew he’d get more sleep dozing in that armchair he’d rigged up in the front hall, than up here on a straight-backed, wooden chair.
He grimaced and shrugged, showing he didn’t believe her excuse but was not going to argue the point, and started down the stairs. He called back up to her. “Mark my words, Miss Tally, our captive there is going to cause us heaps of trouble afore this is through.”
Tally wished she weren’t so inclined to agree with him.
* * *
When she left the guest room a short time later, the night sky was being nudged aside by daylight’s first blush. If only she could escape upstairs to her studio to capture the subtlety of the shifting colors. The soft pinks and oranges, the pale yellow…
Not this morning, Tally. She carried on into her room.
With a weary sigh, she grabbed her warm shawl and put it on over her dressing gown. She picked up her sketching paper and charcoal stick from the desk, and made her way back to the guest room across the hall.
She had intended spending the time until full sunrise, sketching the unconscious burglar. She always drew when ideas came to her at night, so though the light was poor, she should be able to sketch a decent likeness of the man, and later, in daylight, she’d perfect it.
Lord knows, his image was stamped indelibly in her mind’s eye, but a finished picture would be of more use to the authorities.
Back in the guest room, their unwanted visitor hadn’t moved. He remained as still as a dead man. From the corner, she dragged an antique rocking chair nearer to the bed. Better to sit on hard wood than on the cushioned armchair, if she wanted to stay awake.
Despite the fire, the room was still chilly. As she placed the unwieldy chair by the bed, the intruder’s breathing hitched.
Was he waking? She panicked for a few moments. What should she do? Say?
She stood frozen, on tenterhooks, ready to react. Anxious seconds passed. He didn’t budge… remained unaware. She sat. Her legs were trembling. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, for comfort as much as for warmth.
How had her plans to start her real life, gone so wrong? It had seemed simple, prior to leaving Evesham. Yet, tonight’s drama was just the cherry-topping on the cake. So far, her visit to London was a disaster.
To think she’d been preparing for this trip for almost eight years now. Ever since Great Aunt Ida died and left her and her two sisters, Venetia and Milana, generous competencies. Aunt Ida wanted the girls to be protected from the destitution that always lurked around the next corner, due to their parents’ profligacy. Whenever money came in from the sale of one of her famous father’s artwork, the family embarked on a flurry of extravagant spending.
Ida’s legacy was meant to give the girls some security. Now, her sisters were well married, and didn’t have to worry about their own survival anymore. They’d both chosen husbands well able to provide for them.
She, on the other hand, had no intention of ever marrying. She wanted no man — especially no artist — to have control over her or her money. She’d been saving her competency for years to have the chance to pursue her own artistic career, independent of everyone. Unfortunately, as a result of her twin brothers’ deceit, her well laid plans were in a bit of a mess at the moment.
With several deft motions, her hand outlined the shape of the intruder’s face. Grimacing, she remembered how appalled she’d been the first time she realized she had the family gift. At the age of nine, it had seemed more of a curse.
Aunt Ida was the one who had discovered it. Tally had begged her not to tell any one. Just thinking of her great aunt made her heart swell with affection and loss. That wonderful woman had understood and had convinced Monsieur Antoine Moreau, an art teacher, artist in his own right, and art agent for Tally’s father in Britain, to travel to Evesham once a month to teach her in secret. All three of them kept her talent a secret, especially from her own family.
Monsieur was happy to do it. He had a lot for which to be grateful to Aunt Ida. They met through Tally’s father, Wendal Lawton, who studied art in Paris with Antoine years earlier. Ida helped house and launch the French painter when he first fled the revolution taking place in his home country. She’d helped him start his career, as teacher and agent here in England, and there was not much he wouldn’t do for her.
Monsieur and her aunt both recognized that Tally’s talent was great, perhaps the greatest of all the Lawton’s. Monsieur agreed with Aunt Ida that the inevitable competition among family members would not be helpful to Tally in honing her craft and he helped her, by sneaking her artwork out of the house and storing it at his studio until she was ready to launch her career.
Well, now, she was. Ready, that is.
She turned to the next clean page and began a second effort from a different angle. She lifted her head to glance at the man and gasped.
Her charcoal pencil dropped to the floor, but she was frozen in place, unable to pick it up. All she could do was stare into the man’s opened eyes, while he stared right back at her.
Even from across the room, his gaze seemed penetrating, as if he could read the secrets of her soul.
It seemed ages, though it was probably only a matter of seconds, before his eyes slowly shut and those thick, paintbrush lashes fanned peacefully back onto his cheeks once again.
