In the Arms of the Heiress (A LADIES UNLACED NOVEL)

by Maggie Robinson

  Louisa swallowed, imagining Grace’s fury. “I think we should marry first. Then my aunt can’t have me committed to some insane asylum. You’d put a stop to that.”

  “I might. If you made it worth my while.”

  “Charles!” She couldn’t mistake the slow, burning look he gave her. It was plain what she could do—gladly—to keep him on her side.

  “Let’s worry about all this when we have to. You’re getting goose bumps, Lulu. Let’s go in the house and see if we have any more pests in our rooms. Besides Kathleen, I mean.”

  She didn’t even mind his calling her Lulu anymore. What on earth was wrong with her? “I’ll tell her you said that.”

  “Do. I’m anxious to see if she’ll keep her promise to not hit me on the head again.” He gave her a quick hug and pulled her up from the bench.

  It was nearly dark now. Lights blazed from Rosemont’s ground-floor windows, casting bright rectangles on the gray-green grass. Louisa could see the servants laying the dining room table, Griffith in the middle of everything making sure it was perfect. Sunday supper was usually lighter fare, but that didn’t mean the silver stayed in its velvet trays.

  A French door at the end of the west wing squeaked open. Odd. The gun room was in darkness, yet Louisa thought she saw a shadowy figure step out onto the lawn. She turned to Charles to ask if he saw it, too, but before she could frame her question, there was a report, a whizzing noise, and Lambkin’s head exploded in front of them, sending shards of granite flying over the path.

  Charles pitched backward, dragging her to the ground with him and rolling on top of her. Poor man—he’d done the same with his awful landlady when Louisa’s car engine misfired.

  “It’s all right, Charles. I’m fine,” she said in a soothing voice.

  He was dead weight on top of her. Quiet. Too quiet. Louisa touched his temple, staining her gloves with something dark.

  Blood.

  Charles had been shot. Her screams were enough to get the servants running, but not enough to wake him up.

  Chapter

  35

  No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. Louisa had spent her whole life making up stories and changing them around to suit her. In them, her parents never died, her aunt was warm and loving, Hugh didn’t pull her hair or put spiders in her bed.

  So Charles was not lying in her bed still as death, a jagged gash through his left eyebrow. Dr. Fentress had not been summoned to stitch it. She was not pressing a clean cloth on Charles’s forehead to stanch the bleeding.

  Instead, she and Charles were still on the garden bench, entwined in each other’s arms, professing their feelings with perfect words when they weren’t sharing perfect kisses. Planning to marry. They would rise in a few minutes and take a different path to the house, one where there were no gunshots and shattered grotesques. They would have a convivial meal with her relatives, where there was no subtext of disapproval.

  When Louisa was a little girl, she’d clasp her hands in front of her and screw up her eyes, almost seeing those alternate lives she’d constructed. A tear escaped and she brushed it away with impatience. Now was not the time to lose herself in fairyland.

  Kathleen and Robertson stood behind her. It was Robertson who’d come running first, picking Charles up as if he weighed nothing and carrying him all the way upstairs to their suite. The maids had still been armed with cleaning solvents and rags, but they’d scurried away at Kathleen’s orders.

  “Why won’t he wake up?”

  “Now, Miss Louisa. He’s got a right hard head, we all know that. Give him some time. I’m sure he’ll be fine. Better than new when he comes to.”

  Louisa wasn’t fooled by Kathleen’s little speech. “What if he’s not? What if he doesn’t recognize me or even know who he is?”

  “You’ve been reading too many books. Amnesia is much rarer than those authors would have you think. It’s a lazy plot device, if you want my opinion.”

  Louisa didn’t. She was much too heartsick to argue about low forms of literature. “What can be keeping Dr. Fentress?”

  “The poor man only just got home a few hours ago. It’s not easy being at Rosemont’s beck and call twenty-four hours a day. Your aunt keeps him on a short leash.”

