by Anne Gracie
Thomas straightened, catching his breath. The red haze slowly cleared from his brain.
Chapter Eight
Nothing has proved him unworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent to me.
—JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
Jackson’s Boxing Saloon had gone silent. The cheering, jeering spectators stood motionless, staring at Thomas as if they’d never seen a man fight before.
He looked at his opponent. Ashendon was still standing, but barely. He was swaying on his feet, spattered with blood and dark bruises.
Jackson’s eyes were dark with understanding. “Best to stop it before it got out of hand, sir.”
Thomas nodded wearily. He hadn’t wanted to fight at all. But the taste of blood in his mouth, the threat to kill him . . . rage, long suppressed, had broken free . . .
Jackson raised his voice. “Since both gentlemen are still on their feet, I declare this friendly bout a draw.” There was a groan and a mutter of complaint from the spectators. Jackson, unperturbed, simply held up his hand. “My club, my decision.” He turned to Thomas and Galbraith. “Nicely fought, gentlemen.”
Thomas turned toward his bench. The crowd parted silently before him, all eyes. A low murmur of comments followed his passing. Thomas ignored them. Ashendon walked slowly to his bench, leaning heavily on Galbraith. He looked a mess.
Rose’s brother.
Thomas hesitated, then approached. “Are you all right?”
“What do you care?” Ashendon snarled.
“You’re my wife’s brother,” Thomas said, and when the earl didn’t respond, he added, “You forced this fight on me, remember. I told you I don’t fight for pleasure.” He glanced at Galbraith.
But Galbraith was looking elsewhere. He nudged Ashendon, who followed Galbraith’s gaze. His eyes narrowed. “You swine. Now it all makes sense.”
Thomas glanced down. One of his stockings had slipped down in the fight and lay scrunched, half off, almost below his ankle. He yanked it up and tucked it back under the hem of his breeches. But it was too late. They’d seen.
Damnation.
Ollie returned with water, cloths and vinegar for Thomas to clean himself up with. “Never knew you could fight like that, Thomas. Took my breath away. Dashed glad I’m your friend and not your enemy.”
He hovered, passing Thomas vinegar-soaked cloths and chatting excitedly, reliving the highlights as he’d viewed them. Thomas dressed in silence, cursing Galbraith’s sharp eyes.
Galbraith approached. “I’ll fetch a cab. Your choice whether we go back to my place or Ashendon House.”
“Why should we go—” Ollie began.
“Ashendon House,” Thomas said wearily. Might as well get it over and done with.
* * *
* * *
They arrived at Ashendon House after dropping Galbraith off at his own house on the way. “I’ll bring Lily,” he said. “This looks like a family affair, and she won’t want to miss out.” He glanced at Thomas for confirmation, and Thomas shrugged.
But if any of them thought that the revelation of secrets would be top of the agenda, they reckoned without the women of the family. Lady Ashendon took one look at her husband, exclaimed faintly and whisked him upstairs to have his injuries tended to, overruling his objections in a no-nonsense voice. “I’m not fussing, Cal, merely being practical. Now don’t be a baby . . .”
Rose did likewise, escorting Thomas to her bedchamber, where she bathed each cut in vinegar and applied a pungent unguent to every cut and bruise she could find, scolding him all the time for being so foolish as to fight her brother and at the same time exclaiming in distress over every little mark as she tenderly rubbed on goo.
“Take off your shirt,” she instructed when she had finished with his face and his bruised and scraped knuckles.
He hesitated but decided that she was going to find out anyway. He shrugged off his shirt, and she continued applying her potions.
A sudden still silence told him she had seen his back.
“Thomas?” she whispered. “Oh, Thomas.”
He didn’t say anything. What was there to say? What was done was done.
“When you told me . . . I didn’t think . . . never imagined.” Her voice broke, and he slipped an arm around her waist.
“Don’t upset yourself, love, it’s all long in the past.” Several months at least.