She exhaled on a quiet gasp. Her hands were shaking as she bent and picked up the charcoal. It was odd. He hadn’t seemed to be really awake despite his staring eyes.
Plying her pencil again, she went back to ruminating on how this whole venture to London had been ill-fated from the start. Her brothers deceit had seriously depleted her money before she even started out. She and Foster arrived unusually late that first night. The coach ride had been exceedingly slow due to the muddy state of the roads caused by all the rain they’d experienced this past month. They were dismayed to find the key didn’t fit the lock in the house Monsieur Moreau had rented for them. They found a small window opened at the back and, not wanting to bother him at his home so late, Tally risked climbing into the house. She kept expecting to be caught and denounced, but luck was with them, for that little infraction, at least. From that point on, though, their luck had gone downhill.
There was the important matter of being unable to find Monsieur Moreau despite making almost daily trips to his studio. He’d known to expect her. He’d found this house for her, yet there was no sign of him.
Finally, there were those “acciden
ts” that kept occurring. She’d almost been run over, in one case, and had narrowly avoided a nasty blow to her head by a falling crate, in another.
Foster was positive they were deliberate. She hadn’t thought so, but now, tonight, here she was, involved in another worrying situation.
She held the charcoal poised above the paper. This sketch, her third, she’d begin with his nose — a strong, proud proboscis. Her hand flew across the page and soon she was darkening his chin lines and adding his full lower lip.
Their intruder had a compelling face, with forceful features. She imagined those large, almond-shaped eyes must cause many a young lady’s heart to flutter. They were framed by long straight eyelashes that might have looked effeminate, had his face been any less compelling, but seemed instead to accentuate his blatant masculinity.
Her mind wandered away from his features and back to her earlier conjectures. Certain someone was trying to harm her, Foster was now convinced this man had climbed in her window for that very purpose.
But why would he want to hurt her? She’d never met or even seen this man before in her life. She’d have remembered his face and a spectacular body like his, with broad shoulders and powerful legs, the likes of which she’d only seen in sculptures of Jupiter, King of the Roman deities. Quite…um…unforgettable, really.
She drew her shawl closer around her once more, then used her index finger to smudge in shadows beneath his high cheek bones in her sketch.
The question was how was she going to maintain her anonymity if this intruder, didn’t waken and she was obliged to fetch a physician?
Being inconspicuous was not achieved by shooting a man in one’s bedroom!
Chapter Three
His eyelids felt glued shut.
He tried opening them. They were heavy, as if someone had put pennies on the lids to weigh them down.
Surely they didn’t think he was dead!
A few desperate tries later, they opened… just.
From behind barely opened slits, he cast his gaze around. Pale yellow walls, a window to his right... he caught a whiff of lavender but could see no flowers about. It looked much like any other room. Vaguely familiar, no distinguishing features, nothing to cause the sense of disquiet slowly seeping into his consciousness.
His mind drifted for a time.
He must have slept some more, for when he awoke again, the brightness he’d awakened to earlier had faded. He thought it might be dusk. His head felt thick and dull, as if it was wrapped in cotton wool.
A lamp cast a gentle glow around the room. He caught more of that lavender scent… then, a rasping sound. Someone was sitting nearby, in a rocking chair, creaking back and forth.
Closing his mind to that for the moment, he took stock of himself and his surroundings. He felt like death. His head was numb, as if only half there. And he felt queasy. If there’d been anything in his stomach, he’d have lost it.
What the hell had happened to him and where the deuce was he?
He wasn’t sure he could muster the strength to turn his head and see where the rocking-chair was or who was in it. He kept his eyes closed, thinking to settle his stomach a little first. He listened to the fidgety sounds of the chair, not rocking in a smooth motion but sawing and scraping as its sitter moved about in it.
Curiosity urged him to roll his heavy head sideways to try to see who the squirmy person sitting there was. Things shifted inside his head. Like glass breaking, only softly, silently, as if at a distance. He stifled a groan. A puce, patterned carpet came into view, then green slippers on small, dainty feet. A woman. His gaze took the easiest route up the front of her dressing gown to her face. A beauty. But he didn’t recognize her. Who was she?
Surely he would remember that gypsy hair and creamy white skin, if he’d seen them before. What was she doing in this bedroom with him? She didn’t look like his usual mode of female entertainment. She had the untouched look of a maiden. Lord, he’d better get her out of here fast!
But he felt as cumbersome as lead. He couldn’t budge. Damn but his brain was muddled. Glancing listlessly about, he again fixed his gaze on her dressing gown. He liked that green. He searched for the exact name of that tint.
Abandoning the attempt, his gaze lingered appreciatively on her delicate neck and inky black hair. Its thickness was held back from her face with twin combs. The natural wave made it dance on her shoulders when she moved.
