Regency Scandals and Scoundrels: A Regency Historical Romance Collection

by Scarlett Scott

  “Your stubbornness is very taxing.”

  She looked slightly amused at that.

  “But for the sake of my aunt—the woman you met last night, and who advocated so soundly for you—I shall overlook my own feelings of annoyance in the hope that you will regain your power of speech sometime soon.”

  Lost in thought, he regarded her without properly focusing on her. Then he said, “You need a name. I am going nearly mad just addressing you in such generic ways. It also makes me feel unnecessarily rude. I thought, perhaps, that for the sake of conversation, I could call you ‘Brooke’.” Will gave her a smirk. “In honor of the obvious. Unless you think it too trying to be reminded of your misadventure, whatever it was.”

  After a few seconds, her head bobbed in agreement. She looked pleased that he was no longer dwelling on her pronounced silence.

  Miss Brooke stared openly at him as though she found him dashing, but Will suspected that she, like he assumed everyone else did, did not—he felt she was perversely interested in the state of his face.

  “Why do you look at me so intently?” He smiled faintly. “Never mind. I know you won’t answer, and I also wouldn’t want to hear your answer.”

  There was, oddly, gratitude in her eyes as well as some curiosity. No doubt, she was memorizing his features so that she could enthrall her friends with his description as soon as she was away from him.

  I wish she would just go. It wouldn’t do. He was not going to be stared at like an exotic creature.

  “Now, I shall take a look at you. I should be able to tell more about your present state in the light of day.” He stood. “It doesn’t seem like it, but my eyesight is very sound under the right conditions. Daylight. Bright lamplight.”

  His announcement seemed to alarm her. She shifted uncomfortably, her legs twitching under the blanket. He knew that the thought of being examined in a thorough manner often scared women, and she had been unconscious last night when he tended her. “You have no need to be frightened, Miss Brooke,” he said. “I shall not make you undress or expose yourself in any way. Your welts are obvious enough.”

  She colored profusely at his frankness.

  Will was both charmed and satisfied that he had managed to set her off-kilter.

  She raised her arms slightly as though inviting him to look at her. Will perched on the very edge of the chaise, eyeing her fair skin and the condition of the marks against it. She really was nearly ashen in her paleness because she had been so fevered, so the welts were stark—angry crimson ringing purple, with some of them bearing small, open cuts.

  He felt a flash of protective rage.

  “I suppose you have no wish to reveal who did this to you?” he asked calmly.

  She shook her head.

  “Might I ask a few questions to determine if you are safe in your accommodation? You can merely nod or shake your head.”

  She bit her full lower lip. Then nodded.

  “Very well. Are you married?” Will went right for the obvious question.

  Miss Brooke shook her head.

  “Then do you live with family, or…” he trailed off, waiting for her response.

  She nodded halfheartedly.

  “Your mother and father?”

  She shook her head. No.

  “Other relations?”

  No, again.

  “Your mother?”

  No.

  “Your father?” Will couldn’t stop his wince.

  Miss Brooke nodded. Just once.

  It was not standard practice for a physician, but he occasionally had asked women he suspected were being mistreated the same sorts of questions. The wrenching thing was, there was little he could really do even if they disclosed who had abused them. Sometimes, there were ways that he could persuade them to abandon their abuser to seek sanctuary in almshouses, or missions, or with family and bosom friends.

  These things did not always have happy endings, though, as he well knew.

  “Your reticence to speak only protects the person who mistreated you,” said Will, reverting to a stiff brand of formal distance because he smarted at the world’s injustice. Daughters, like wives, were most widely considered property. It was an optimist’s foolish hope that said things should be otherwise.

  He was an optimist.

  Without another word, he proceeded to observe her wounds. It appeared that she had been badly beaten, with the brunt of the blows reaching her arms and shoulders. The light gown she wore had no sleeves and, perhaps, his aunt had chosen the attire in deference to Miss Brooke’s welts. He did not really need to move anything aside to see.

