When Arabella caught up to Aunt Flora and the rest of the party in the arsenal, she was still smiling, even when her aunt quietly harangued her for disappearing. Nothing could dampen her spirits today. Nothing at all.
Chapter 5
Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings!
Lord Byron, “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage”
Storm clouds were gathering over the Savoy Alps in great towering piles of bruised purple and gunmetal gray, casting the forested slopes and the castle of Chillon below into dark shadow.
Gabriel cursed beneath his breath as he urged his mount into a brisk canter; he doubted he’d make it to Maison du Lac before the tempest hit. He was about to get soaked.
When he set out from his villa just outside of Villeneuve for the six-mile journey to Clarens, it was true there had been an ominous mass of snowy white cumulus clouds in the brilliant blue sky, as was to be expected on such a sultry afternoon, but impulsive numbskull that he was, he ignored them. Of course, just as he’d expected, within the space of fifteen minutes, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. But he’d promised Miss Arabella Jardine she would have her letter from Lady Charlotte Hastings, and he was—if nothing else—a man of his word. Storm or no, she would receive it.
Thunder growled, and a brisk wind whipped at his hair and riding coat as he bent low over his horse—a fine bay gelding—and urged it into a gallop as they cleared the outskirts of Montreux and continued to follow the meandering lakeside road. Despite the fact that he was about to get caught in a storm, it felt good to be doing something useful for once. Bestowing a small act of kindness upon a relative stranger. And an intriguing one at that.
When Arabella Jardine had wandered across the cold stony floor of Chillon’s dungeon, Gabriel had been quite inexplicably transfixed by the sight of her. He’d waited in the shadows, torn between the desire to reveal his presence, as a gentleman should, and to observe her progress. Mired in frustration about the complete lack of progress he’d made in trying to find his mother over the past few months, he’d decided—on a whim—to visit Chillon and sketch its famous dungeon. The chill, dank, desolate setting seemed to fit his mood perfectly.
And then he’d seen her. A breath of summer and sunshine in the cool gloom. A vision in shades of yellow and spring green with her guinea gold curls spilling from the confines of pins and bonnet. As she’d passed by one of the dungeon’s windows and the light had illuminated her simple splendor, a line from “The Prisoner of Chillon” had sprung into his mind. With her slender form, gilded by sunlight, she was like “a sunbeam which hath lost its way, / And through the crevice and the cleft / Of the thick wall is fallen and left, / Creeping o’er the floor so damp, / Like a marsh’s meteor lamp.”
Yet that description didn’t capture her fearlessness—for how many young women would venture into a dungeon alone?—or the tender heart lurking beneath. When she removed her gloves and touched Bonivard’s pillar with her bare hand, the bereft expression washing over her face had made the breath catch in Gabriel’s chest. Who is this intriguing young woman? he’d burned to know.
So he stepped out of the dark shadows and made her acquaintance. And he hadn’t been disappointed. While Miss Arabella Jardine blushed at his mild attempts at flirtation, she hadn’t been afraid to speak her mind; he was certain no one in recent memory had dared to assert he was peculiar. With her blond curls, fair countenance, and wide hazel eyes—a veritable kaleidoscope of brown and green and gold—she clearly had no idea how attractive she was. True, she wasn’t a conventional beauty, considering she wore spectacles and possessed a tiny gap between her two front teeth, but to his practiced eye—as both a libertine and aspiring artist—she was quite visually captivating. Guileless, even fierce in her honesty, she was the most refreshing, fascinating female he’d encountered in a long time.
So perhaps it wasn’t only honor—a quality he would freely admit he didn’t possess a great deal of at times—that had driven him to make this ill-advised dash to her door . . .
Miss Arabella Jardine certainly wasn’t the sort of woman he usually pursued. When he’d learned her name, and the fact that she was good friends with Nate’s sister, Charlie, he knew he most definitely shouldn’t make a conquest of her even though the base male in him would very much like to. Yes, he’d have to keep a tight rein on his control when he saw Miss Jardine again. His reckless urges had landed him in dire trouble on more than one occasion in his life. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake this afternoon.