“It’s wicked what they did to you, wicked!” She gingerly touched his back. “Does this hurt?”
He almost laughed. He could barely feel it. The scarring had made his skin as tough as an elephant’s hide. “No, it’s just ugly, that’s all.”
“It’s not ugly, it’s—” She broke off. “It’s evil.” She bent and he felt a warm, damp flutter on his back, then another. She was kissing his back, his ruined back. And there were tears. He felt them.
“Don’t weep for me, Rose,” he said huskily.
“I’m not,” she lied, wiping her eyes. “I’m angry. Nobody has the right to do this to another person.”
She continued tending to his cuts and bruises in silence. When she was finished she helped him back on with his clothes. “Thomas,” she said decisively, straightening his neckcloth. “We must bring your sailors back immediately. As soon as possible.”
He noted the we and started to smile, then winced as his cut lip sent a message of disapproval. No smiling for a few days at least.
They joined Ollie, Galbraith, Lily and George downstairs in the drawing room. A short time later the earl and countess joined them. Ashendon was still a mess, only now he looked even worse because the unguent his wife had applied was green. His handsome face was bruised, swollen, lopsided and greenish.
Thomas told himself it would be ignoble to enjoy it. He failed; nobility had never been his forte.
“My, my, you two did have a time of it,” Lady George commented. She eyed their injuries with interest and added cheerfully, “That lot will have scabbed up beautifully by the day of the ball.”
“The ball!” Lady Ashendon and Rose exclaimed in unison, and looked at each other in dismay.
“Oh, why must men be so foolish!” Lady Ashendon said crossly. “As if fighting ever solved anything.”
The butler and a footman entered with tea and refreshments—sandwiches, little savory pastries, dainty fruit tarts, curd cakes and more. Lady Ashendon was a superb hostess. Ashendon gave the butler some invisible signal and he immediately poured brandy for all the men, leaving the women to their tea.
“So, why have you brought us all here, Cal?” Lady Ashendon asked.
* * *
* * *
Cal looked at Thomas. “Go on, you might as well admit it, now that we’ve seen what those boots are hiding.”
“Admit what?” Thomas took a bite of a savory pastry.
“That you’re a convict.”
Rose shot from her seat. “Cal, he is not! How dare you make such a vile accusation! Thomas is a man of honor.”
Cal barely glanced at her. “He’s got scars around his ankles, Rose. Manacle scars, the kind convicts get from wearing a ball and chain.”
Rose turned to Thomas. “More scars, Thomas? Oh, that’s wicked.” She ached for what he had endured.
Cal sat forward. “What do you mean, ‘more scars’?”
Rose glanced at Thomas, silently asking permission to tell them. He gave it with an indifferent lift of one shoulder. “He has whip marks on his back,” she told Cal. “Dreadful scars.”
“I’m not going to ask how you came to see his naked back,” Cal said thinly. “But I will point out that convicts get whipped for bad behavior.”
“So do slaves,” Thomas said. “Especially ones who repeatedly try to escape.”
“Slaves?” Cal stiffened. “Are you saying you’ve been a slave for the last four years?”
&n
bsp; “‘Unavoidably detained,’ he told us,” Ned murmured. “It fits.”
They stared at Thomas in silence, taking it in.
“How?” George asked. “How did you become a slave?”
Thomas then told Rose’s family the story he had told Rose earlier, about the shipwreck on the Barbary Coast, how he and five men made it to shore, their capture by nomadic tribesmen, the journey across the desert and their eventual sale as slaves. He’d only given her the bare bones, and he gave her family even less detail.
He also left out the bit about his uncle refusing his ransom. Rose wondered why, but she didn’t question him. It could wait.
When he’d finished everyone sat back, their expressions varying from horror to pity. All except Cal, who continued to eye Thomas with suspicion. “Then explain, if you can, why you’ve arranged for a large proportion of my sister’s fortune to be converted into gold—”
Honestly, her brother was like a dog with a bone sometimes. He never let go.
“—and made ready for collection the day after the ball.”