Trying not to invite her attention just yet, he slowly let his slitted gaze move up to her face. This time, it was not the woman’s beauty he noticed first. It was the total absorption in her task that drew his attention. What was she doing? She brought a pencil to rest on her lips while she contemplated something she was holding in her lap.
Watching her almost made him forget his foggy head, which felt like a balloon, a fragile one. If he moved it, it might burst.
Her eyes remained firmly cast downward. What captivated her interest so? She was gazing intently at some kind of book on her knee.
Why, she was sketching… and in very poor light indeed.
She lifted her head. He shut his eyes. He pondered... then realization dawned. He cracked open his lids carefully in case she was still looking up. She was sketching him!
She mustn’t be drawing his face or she’d have noticed his eyes flickering.
Hell! He shut his eyes again. Hot embarrassment flooded every part of his body. His hand skimmed swiftly down his body. Thank God! He was fully covered!
He squinted, wanting to watch her for awhile before letting her know he was awake. Something was bothering him. Something was wrong, but he was having a hard time concentrating on what it could be. Something on the periphery of his mind was nagging at him.
Did she draw his funeral picture? That idea startled a sound of dismay from him. Worried she’d notice, he tried to turn his head away but a sudden, sharp pain stopped him. He groaned involuntarily, alerting his solitary audience.
Her head shot up. Their gazes locked for what seemed like eons before she lowered her sketch book onto the small table beside her and rose to approach the bed.
She seemed uneasy, almost reluctant.
His hand went to his head. His bandaged head! He was injured? What was going on here? He had no recollection of being hurt.
He followed the young lady’s every step as she moved towards him. Who was she?
He had no idea. He pressed his hand to his head, willing his brain to work.
Her eyes, which cast about nervously as she approached, finally met his and, instantly, he was drowning in the deepest, darkest brown he’d ever seen. Even if he was having trouble recalling much of anything else, he was quite sure of that.
They gazed at each other for several long, silent moments before she shook her head and summoned a voice. “So, you’re awake.”
She glanced around anxiously. As though she wished to be anywhere but there. No doubt realizing the futility of it, she assumed a patently false, calm face. “How are you feeling?”
Her voice was light and melodic. Her quiet smile reassured him, though he noticed she kept a wary distance from him.
Who was this woman? Was she here to nurse him back to health? From what?
Her eyes darted about. She was uneasy. Was this little beauty worried about him? Was she his?
His mind groped through his confused brain in vain. He tried to move his hand to reach for hers, but somehow the message from his mind to his hand never made it.
She acted as though she didn’t trust him.
Sending that disturbing thought into the dark recesses of his mind, he focused on her face.
It was the face of a serious-minded woman, he decided. She was young. The absence of lines beside her eyes and mouth told him that, but it also showed him she wasn’t given much to laughter or smiles. Her eyes were worried and wary, no matter how much she tried to school them to impassivity. Why?
She took a deep breath. Then, hesitant but determined, she came near enough to place h
er cool hand on his forehead. “No fever. Good. I’m relieved you’re awake at last.”
Moving to a small table, she poured liquid into a glass. “You must be thirsty.”
Passive, that was how he felt. He watched her silently perform these tasks. Extreme lethargy prevented him from talking… questioning her. Soon, soon he’d demand she tell him what had happened, why he was here… wherever here was.
She came back to the bedside and, with one hand, helped him lift his head.
It brought her bodice closer to him and he longed to rest his muzzy head against it. One look at her tense face decided him against it. He didn’t want to frighten her and she looked ready to flit away like a frightened bird.
“Here, can you drink some barley water?”
He almost rejected it, assailed by the sudden shocking notion that it might be tainted. Then he relented. She wouldn’t poison him the minute he’d come to, when she’d sat waiting for him to regain consciousness.
“I…” Was that his voice, that crackling hoarse sound? He took another, bigger sip then tried again. “Where am I?”
“In London.”
He’d meant where was this room? In whose house? But he didn’t repeat his query. Perhaps he should take account of his surroundings before he ventured too many questions.
She seemed to read his mind because she added, “We rented this place for a few months.”
We? Should he tell her he had no idea who we... or she was?
Her soft voice had a musical quality that pleased his ear. He opened his mouth to say so, but no sound came out. Troubled, his glance flew to hers.
She noticed his difficulty and leaned down to plump a pillow and place it behind his head to raise him higher. Then, she brought the glass to his lips again.
Gratefully, he gulped down a few more mouthfuls. That allowed him to croak, “What’s wrong with me?”
But before she could answer, another more urgent idea leapt into his mind.
The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife Page 3