  Some of the welts disappeared below the neckline onto her back. From the way she sat, he could infer that she was still in pain. She would be for some time, he feared. Though he was utterly bothered by her mistreatment, he remained calm, almost taciturn, and asked that she show him her ankle.

  She hesitated.

  “I already wrapped it last night,” Will reminded her. “I need to see how it is faring.”

  Miss Brooke sighed.

  Will shook his head at her and clamped down on his flaring anger. “I could just take you back to Brookfield and leave you in the square—I’m sure someone would claim you.” It was cruel of him, but the words just slipped out before he could think better of them.

  To his amazement, rather than show signs of sadness, her eyes threw him a challenge. She gathered the quilt away from her legs and drew up her skirts a little to reveal her ankle. Surprised but pleased, he got up and went to the end of the chaise to see. Gently, far more gently than his unkind speech, he undid the wrapping and let out a slow breath. Her ankle was still swollen, and badly. It was at least two times its normal size.

  Is it actually broken? He didn’t think so.

  Very carefully, he pressed into her flesh with his fingertips and she gave a squeak of pain.

  His fingers told him he had been right, and it was only a sprain, if a bad one. Good. No breaks at all.

  “My apologies, Miss Brooke.” He met her eyes. “I shall apply an ointment that will help the pain and, to some extent, the swelling.” Will got up and went to the corridor outside the parlor. He’d thought he’d heard Marcus wandering about. The man was not a quiet walker due to his size. “Marcus?”

  He could still, however, appear out of nowhere, which was always mildly impressive. He did so, now, probably using one of the servants’ passages that led between rooms. His ruddy, massive face appeared in Will’s sights before the rest of him did.

  “Your Grace?” Marcus asked.

  “Fetch the green pot of balm that is in my bedroom on the dressing table.”

  “Certainly.”

  Marcus stomped off and Will returned to Miss Brooke. “I make it myself and use it on my cheeks.” He motioned to the hollows of his cheekbones. “They still pain me, sometimes.”

  There was a question in her eyes.

  “How long have I been this way?”

  She inclined her head in an affirmative.

  “Months. But there was some damage to the muscles, of course, so I think that’s why there is a lingering ache.”

  If he was not mistaken, Miss Brooke then looked at him with sympathy.

  “No, Miss Brooke, you must not feel sorry for me,” he said, with a bravado he did not feel. “It could have been much worse. There was a time when I did not know if I’d ever be able to see again.”

  Her expression turned horrified.

  “Well, as I said, I can, now.” He winced a little as he briefly and unwillingly recalled his trajectory from blind man, to a slightly less blind, scuttling creature, to someone with half his previous sense of sight, to his ability now.

  It was Peter who suggested that the blindness had been more mental than physical, and Will could not provide evidence that Peter was off the mark. His eyes, so far as he had been told, had miraculously not been physically marred. Ergo, Peter maintained, the blindness had to be mostly, if not entirely, a trick. It amounte
d to the same thing.

  He was saved from making further conversation on the subject when Marcus arrived in the parlor doorway. “Thank you, Marcus.” Will took the ceramic pot and went back to the chaise.

  Marcus gave him a little salute paired with a smile. “Your Grace.”

  Miss Brooke stared at the giant man as he lumbered away, then glanced back at Will with a raised eyebrow.

  “He’s much scarier than he looks. But as my aunt has told you, that is something he and I have in common.”

  Softly, he began to pat the ointment onto her ankle as he spoke. Touching her bare skin this way felt very intimate, especially as the ointment turned oily and warm. He felt a small amount of alarm at the tingle that spread through his arm. It was completely unprofessional, as well as ridiculous. It’s just because you haven’t treated anyone in months, much less touched a woman, he chided himself. He ignored the sensation and continued to focus his attention on the task at hand.

  She didn’t utter a noise as he spread the substance thickly onto her ankle, but he caught her grimaces of pain when he glanced up toward her face.