  “Maybe he should just move in.” Aunt Grace had never been sick until recently, but the doctor had been underfoot for years. If they were courting, they just should get on with it at their age and make it legal. “Look! Did you see that? His eyelids fluttered! Charles! Can you speak? It’s Louisa. Lulu.”

  Charles gave no indication that he heard her. At least his breathing was steady, although he looked like the marble effigies she’d seen in churches all across Europe.

  “Maybe it’s best he’s unconscious, miss,” Robertson said. “I’ve been stitched up a time or two and it’s not much fun.”

  “And he’s very lucky he wasn’t actually shot,” Kathleen added. “Just hit with a chunk of rock.”

  Yes, there was that. But someone had shot at him. Or her. Louisa cursed herself a thousand ways for coming back home.

  “Robertson, I want you to stay up here with us. You can sleep in Charles’s room. He needs a bodyguard. Kathleen, I want you to go to the village inn tomorrow and fetch all our food. I don’t want to take any chances.”

  “What about tonight?”

  “I’m too upset to eat anything, and if Charles wakes up, he’s likely to be sick again. Nausea happens with head injuries. Oh, I can’t believe this is happening.” She wrung her hands, feeling just like a distressed heroine in some grisly gothic novel.

  There was a knock on the door. “It’s Griffith, Miss Louisa. Mrs. Evensong would like a word with you if it’s not too inconvenient.”

  Louisa had hoped for Dr. Fentress. “I’ll meet with her in the sitting room. Kathleen, stay with him and let me know if there’s any change.” She bent and gave Charles a lingering kiss, hoping he’d waken just like Sleeping Beauty or Snow White. Alas, her mouth was just an ordinary thing, not capable of rousing him in any visible way.

  Mrs. Evensong had dressed for the dinner that was now delayed, if not canceled altogether. She wore a handsome black velvet dress spangled with jet and black lace gloves. Louisa was surprised to see how neat her figure was for an older woman.

  “Let us sit down, my dear. You must be worried to death.”

  Louisa followed her to the sofa. “He asked me to marry him, and I said yes,” she blurted. “I can’t lose him.”

  “My, you have had a busy few days. I won’t keep you from his bedside for long, but I wanted to let you know I am doing everything in my power to get to the bottom of the rot at Rosemont. We can’t have any more accidents, can we? If I’m not successful in the next day or two, it might be best for you both to leave when Captain Cooper is sufficiently recovered.”

  Louisa nodded. “I agree. But Charles is so stubborn—he thinks it would be cowardly for me to go and leave Aunt Grace in charge. But if anything happens to him—” She could not finish the sentence. Charles had become so important to her in such a short time she simply didn’t know how she could go on without him.

  “I sincerely hope nothing else will. You watch yourself as well—that bullet might have been meant for you. Now, I’m off to have a sherry with your aunt in a little while. She doesn’t quite know what to make of me, nor I of her, but I expect we’ll sort it all out. But first, I think a visit belowstairs is in order. Do you know I’ve placed quite a few of your servants here? I’ll just check on how they’re doing, and perhaps someone will tell me something useful about all these attempts of mischief. Servants always know everything.”

  Mischief. An understatement if there ever was one. A bullet escalated everything. She might never forget the sight and feel of Charles lying inert and insensate on top of her.

  But it might have been so much worse.

  �
��I have an idea.”

  “What is it, my dear?”

  “When Charles wakes up, he could pretend to be more badly injured than he is.” Louisa prayed he’d wake up fully intact, his mind sharp and all his perfect body parts in perfect working order.

  Mrs. Evensong’s brows knit. They were rusty, nothing like the silver hair on her head. “Go on.”

  “If the person who shot at us knows they were nearly successful, they might let their relief show. Gloat. Show guilt by making some sort of suspicious comment to you. Even, God forbid, get careless and make another attempt to kill him. We’d protect Charles, of course. I can’t let anything else happen to him.”

  “Your idea has quite a lot of merit. I’m disappointed that I did not think of it myself,” Mrs. Evensong said. “Now all we have to do is hope he wakes up soon so he can conspire with us. Good night, Miss Stratton. Keep your young man safe.”

