Miss Quinn's Quandary

by Shirley Marks

  “Won’t he cry out?” Larissa didn’t need the entire household coming to his aid.

  “No, we’ll lose him before he gets around to screaming.”

  My, he was taking all this casually. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Get the brandy, we’ll need to give him some tolerance first.” Larissa brought back the decanter and a glass while he propped Sir Randall up onto the pillows. Lord William held the glass while Larissa poured. He positioned himself next to his friend. “He isn’t pretty when he’s been drinking,” Lord William said, dribbling the brandy down Sir Randall’s throat.

  Sir Randall tried to resist the alcohol.

  “Thank you for the warning.” At least that was one aspect she had been spared, until now.

  After several healthy swallows of the potent spirit, in addition to his present condition, Sir Randall had quite lost all his self-restraint and had begun a stream of incoherent babbling.

  “Ah, Larissa.” he beckoned. “Come sit by me, my sweet.”

  With a quick, unsettling glance to Lord William she approached the bed. Sir Randall reached out and took her hand, drawing her near. She hoped Sir Randall would not say anything to embarrass either one of them.

  He covered the back of her hand with kisses, then rubbed it against his cheek. “How I’ve dreamed of us like this, so many times.” Then pressed her hand to his cheek.

  “Me, lying next to you?” she whispered in half amusement and half surprise.

  “Only you are wrapped in my arms.”

  Larissa watched the strain on his face in an attempt to lift his injured arm and bring it around her.

  “And just as in my dreams. Some force beyond my control prevents me from moving to do so.” He gave a dramatic groan, displaying his futility. “I am a complete ass,” Sir Randall willingly announced. “I was born one.”

  “And you’ll always be one. I’ve never had a doubt,” Lord William concluded in hopes of ending the patient’s ramblings. “Now keep quiet and lie still. This will hurt plenty.”

  “I’ve always hated you, Wills,” Randall snarled at his friend.

  “I know. You’d do the exact same for me, I wager.”

  “You bet I would,” Randall responded, unaware of what was about to happen to him.

  “He’s as ready as he’ll ever be.” Lord William moved to the hearth and placed the poker into the flames, heating the element. “Open the windows,” he said. “We’re going to need some fresh air.”

  Larissa pulled aside the heavy drawn drapes, threw open the windows and returned to the bed.

  “Lay across his body and hold his good arm down tight,” Lord William instructed.

  Larissa did as he asked and laid across his torso, pinning his good arm down with both her hands. In his inebriated state, Sir Randall’s head rolled to one side. His alcohol-glazed eyes stared into Larissa’s face.

  “You s-smell s-so good,” Sir Randall whispered to Larissa. “Some men would do anything to be this close to a beautiful lady.”

  “I wish you would stop this nonsense, you’re seriously hurt.” If only he had not been foxed when he said that.

  Lord William drew the red hot poker from the fire and approached the bed. He used his knee to hold his friend down, took a deep breath, and pressed the heated poker into the wound.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It only took a few seconds.

  A sickening hissing sound mingled with the putrid odor of burning flesh permeated the air. As Lord William predicted, Sir Randall fell unconscious before crying out.

  Larissa leaped off the bed and ran to the window, gasping for fresh air. “What are we to do about the smell?” she managed between gulps of fresh air.

  “It will clear.” Lord William’s face contorted in a dreadful mask, waving the smell away with his hand. He turned Sir Randall to his side and completed the treatment, sending a second wave of noxious fumes into the room.

  Again Larissa leaned out of the casement, purging her lungs of the horrid smell.

  “Not before questions are asked,” she pointed out. How would they explain the stench? The answer came to her. She left Sir Randall’s room through the connecting doors. She returned from her room with a pair of scissors and handed them to Lord William.

  One by one, she removed the pins from her head. Her hair tumbled down past her shoulders. Lord William regarded her actions with a quizzical eye and stared at the cold metal tool in his hand.

  “What do you want me to do with these?” he said, brandishing the scissors.