Once Gabriel entered the picturesque village of Clarens, the first heavy raindrops had begun to fall. By the time he paused to seek directions to the Maison du Lac at a small lakeside inn, the shower had turned into a downpour. But Gabriel’s destination was less than a mile away, and he reasoned that getting drenched had never killed anyone. While he could wait out the storm at the inn, drinking cider and supping on meltingly soft cheese and fresh bread, there was no guarantee it would be over anytime soon—at least according to the innkeeper. And at the moment, it seemed to be more of a rainstorm than a violent cataclysm of the elements.
However, as Gabriel continued along the narrow country lane that would lead him to Arabella’s villa, conditions rapidly deteriorated, and he realized much too late that his hubris had turned him into a king-sized fool. He seemed to be in the center of a wild maelstrom of wind and water and crashing thunder. White-hot flashes of lightning blinded him while driving rain slapped at him, and it took all his concentration and strength to stay in the saddle and safely steer his terrified mount. To his left, the lake itself—usually so calm and serene—had been whipped into a frenzy by the cruel, stinging lash of the wind. The oak and chestnut trees lining the lane to his right bowed and tossed in the face of the bullying onslaught.
Thank God he could see wrought iron gates up ahead. And the glimmer of lamp-lit windows beyond.
As he approached the open gates, he was obliged to slow down. One of the gates swung wildly back and forth in the wind, the shriek of its protesting hinges making his horse shy, and his booted foot slid from a stirrup. Cursing profusely, Gabriel somehow maintained his seat, but then disaster struck. Deafening thunder boomed like a cannon, reverberating through him, and an oak tree beside the gate seemed to explode in a volley of violent sparks.
His mount reared, front hooves flailing, and Gabriel plummeted onto the gravel drive.
Fucking hell.
He landed heavily on his side, and searing pain shot through his body, momentarily robbing him of breath and thought and sight. When he managed to crack open an eye, he saw, through a haze of agony and sheeting rain, his horse dashing toward the house. It wasn’t that far to shelter and help. If he could just get up . . .
Sucking in a shuddering breath, Gabriel tried to lever himself upward, but another wave of excruciating pain crashed through him. Bloody, blazing hell, I’ve buggered my shoulder, was the last thought that flashed through his mind, right before darkness crowded his vision and blessed oblivion claimed him.
* * *
* * *
Arabella sat in the window seat of Maison du Lac’s spacious drawing room, riveted by the spectacle of the wild summer storm as it swept down from the mountains and across the lake, turning the sunny afternoon into the darkest night. She’d never witnessed such a stunning display; the flickering sheet lightning and jagged thunderbolts slashing across the sky took her breath away.
Behind her, Aunt Flora lay moaning upon a chaise longue, a lavender-scented towel draped across her eyes as Lilias held her hand.
“Draw the curtains, Arabella, and light the lamps instead,” her cousin bid in a beseeching tone after a particularly bright flash of lightning lit the room. “The storm is making Mama’s megrim worse.”
Arabella sighed. She knew from experience that Aunt Flora didn’t have a megrim at all; although she’d never admit it, she was afraid of storms. But Arabella did
n’t wish to make her aunt’s attack of nerves worse, so she did as she was asked.
“Are you sure she can’t have any more laudanum?” Lilias added as Arabella drew close. “Mama’s bottle of Kendal’s Black Drop is empty, but I know you have plenty in that frightful medical bag of yours.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Arabella. It secretly amused her that Aunt Flora and Lilias loathed the fact that she insisted on taking Grandfather’s old leather physician’s bag wherever she went. But whenever they needed something to treat any sort of ailment—from a megrim to an aching tooth to a bout of indigestion—they had no trouble asking her for it whatsoever. “It isn’t a good idea to have too much.”
“And who told you that?” Aunt Flora pulled the towel from her forehead. Her pale blue eyes were hard and accusing as she looked up at Arabella from the pile of silk cushions behind her head. “Just because you spent years gallivanting about with my father, pretending to be a doctor, doesn’t mean that you are one. My physician says I may have as much as I need.”