  Impulsively, Louisa gave the woman a hug. Without her monstrous black hats and umbrella, she was much less formidable. “Thank you, Mrs. Evensong.”

  “There, there.” Mrs. Evensong fished out a handkerchief from the little jet-beaded bag at her wrist. “Keep it. I have another in there. One can never be too prepared, can one?”

  “I hate to cry,” Louisa said, after blowing her nose in a most unladylike manner.

  “Don’t view tears as a sign of weakness. They just show your strength. You care a great deal—that’s a good thing. Many people just float through life not attaching themselves to anything.” There was a wistful look on Mrs. Evensong’s remarkably unwrinkled face. She gave Louisa a quick hug and left her on the gray sofa.

  It was a comfort to know that the businesswoman would stay a few days. When Louisa had invited her to Rosemont, she really had not expected her to come. Mount Street had been a hive of activity the day she’d taken tea there—the Evensong Agency had a network that probably extended to the household of King Edward himself. Mrs. Evensong employed a great many people of her own at the employment agency. The offices were crammed to the corners with desks and typewriters and eager young people talking on cast brass telephones. Louisa wondered who was in charge with Mrs. Evensong away, but then, Mrs. Evensong was always prepared, wasn’t she?

  Louisa returned to the bedroom, where she was relieved to see Dr. Fentress there and closing Charles’s wound. “There you are, Louisa. Don’t you worry; I haven’t lost my touch. There will be the faintest of scars. Looks like he’s already had some work done in the area before. How was his eye injured? On safari, wasn’t it?”

  “Um. Yes, I think so. Well before we met. One of his companions had an itchy trigger finger and poor M-Max got in the way. Lucky for the lion,” answered Louisa. Kathleen, who was holding the doctor’s tray of surgical instruments, rolled her eyes.

  “That’s what he said at dinner. Odd. I thought Grace said it was a boxing match. Hugh is raring to test your husband’s skills in the arena once his health is restored.”

  “Uh, there was a boxing match, too. I was confused. But he doesn’t box anymore. I won’t let him.” She really should stop prevaricating. Charles was right. It was time to tell the truth. Keeping the lies straight was an all-day affair.

  “Then you’d better speak to him again. Mr. Norwich decked your cousin the other night without much warning. I will say Hugh was being provoking—what can you expect from the boy when all his dreams are dashed?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Surely you know he wanted to marry you. It was the fondest wish of his mother also.”

  “I can’t see why,” said Louisa. “All they ever do is criticize me.”

  “Only because they care about you, my dear.”

  Louisa didn’t want to waste time arguing when Charles’s life was in danger. “When will we know how he is?”

  “That’s hard to say. Kathleen told me what you told her—he took a sharp blow to the head and then fell backward, hitting his head again before he rolled you to safety. He should be monitored. I’ll spend the night, but I expect you’ll want to do the actual monitoring. My housekeeper will be delighted to be rid of me again.”

  Housekeeper. Damn. Mrs. Lang was probably put out with her for not telling her about Mrs. Evensong’s visit, but she hadn’t expected it herself. When Louisa had a free minute, she’d apologize to the old dragon. Not that she wanted to—she’d just as soon show the woman the door. While Rosemont was beautifully run, Louisa could not feel comfortable under the housekeeper’s disapproving glare. She’d never measure up to her aunt.

  Oh, she wished she’d never come home. But then she never would have needed a real fake husband, and never hired Charles. She’d never know what it was like to be kissed and so masterfully touched. Treasured. She wouldn’t have laughed half so much or felt such compassion. Louisa had been racketing about and avoiding reality this past year, but now she had a reason to be still and listen to her heart.

  It was rather a surprise to find out she had one. After Sir Richard, she’d locked it up as securely as Aunt Grace had imprisoned her at Rosemont.

  “Thank you, Dr. Fentress. If—when—he wakes, I will call for you.”

  “It looks like you have plenty of support. Take turns during the night and get some rest of your own,” the doctor said, patting her shoulder. “I’ll leave my bag and instruments here in case they’re needed, but no doctoring him yourself, my dear, except to change the dressing if necessary. He might thrash about and loosen it in his sleep.”