  “I want you to cut my hair, here.” She indicated at shoulder length.

  “What?” he balked, setting them on the table. “What bird-witted start are you up to now?”

  Larissa spun to face him. “To explain the smell, of course. This stench won’t be gone by morning. I’ll tell the servants that in his inebriated condition, Sir Randall cut my hair and burned the locks.”

  “Ah,” Lord William brightened, spotting her reasoning. “Capital idea,” he brightened.

  “But I will need some help.” She handed the scissors, handle first, again to Lord William, who accepted. “I cannot manage by myself.”

  Larissa held up most of her hair, allowing a fine layer to hang down her back. Slicing through her hair, he removed the long, cut section and laid it aside on the table. Layer by layer, he followed the previously cut length until all her hair fell just short of her shoulders.

  “I’ve done a ghastly thing,” he said, noting his work.

  “Nonsense, you’ve most likely saved Sir Randall’s life.”

  Larissa gathered the cut hair and scattered a small portion over the fire. The hair shriveled in the heat and added to the dreadful smell, leaving small curly remnants to serve as evidence. “That should suffice. We only need enough to explain the smell, there’s no need to add to it.”

  “Randall will draw my cork for ruining your mane. And by the bye, what do you plan to do with the remainder?”

  “You shouldn’t worry, I shall place it where no one will ever find it.”

  “I’ll likely be held for aiding a criminal and for telling such a bounder in the first place.”

  “Lord William, I think you worry too much.” Larissa walked her accomplice to the door and saw him out. “Just leave the rest to me.” She glanced at Sir Randall resting in his bed and fingered the blunt edges of her newly shorn hair.

  It was her sincerest hope that in the end all would set itself to right.

  Before settling herself in a chair at Sir Randall’s side for the night, Larissa removed the torn, bloodied sleeve of his jacket and hung the coat sleeve-side-out in the clothespress. If anyone should search, all would look as it should.

  Larissa folded her locks and the bloody sleeves in the center of the pillow of the tapestry she had recently finished and began to stitch the last side closed. She would keep the pillow, and the evidence of last night would stay well hidden.

  Throughout the night, the springs of Sir Randall’s bed groaned under the strain of his restless sleep. She hoped fever would not take hold. He moaned countless times and even called out her name. She stayed by his side to keep him quiet and comfortable.

  In the morning when Randall woke, his whole body ached. He had drunk himself into only a few stupors in his life, but this time he had no doubt he had gone far beyond what he considered the norm. Besides the glass of wine with dinner and a few sips of port after, he didn’t even recall drinking. His eyes cracked open and he tried to move.

  Starting from his right shoulder, spreading out to his hand, there was pain. When he reached to massage it, he found a bandage covering his upper arm.

  A glance at his surroundings told him he lay in his bedroom. Asleep in a chair by his bedside lay Larissa. “What’s happened?” he rasped, feeling disoriented.

  She moved to his side. Her hands pressed his cheeks and forehead as if he were ill. Randall inhaled her enticing fragrance of spring, freshness, and sunlight. Her voice whispered so
ft and gentle like mist on a passing breeze. Her lovely face hovered above him, calling him by name, beckoning him. He reached out and pulled her close.

  “What happened?” His throat felt scratchy as he spoke.

  “Do you not remember?”

  “No. Nothing.” His head hurt too much to even attempt the effort.

  “The robbery? Getting shot? Stopping the runaway horses?”

  Randall’s hand fell from her. “Sounds as if I was quite the hero.”

  “Not exactly,” she corrected, moving away from the bed.

  He stared at Larissa. This was more than an alcohol induced hallucination. There was something decidedly different about her. Yet it did not come to him at once.

  “What has happened to your hair?”

  A light flush came over Larissa’s cheeks when she reached up and fingered the loose tendrils about her head. With most of the length removed, her hair fell into soft curls, framing her face.

  “I had Lord William cut my hair to explain the smell in your room.”