Arabella shook her head as she took in her aunt’s constricted pupils and her generally agitated state. She already relied on the strong drug too much for Arabella’s liking. Laudanum was certainly a useful drug for reducing significant pain and fever, but her grandfather had always warned his patients about the dangers of overuse. And it seemed that, of late, her aunt had come to rely on it more and more.
“Why don’t I ring for some nice herbal tea?” she suggested. “Chamomile always helps megrims. Or would you like some of Mrs. Kerr’s orgeat cordial? I’m sure she’d be more than amenable to sharing it if I said it was for you.” As far as Arabella knew, the minister’s wife was napping upstairs—or hiding from Aunt Flora, who’d been nothing but querulous since their return from Chillon in the early afternoon. Dr. Kerr and Bertie were hiding in Maison du Lac’s small library at the back of the house. “If you prefer something a little stronger, I think there might be a nice sweet sherry on the tray in the dining room too.”
Aunt Flora sniffed. “I know one shouldn’t drink before dinner, but a sherry might help.”
Arabella nodded. “Of course.” She crossed the carpeted room and pushed through the elegant silk-paneled doors into the dining room. There was enough ambient light filtering in from the drawing room for her to see by as she poured a small measure of the sherry into a twist-stemmed crystal glass.
Lilias’s sweet fluting voice was almost drowned out by the furious drumming of the rain and the pummeling wind. “Might I have one—”
An earsplitting crack of thunder shook the house at the very same moment lightning illuminated the room in a blinding flash. Lilias and Aunt Flora screamed and Arabella jumped, dropping the sherry all over the floor.
Good heavens, that was close. Her heart crashing against her ribs, Arabella peered through the leaded panes of the dining room window and the veils of scudding rain beyond. Had the lightning struck something? A tree? Out of the corner of her eye, she was certain she’d seen a flare of light, a shower of glowing sparks. It was difficult to see, but as she pressed her nose to the window, something else caught her eye—a dark shape bolting straight for the house. Was that a horse?
Oh, God. It was. A riderless horse. Before the panicked beast disappeared from view around the side of the house, Arabella caught a fleeting glimpse of an empty saddle.
So where is the rider? On the drive or somewhere farther down the lane or even on the road? There was only one way to find out.
Picking up her skirts, Arabella dashed from the room, ignoring Aunt Flora’s demand to explain where she was going. In the entry hall, she almost collided with Bertie.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, gripping her by the shoulders. “Is Lilias all right?”
“Yes. But there’s a riderless horse outside,” she said, slipping away from him. “I’m worried someone has taken a fall.”
Bertie’s mouth was agape as she grabbed a random coat off a hook by the door—a garrick—and threw it about her shoulders. “Are you mad? You’re not seriously going out in that, are you? It’s far too dangerous.”
But Arabella was already hauling the heavy wooden door open. A squall of stinging, icy rain flung itself across the threshold, making her gasp. “Well, somebody has to,” she called over her shoulder as she stepped onto the portico. Pulling in a bracing breath, she bent her head and plunged into the storm.
Blinded by the driving rain and cutting lash of the wind, Arabella ran pell-mell down the drive, slowing her pace as she drew closer to the gate. An ancient oak had been struck; one of its enormous branches had been ripped away from the trunk and then was tossed upon the gravel like a severed limb.
Then something else shifted just beyond the felled branch. A dense black form like a hunched-over figure.
A man.
Thank heavens she’d trusted her instincts.
Dropping to her knees when she reached the man’s side, Arabella prayed he was only unconscious. She reached out to touch his shoulder, to turn him over as he was facedown on the drive, but when he shifted and moaned, she stopped herself. What if he’d injured his back or his neck? If that were the case, she must be very careful when moving him. She didn’t want to make his injuries worse.
She might need to summon Bertie, Dr. Kerr, and one of Maison du Lac’s manservants to help. If only Bertie had followed—
The man gave a great shuddering moan and lurched upward into a sitting position.
Thank God he was all right. Well, relatively all right considering the most indecent profanity Arabella had ever heard suddenly burst from his lips.
“Fucking hell.”
Arabella blinked in surprise. “Lord Langdale?”