The day after the ball? Rose blinked. There had been no mention of that when she and Thomas had talked his plans over. Nevertheless she wasn’t going to raise it with him while Cal was in this hostile mood.
“Because he needs it to bring back the other five sailors, of course,” she said. “What did you think?”
Cal said sharply, “You knew about this?”
“Of course. Thomas told me all about it.” Almost all.
Cal snorted. “And you, of course, believe every word he says.”
“I do, as it happens,” Rose retorted, “and don’t you dare tell me I’m being naïve. I know him, you don’t.”
“So you’re willing to be impoverished on his say-so?”
“As a matter of fact Thomas signed it back over to me this morning—my entire fortune—all except the funds he needs for the rescue of those sailors.” She smiled at her sister. “Much as Ned did with Lily’s fortune.”
“You did what?” Cal stared at Ned, who smiled and shrugged as if he’d done nothing special. Cal turned back to Thomas. “Why would you do such a thing?’
“I have a legacy coming to me when I’m thirty from my late mother’s estate,” Thomas told him. “It should cover what we need. And I just found out today, there’s a house.” He glanced at Rose. “It’s only small, and I have no idea what condition it’s in, but it’s not far from here. We can go and look at it if you like.”
“A house!” Rose was thrilled. She was fed up with living in her brother’s house, especially since he kept on being so horrid to Thomas. “Where is it? Can we go and see it today? Do you have a key?”
And suddenly, just like that, the whole discussion of Thomas’s apparent perfidy was over. Everyone was much more interested in this house of Thomas’s. Or had decided to be in order to put a stop to the unpleasantness. Because it was the ladies who now took over the conversation.
“You only just found out about it, Mr. Beresford?” Emm asked.
He nodded. “My mother died when I was young. I barely remember her, and my father was away at sea for much of my childhood. I knew my mother had left me a legacy; I just never knew the details.”
He turned to Rose. “She left this house for the use of her beloved governess for her lifetime. Once the old lady died, it was to come to me, free and clear. The governess died some time ago and the house has been sitting empty for a month.” He stood. “It’s on Bird Street and I have a key. Would you like to see it?”
He didn’t need to ask twice. Rose jumped up. “I’ll fetch my hat and pelisse.”
“Can I come too?” Lily asked. “I love looking at houses and seeing how they can be made nicer.”
“Of course, the more the merrier,” Rose said. “I’d love your opinion, Lily darling—you did such a lovely job with your own house.”
“Then I’ll come too,” Emm decided. “As long as it’s not too far.”
* * *
* * *
In the end, they all walked around to Bird Street: Rose, her sister Lily, Lady Ashendon and Lady George, who said she wasn’t much interested in houses but could do with a walk. She brought, of course, her faithful hound. Galbraith came too, for escort purposes, he explained; he and Lily would walk home later. Even Ollie, having nothing better to do, trailed along.
It wasn’t quite what Thomas had envisaged, this family excursion to inspect the house, but that was the Rutherford family, he was learning. They did everything together. It wasn’t at all what he was used to.
Ashendon, of course, didn’t go. Claiming they had no need of him, he took himself off—for a nap, or a hot bath, Thomas suspected, watching the stiff way he walked. He himself was a little stiff, but he hadn’t taken the hiding Ashendon had.
Bird Street was only a ten-minute walk from Ashendon House. “It’s prettier than I expected,” Rose said as they approached it.
It was small and white, a narrow, three-story building, with five steps leading up to the front entrance. Wrought-iron railings protected the front, with steps at the side that led below street level to a tiny courtyard and an entrance into the domestic area, the kitchens and scullery.
On either side of the front door sat two heavy terra-cotta pots in which sat two wilted bushes. More sad-looking pots were arranged in the little courtyard below—Thomas recognized a bay tree and a rosemary bush among them, all looking distinctly neglected. George immediately decided to weed and water the poor things and commandeered a rather surprised Ollie to fetch and fill a bucket with water.