  “Smell?” Randall sniffed, trying to determine if a scent was present in his room. “I don’t smell anything.”

  “We had to cauterize that nasty wound on your arm last night. It left quite a stench.”

  Randall felt the wound on his upper arm. It throbbed in pain.

  Events of the previous night began to surface. The dinner at Ardsmore’s. Driving home with Larissa. The robbery. Being shot. Taking a peek at her ankles. How could he have forgotten?

  “How ever did we manage to return?” he asked.

  “I drove the curricle.”

  “You?” How did she…how could she manage? Randall’s head throbbed.

  Without a knock, William entered and closed the door behind him. “Gad, you look a fright.”

  “And good morning to you as well,” Randall replied in amusement. “How much of this are you involved in?”

  “Only seeing you up to your room, getting you drunker than a lord, and acting as your doctor.”

  “So you’re responsible. Why didn’t you just let me die?” Between the pain emanating from his arm, the unbearable pounding in his head and the nausea caused by the drink, Randall did not feel much like living.

  “You weren’t that bad off,” his friend assured him. “Wouldn’t have done it unless it was completely necessary.” William crossed his arms and leaned against one of the bedposts in a cavalier fashion.

  “So you say,” Randall mused. “I have yet to reach the same conclusion myself.”

  “You have, my friend, given a whole new meaning to ‘bloody nuisance!”’ William chucked. “If you haven’t heard yet, ole boy, Bussin’ Billy was shot last night. And just by an unbelievable coincidence, he is reported to be wounded in exactly the same place as you.”

  “Bussin’ Billy was shot in the right arm last night? I was shot in the right arm last night. Someone might mistake my coincidental injury and assume Bussin’ Billy and I are one and the same.”

  “If they found out, I imagine Bow Street might jump to the very same conclusion.”

  “That doesn’t sound much like a coincidence at all.”

  William glanced to the vigilant Larissa and remarked in a laconic tone, “You see, after all Randall has been through last night, he still remains sharp as ever.”

  “This is not a joking matter,” Randall protested, bringing himself upright even though it pained him.

  “You find, my dear friend, if you will take a closer look, I am not sporting a smile. Terrance is not going to look kindly upon this if he finds out.” William gave a shrug. “I might suggest you put in an appearance below stairs to dissuade suspicion.”

  “I’ve made the excuse you are feeling poorly,” Larissa added. “Your appearance last night was enough to convince the others.”

  “I’ll need help dressing,” Randall smiled at Larissa, knowing she had no intention of lending a hand, or laying a hand on his person.

  “Won’t do for a lady to tie your cravat, don’t you know,” William interjected.

  “You shan’t have to face that problem,” Larissa confessed. Her eyes were downcast and her voice hesitant. “I needed to bind your wound. I’ve already sacrificed one of my underskirts. I’m afraid I’ve used a few of your neckcloths as dressing.”

  “I only have a few.” He sounded outraged. “How could you—”

  “I suppose you could borrow some from Lord William, can you not?” She looked hopefully at William.

  Randall grimaced. “I suppose it’s not like asking to wear his small clothes is it?”

  “We’ll make do,” William said. “Can’t have my valet involved. The man couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended on it.” Randall knew his friend had resigned himself that he must lend a hand. “I suppose that leaves me.”

  Larissa left Lord William to aid Sir Randall with his morning toilet. Sir Randall had not appreciated all that she had done for him. To scold her for using his neckcloths for bandages! His life must certainly be worth more than a few strips of linen. That silly man!

  Dorothea sat alone at the long table. “There you are!” The expression on her face matched the delight in her eyes when Larissa entered the room. “Where have you been? What’s happened to your hair?”

  “I am sorry I’ve taken so long, I suppose I lost track of the time. I was in my room sewing.” At least that much was true. Larissa had spent nearly the entire night finishing the embroidery, cutting out the pillow, and sealing the incriminating evidence into the cushion.

  Larissa fingered her shorn locks and knew what she was about to say would be a complete lie. “Sir Randall had a bit too much to drink last night. I’m afraid he experienced a spark of inspiration. He thought he was a hairdresser.”