  Louisa nodded. Once the doctor left, the three of them stood somewhat helplessly around Charles’s bed. “Kathleen, why don’t you and Robertson go down to the servants’ hall and get some supper? I’ll take the first shift.”

  “If you’re sure you’ll be all right by yourself. Shall I bring up tea when I come back?”

  “Only if you’re positive it’s not poisoned. Perhaps I’m being foolish. The mushrooms may have been an accident. But the fleas did not find their way into Charles’s underclothes by themselves, and I hardly think a poacher was in the garden.” She sat down on a chair close to the bed and touched Charles’s cheek. “Oh, if I care anything about him at all, I should send him away.”

  “He won’t go, miss.”

  Louisa looked at Robertson in surprise. “How do you know?”

  “He came to talk to me this morning before church. I offered to hold still if he wanted to punch me to pay me back for the other night. He’s a fine fellow, miss—said he knew you’d not had an easy time of it even if you did have pots of money, and Kathleen was right to be worried about you. We talked about this and that, man-to-man. It’s my opinion he cares about you something fierce. I ken how the captain feels—I care about my Kathleen the same way.”

  “Hush, Robbie.”

  “I do. I’m not too proud to say it. We’d like to get married, Miss Louisa, once things here are settled. I know it’s not the right time to bring it up, what with you fretting about the captain and all. But things will be all right—wait and see.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Louisa wondered if she looked quite so stupid as Kathleen did as she grinned up at her lover. Probably so. Love had a way of knocking sense and dignity right out of one.

  “Oh!” Robertson slapped his forehead. “I meant to give this back to the captain. You may have need of it tonight.” Sheepishly, the chauffeur reached into his jacket and pulled out Charles’s missing gun. “Sorry,” he said.

  “I know, it’s all Kathleen’s fault,” Louisa replied, shoving the revolver in a drawer. “Go on, you two. And don’t hurry back. I probably won’t sleep a wink tonight anyway.”

  The truth was, she wanted to be left alone with Charles. She clenched her fists together and squinted as she’d done so many times when she was a little girl, imagining him leaping from the bed and striding to the window to watch the whitecaps below. He’d invite her to walk on the beach in just her nightdress
. Louisa hastily changed the time of year in her mind to high summer, where the breeze from the sea would be temperate and the sand still warm from the day’s sun. They would walk awhile, the water rushing around their bare feet. Charles would give her a look—she could see his expression clearly under a full moon—and pull her night rail up over her head. His head would dip to tug her swollen nipple into his hot mouth. Her knees would buckle and he would hold her fast, working his fingers and tongue and teeth on her sensitive flesh until she didn’t have a coherent thought in her head. His hand would find her needy center and prepare her for what was to come—what she craved—and the scattered stars would flash inside her eyelids before he thrust within her.

  The image was so real, her pulse sped and her breath quickened. Wake up wake up wake up, she begged. Make this waking dream true someday. Please, Charles—

  Suddenly, he shifted and thrashed on the bed as if he were under attack. “No, goddammit, no!” There was an unearthly howl, and then Charles—her strong, steady Charles—began to sob as if his heart were shattered.

  “Charles! You’re dreaming! Wake up, love.” She tried to hug him, but in his nightmare he pushed her away.

  It took a long moment for him to come to, sitting up in the bed, his face a mask of pain.

  “My God.” He was so quiet, Louisa feared he’d gone under again.

  She grasped his hand, which was dead weight in hers. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  A full minute passed. “I don’t know. Nothing. Everything. Did I hurt you?” He slipped his hand free.

  “No, of course not. You’d never hurt me,” Louisa said, smoothing the sheet back down on his chest. Never intentionally, of that she was certain.

  “Oh, wouldn’t I? You really don’t know what I’m capable of.” He cocked his head, then shook it, wincing at the movement. “What happened to me?”

  “Someone shot at us. Or at Lambkin, really. Pieces of the statue flew everywhere and one hit you.”