  When he was done, he placed the pot of ointment alongside the paper, quill, and ink. His arm still tingled and his heart was fluttering within him. He did his best to disregard it.

  Will cleared his throat. “You have seen the way I applied this to your ankle. I recommend that you do the same every morning and evening. The swelling should go down sooner. You are quite fortunate not to have broken any bones during the fall that I presume you must have had by the brook.”

  Again, she ignored his reference to last night’s incident.

  Lips half-parted, Miss Brooke observed him in an open manner that he was beginning to see was characteristic of her nature. This time, however, there was some regret in her eyes, along with the evidence of pain and a measure of gratitude. He wondered at the combination, but dared not mention it for fear he would shatter her comfort. If he was to be utterly truthful with himself, he also did not want to make things any more disarming for him than they already were.

  She nodded, and he nearly believed that, in that moment, she might express her thanks out loud. But she was quick to recollect herself and, instead, gave another half-bow from her position on the chaise.

  Will was very weary despite the fact that it was only just four in the afternoon.

  “I bid you a good day, Miss Brooke,” he said. Then he took his leave of her.

  *

  Jane could not be any happier at the scene she had just observed, undetected at the parlor door. Unlike Marcus, she should hide efficiently. She thought she would have to sneak most expediently away, lest she be discovered by William, but he was lingering in the room.

  Having despaired deeply of William’s trenchant practice of isolating himself, she could not be more thankful for God’s benevolence in sending the young woman William had christened “Brooke” for the lack of any information.

  She had been on her way to wait upon their guest after being notified that she was awake. She had already sent down some clothing for Miss Brooke with her lady’s maid, Lucy. Jane had spent all morning after breakfast in the delightful chore of rummaging through her wardrobe to find some suitable clothes for Miss Brooke.

  Jane considered herself to be an excellent judge of character, and she did not need to hear Miss Brooke speak to infer the strength of the young woman. Her eyes were full of a steely determination, and they were also inquisitive. Many others who had suffered her fate, as well as presumably the hand life had dealt her in general, would have been truly cowed. Miss Brooke did not seem to have a meek bone in her body.

  Shortly after seeing the welts on her person, Jane concluded that Miss Brooke was being mistreated by someone—she did not know who, but it was likely someone close to her. That was the sad way of things. Then when they had gazed at one another in the parlor after Miss Brooke had woken, Jane realized that the young woman was trying to protect herself with silence. Besides that, she was obviously exhausted.

  But Jane had recognized a spirit in need of healing, much like William.

  She began to nurse the hope that, perhaps, they had been made to heal each other, despite not knowing exactly how it would happen. She knew nothing about Miss Brooke, after all.

  But upon seeing how gently William tended to her just now, Jane wondered if the process had already started. She was not a betting woman, but she would be prepared to bet that it had. William had always been and still was a caring man, even though this tendency had withered since he’d come home to England. There were still glimpses of it to be found, but he hid it with distance. Distance from the villagers who depended on their duke in numerous ways, distance from her, and distance from his friends. Why, the only person he corresponded with regularly was Peter that she knew of.

  He did not seem able to maintain that distance, emotionally or physically, with Miss Brooke. Jane might be a widow and it had been a long while since her youthful escapades, of which she’d had many, but she could still read the signs of early attraction. It was, perhaps, a little daring to hope that something might come of it, especially since Miss Brooke was very much still a mystery, but hope entered Jane’s heart.

  William was lonely. It was turning him sour. She would not force something, but she could watch and potentially coax.

  As for the prospect of Miss Brooke being common, which she almost certainly was judging by her hands… what did it matter?

  With Will and Jane being the last of the Ainsworths, there was hardly anybody who could raise a fuss. Regardless, the world was changing. She had noticed that the aristocracy did not always favor itself when it came to matrimony, now, especially where younger or youngest sons were concerned.

  That is probably for the better, she thought. We need some new blood.

  Yes, whether or not marriage was in the offing, Jane sensed that her nephew might just be brought back to a better state through caring for Miss Brooke. Even she had to admit that trying to get him back into the whirl of the ton was probably not the best tactic.