The earl turned to look at her; even though the rain had plastered his black curls against his forehead, and mud was smeared across one cheek, Arabella immediately recognized his too-handsome face. And then there was that distinctive, deeply rasping voice of his.
“Miss Jardine.” Lord Langdale’s mouth twisted into a rictus of pain as he attempted to smile. “This is not what I had in mind for our next encounter.”
“I should hope not.” Arabella touched the arm he was leaning on. “You’re injured. Tell me what I can do to help you up and get you inside.”
“I rather think I’ve dislocated my shoulder,” he said. “The left one.”
Arabella ran her gaze over him. It was difficult to tell if that was the case given the earl wore a riding coat, and in the pouring rain, visibility was poor. However, he was certainly favoring his left arm. “Well, you have got yourself into a wee pickle then, haven’t you?” she said.
He gave a snort of laughter then grimaced. “Yes indeed.”
“Do you think you can stand? You can lean on me if you need to.”
“Yes . . .” He sat up straighter and even that small movement made him gasp. “I’ll try very hard not to swear, but I hope you can forgive me if I do.”
“I assure you, I won’t think any less of you, my lord.”
By the time they reached the villa’s portico, Arabella had learned quite a few more colorful curses. Some had put her to the blush. One or two she thought she might file away in her head for future reference.
Bertie at last stepped forward to lend his assistance as they struggled up the short flight of stairs. Lord Langdale had leaned on her shoulder the whole way, and she was grateful for the reprieve. She was more than a tad out of breath.
“Be careful,” she warned as Bertie took her place beside the earl. “Lord Langdale may have dislocated his shoulder.”
Bertie’s eyebrows shot up to meet his coppery hairline. “Lord Langdale? The Earl of Langdale?”
“I’m afraid so, old chap.” In the light of the entry hall, Arabella could see how pale Lord Langdale was beneath his tanned face, and deep grooves of strain bracketed his wide mouth. “So sorry to darken your doorway like
this. But needs must when the devil drives, as they say.”
“This is Bertie Arbuthnott, my lord,” offered Arabella, shrugging off the sodden greatcoat and tossing it onto a wooden bench by the door. “My cousin-in-law, so to speak.”
Lord Langdale gave a quick nod. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Arbuthnott. Is there somewhere I could sit—”
“Bertie. What on earth is going on?” Lilias appeared in the vestibule, followed by a grave-looking Dr. Kerr and an astonished Mrs. Kerr. “Goodness.” Her mouth dropped open when she took in the sight of the sopping wet earl leaning on her husband and then Arabella, who was equally soaked to the skin. She threw her an accusing look. “What have you done now, Arabella?”
Ignoring Lilias, Arabella addressed Bertie. “Let’s get Lord Langdale somewhere quiet and warm. The library perhaps? And I’d like some towels.” To the minister she said, “Would you mind fetching my medical bag, Dr. Kerr? Or ask one of the servants to? It’s the large brown leather bag in my room. On the chest of drawers by the door.”
To her surprise, Lilias jumped in. “I’ll get it,” she said and rushed from the room, heading up the stairs.
Arabella frowned. Lilias was never helpful.
Before she could think on it further, Mrs. Kerr pinned Arabella with a disapproving glare and said in a clipped tone, “If someone is injured, don’t you think we should send for a real physician? And how do we know this man actually is Lord Langdale? I’m assuming you mean the Earl of Langdale from Cumberland. He’s never set foot in Almack’s to my knowledge, so I wouldn’t know if it is him or not. And neither would you, Miss Jardine, because your aunt tells me you’ve never set foot in Almack’s either. This stranger you’ve just brought into the house could be anyone.”
Arabella glanced after Bertie and Lord Langdale. They were already making their way to the library at the back of the villa. Had the earl overheard? She supposed it didn’t matter if he had. She was certain he wouldn’t give a brass farthing if Eleanor Kerr doubted his identity. As to her other charge, that she, Arabella, wasn’t really qualified to treat anyone who was injured, Arabella would clearly explain to Lord Langdale what she could or couldn’t do for him after she’d made an assessment, and then he could decide if he wanted her help or not.
How to Catch an Errant Earl Page 6