  “Oh, dear,” Dorothea voiced in sympathy, but a smile emerged.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t humor him. Someday he may wish to be a modiste, then I shall really be in the briars.”

  “I would hate to imagine. He’ll have you scandalously draped in gauze.” Her laughter was quickly replaced by a stifled yawn.

  Larissa poured herself a cup of tea and sat next to Dorothea. “How are you doing this morning and how is your mother?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t sleep well. Must have been the robbery.”

  “I imagine it was very disturbing.” Larissa tried her very best to behave as if nothing unusual had happened.

  “And Maman is so out of sorts, she cannot leave her bed.” Melancholy left Dorothea momentarily. “She wishes me to thank you for returning her jewels so promptly. She feels better knowing all her jewelry is safe and sound.”

  Larissa tried not to look shocked at the news of the return of Lady Brookhurst’s stolen jewels. Strange things were happening. Larissa harbored an injured man and lied at every turn. Deception was not dreamy or romantic, it was laced with fear and danger. One wrong word could give her away. If she were not believed, it could cost Sir Randall his life.

  With the afternoon came the return of Daniel Lawrence. Melton and Lawrence entered the breakfast room first, two uniformed officers trailed behind. The marquess was in the midst of explaining the actions following the robbery, after they had returned to Carswell Castle.

  Melton paused and gave Randall a smile that bordered on a leer.

  “Sir Randall,” Lawrence acknowledged.

  “Mr. Lawrence,” Randall responded. He set his coffee cup down with his left hand, holding his right arm still by his side.

  “I think you’ll find Sir Randall a bit unresponsive this morning.” Melton winked. Randall stood and moved to the opposite side of the table to join the men, keeping movement with his upper body to a minimum.

  Lawrence raised his brows. Randall imagined he was suspicious of everyone and everything.

  “My word,” Lord Melton exclaimed. “You certainly do make a nuisance of yourself when you’re bosky, don’t you ole boy?” The marquess gave Randall a clap on his shoulder. The injured one.

  Randall gave a ro
ar of laugher to mask his pain and took a step away. Melton advanced.

  “It’s surprising when you consider you couldn’t walk up to your own bed when you came home. Must have caught a second wind, hey?” The marquess smacked him a second time.

  Randall cried out again, masking his pain with laughter.

  Mr. Lawrence must have noticed Randall’s odd movements. He took a step toward Randall and demanded, “I would ask you to remove your coat so I might examine your arm.” He paused. “You may comply with my wishes or I shall have these gentlemen do so forcibly. Either way I shall have my curiosity satisfied.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  He had no choice. Randall obeyed, shrugging off his coat. With Lord Melton’s hardy slaps, he knew the wound had opened and he had bled through his bandage onto his shirtsleeve. The red stain on his arm would be there for all to see.

  “May I ask how you sustained such an injury?” Mr. Lawrence inquired.

  “I don’t believe this!” Melton cried, his face grew red with anger.

  “I can assure you, you will find the answer very difficult to accept.”

  “The truth, Trent,” Melton ordered.

  “Please, Lord Melton, it is my job to ask the questions,” Lawrence interrupted.

  “I was shot by Bussin’ Billy when he held us up last night.”

  “Preposterous,” Melton roared, spitting his words.

  “I’m afraid we will need to search your room.” Lawrence nodded to the two uniformed men who took up their post on either side of Randall.

  Randall had searched his room after his discovery of the torn jacket and muddied Hessians and found nothing then. However, he had not checked his room this morning. Were the newly stolen items hidden in his room now?

  By the time Lawrence returned, Larissa, Dorothea, Lady Brookhurst, and Lord William had joined the gathering.

  “I have not found the stolen items, but your particular injury is circumstantial evidence I cannot ignore. I must bring charges against you under the suspicion of highway robbery, masquerading as the highwayman, Bussin’ Billy. You are under arrest.”