  How silly she had been not to suggest that he return to practicing his profession as soon as his sight had recovered enough, when it was obvious from her clandestine observations that it was possibly what he needed.

  And she was going to do some investigating of her own: a local had to know Miss Brooke by appearance, and Jane knew that even if nobody could do anything to help her, more than one someone had most likely noticed the marks of abuse on her person. Whoever had beaten her was evidently not very clever, for the welts were all along her arms and neck. Poor Miss Brooke had scarring, too—probably from similar past events.

  Someone must know something, thought Jane.

  She turned away from the parlor door just as William began to take his leave. It would not look strange for her to be on the ground floor because she often took tea in the airy second parlor. Satisfied by her suppositions and scheming, she walked steadily through the corridor even when she could hear William coming from behind her.

  *

  No sooner had Lord Ainsworth gone before Augusta flopped miserably back onto the chaise. Her ankle hurt fiercely, but the ointment was soothing and cooling. It was helping a little.

  But how was it that he had her feeling so… odd? It was not just his face. She had seen enough of it recently to be used to its appearance. He seemed to be warring with himself. Friendly one moment, even vulnerable, then peevish the next. Before he had come in to see her, she was thinking almost charitably of him.

  Until she witnessed the maid, Lucy, she was called, scurry out of the parlor like an animal of prey.

  Did Lord Ainsworth mistreat her? His staff? Did he do worse?

  She did not think he would take any liberties with his aunt under the same roof, but she was no stranger to abuses that happened where no one else could see or hear them. It was possible that he did and nobody knew. Lucy had been chattering away before he arrived. Augusta was almost compelled to speak to the gir
l. They were not of very different statuses in life, as Lucy assumed, and when Augusta remained so quiet, Lucy happily took up her half of the conversation.

  Lucy had informed Augusta that Lord Ainsworth had certainly never brought home a lady before, and as she helped Augusta dress, she went on endlessly. Augusta—who was “my lady” to Lucy—must be his betrothed, and she was on a visit, and how terrible that she had suffered some kind of accident.

  Lucy was bubbly and kind, but not terribly bright.

  Augusta was having a fine time holding on to her silence and clamping down on the laughter that threatened upon hearing the maid’s supposition that she might be Lord Ainsworth’s betrothed. Lucy had shown such considerable excitement and almost shock at the very idea that Augusta nearly put her out of her misery by dispelling her belief.

  Then, in strolled Lord Ainsworth, and Lucy clammed up so quickly that Augusta had to wonder at the cause of her sudden withdrawal.

  “He can’t be a brute, can he?” she murmured to herself.

  She thought back to the moment, not at all long past, when he realized he carried a corset between his fingers, and giggled. She would not have ever expected a man of his age, and he was probably several years older than her, to look so mortified. But she supposed it was due in part to their differences in status. She had heard that if a titled man was not absolutely lecherous, he was absolutely prudish. There seemed to be no middle ground with them, or so gossips said.

  She could not call him ugly names. Though his manners were, from what she had experienced, gruff because they seemed disused—and in all honesty, Augusta was not making anything easy for him, something she took an odd pleasure in because it gave her a sense of power over someone who was, in every other way, more powerful than she was—his hands were surprisingly tender as he administered the ointment to her skin. He was clearly very adept at what he did. But she sensed that he also actually cared about whether or not she recovered.

  He also seemed to care about her father’s abuses. He had asked questions of her, in any event, which no one in Brookfield had ever bothered to do. Not even the old apothecary, whom she’d visited for treatment several times. She hated them for it, especially those whose eyes fully registered the meaning of her recurrent bruises and cuts. True ignorance was excusable, but when she saw the spark of recognition in someone’s eyes, anyone’s eyes, be it a shopkeeper, the butcher, or the baker, she abhorred them for failing to act. It was ridiculous, she knew. What could they do? Nobody had the right to interfere with her father’s treatment of her.