Inside, Thomas was relieved to see, the house was neat as a pin, a little dusty but otherwise immaculate, though the air was stale with disuse. The ladies explored, directing Thomas, Galbraith and Ollie to open windows to let fresh air in.
It was very much an old lady’s house, crammed with fussy little bits and pieces and a variety of spindly, mismatched, old-fashioned furniture that Thomas wouldn’t be game to sit on. Some of the stranger-looking pieces sported animal heads and feet.
“It’s charming,” Rose declared after the first whirlwind tour. “It has such potential.” She and the other women then went through the house more slowly, room by room, exclaiming, discussing and planning. Rose, having brought a small notebook and pencil with her, listed what was to be kept (very little), what discarded (most), and what was to be done to each room (everything).
Thomas watched, fascinated. It bore some resemblance to a military campaign.
Ollie, having been directed to move furniture, roll up rugs, open windows and carry buckets of water for thirsty plants, suddenly remembered he had an urgent appointment (unspecified) and left.
Galbraith, hands in pockets, leaned against the mantelpiece and observed indulgently. “Give the ladies their head,” he recommended. “Lily redecorated my house from top to bottom. Made it a place a man could come home to—wanted to come home to. Turned a house into a home.”
A home. Thomas thought about that. A place nobody could deny him. It had an appeal, even if he hadn’t ever thought of a small fussy house as the kind of home he’d feel comfortable in. He’d always thought of Brierdon Court as home. Until it wasn’t.
“Cal’s a good fellow,” Galbraith continued. “Tenacious, and can be irritatingly dogged when he gets a bee in his bonnet—as he has about you—but I couldn’t ask for a better friend. He’s just very protective of his family, especially his sisters.”
“I know.” Thomas might find Ashendon irritating in the extreme, but he couldn’t fault his protectiveness toward Rose.
“He won’t hold his thrashing against you, either.”
Thomas raised his brows. He’d believe that when he saw it.
“He can be a stubborn bastard, but underneath it all, he’s fair-minded. He knows he forced that fight on you. You warned him. Can’t blame you for what happened.”
>
Thomas said nothing. He wasn’t even sure what had happened. He couldn’t explain it if he tried.
“Saw a bit of that sort of thing during the war,” Galbraith continued quite as if they were having a nice cozy chat instead of a gratuitous one-sided conversation. “Put a man through hell, and then push him too far and he snaps. So, the galleys, was it?”
Thomas’s head snapped up. “How the hell did you know?”
Galbraith shrugged. “Educated guess. Can’t imagine house slaves being kept permanently in chains, for a start, and those scars on your ankles are from long-term wear. Then there’s the breadth of your shoulders, the state of your hands, general physique. So, I’m right, eh? How long?”
“Three years.”
Galbraith whistled. “You must be damned tough, to survive that long. How did you escape?”
Thomas’s smile was humorless. “A slight irony. We were attacked by pirates. I was, at the time, rowing in a pirate galley.” When he’d been sold, in a vicious act of revenge by his owners ashore, the galley captain had wanted to use him as a navigator—British naval men were valued for their skills. But Thomas had refused to work in the service of pirates so he’d been tossed in the galleys as a lesson. The captain had expected him to relent after a short time at the oars, but . . .
Ashendon wasn’t the only stubborn bastard around.
At the time of the attack, Thomas had thought his time had come. It was utter chaos, blinding smoke, the clashing of scimitars, the roar of guns, men yelling, screaming . . . praying. The galley slaves had stopped rowing and sat in their fetters, chained together, unable to move or fight, just waiting to live or die—for many of them it made no difference which.
And then, a giant African, bare-chested and with a gold earring, had leapt down among them and raised a huge, gleaming axe. “Nobody move,” he’d yelled in Arabic. Thomas braced himself. It wasn’t as if he could move—he’d been chained to his oar and his fellow slaves for months. Death by axe would be swift, at least—it was better than rotting in the galleys until he died. Or went insane as so many did.