Julia London 4 Book Bundle

by The Rogues of Regent Street

  The hearth had not been lit; it had to be freezing in there, so Max had hovered about, anxiously waiting to be called. When the noon hour came and went, he forced himself to go on with his daily tasks, reasoning that Lord Albright was a grown man and quite capable of caring for himself. No doubt he was studying his books. Bertram had probably exaggerated the whole thing.

  But when Max returned an hour later, the study door was wide open and Lord Albright was gone. An empty bottle of whiskey lay on the floor. As Max walked through the foyer he stopped Roger, his lordship’s valet. “Have you seen Lord Albright?” he asked.

  Roger scowled. “Indeed I did, sir. He went that way, a bottle in one hand, his hat in the other,” he said, and pointed toward the west wing.

  The west wing? His lordship never went to the west wing, as he had once remarked he did not need to be reminded of a family past that was not his. Max hurried into the corridor, walking quickly from one door to the next. He was quite familiar with it, actually, as he made sure the rooms were swept and aired on a routine basis. As he came to the last door before the terrace and steps leading to the outbuildings, he paused to look inside.

  The sound of the gun blast shook him from his boots. He caught his breath and brought a hand to his suddenly pounding heart. The blast had come from one of the outbuildings. Max suddenly thought of the game house, chock-full of the late Lord Albright’s hunting trophies and old guns. He was running in that direction before he realized it, his heart pounding furiously with fear. He skidded across the terrace, stumbled down the steps, and careered to the door of the game house. With trembling hands, he fumbled about until he got the door open.

  The acrid smell of gun smoke assaulted his senses, and he coughed as he fumbled for a kerchief in his pocket. Waving a hand in the air at the smoke, he anxiously looked around, and screamed with terror when he saw the earl’s still form lying on the floor. He rushed to his lord’s side and fell to his knees. The gun was lying a foot or so away, below an open window. The earl’s hand, bent at an odd angle, was covered with black. Terrified, Max nudged him over onto his back, then released a keening cry that could be heard almost throughout the estate.

  “Max! What in the blazes—” Bertram shouted as he rushed inside the game house.

  “Dear God, he is dead!” Max cried.

  Fifteen

  FORTUNATELY FOR THE panicked residents of Longbridge, Max didn’t know a thing about the human anatomy beyond what he was required to know, and he knew nothing about injury of any kind. When he had appeared on Dr. Mayton’s doorstep wailing that the Earl of Albright was dead, the doctor had rushed to the estate, fearing the worst. He discovered that the earl was far from dead, although one would be hard pressed to convince his lordship of that. Apparently an old gun he had been handling had misfired, exploding in his face.

  Thankfully, there were no broken bones or any apparent internal injuries, but in addition to a horribly deep gash at his temple, the earl had sustained a terrible injury to his eyes. Dr. Mayton would never forget the absolute horror when the earl regained consciousness or the shocked silence as he explained that when the bandages came off, he might very well be blind.

  And the insufferable silence began. For several days Lord Albright lay in his massive bed, his bandaged eyes resembling an owl’s. It was heartbreaking, even to a seasoned doctor like Mayton, that a young man as virile and commanding as the earl might be permanently blinded. Added to that was the scandal threatening to erupt—the entire estate was whispering of an attempted suicide.

  But Lord Albright had grown quite agitated when Dr. Mayton had asked if he had intended to take his own life. “I am a fool, not a coward,” he spat, and begrudgingly admitted having drunk himself into quite a state. Apparently, although he could not recall why, the earl had wandered into his grandfather’s old game house and in a state of inebriation had toyed with one of many old guns. He recalled wanting to see if the gun worked, and had opened a window with the intent of firing at some target. Somewhere between opening the window and priming the ancient firearm, it had misfired in his face. The doctor felt a little better with that explanation—after all, his own foot had been the victim of an old gun.

  But Lord Albright made the rumors worse by refusing to see anyone. The man was quietly but completely despairing of his destiny, often mumbling incoherently about something to do with mercy and idiocy.

  How fortunate, the doctor thought as he flipped through the pages of his medical books again, that Lady Albright had proven to be such a rock of strength. Not that she hadn’t been overcome with grief when she learned the unfortunate prognosis that night, but by the next morning her demeanor had become eerily calm and her eyes glinted with determination. As Lord Albright refused to admit her into his rooms, Lady Albright paced outside his door, walking slowly from one end of the long corridor to the other while her pups slept on a cushioned window seat. When anyone emerged from his room, she would demand to know how he fared, her pretty eyes narrowing with anger when she was told that he would not eat.

  The entire estate endured two excruciating weeks of waiting for the bandages to be removed. When the morning came, the earl sat as rigid as a monument, unflinching as Dr. Mayton peeled the strips of cloth from his eyes. Beneath the bandages, his pus-filled eyes were scarred around the edges, which Dr. Mayton assured him would fade with time.

  “Open them,” the earl had stoically responded.

  So he had, prying one open, then the other. His hand trembling slightly, he had lifted two fingers in front of the earl’s face.

  Nothing.

  Dr. Mayton quickly bandaged them again as he awkwardly reassured the earl that his eyes were not quite healed, that they needed more time. Lord Albright had not uttered a word. Another week passed, and again the earl sat stiffly as the bandages were peeled away. Again, he could not see the two fingers the doctor lifted in front of his face.

  There was nothing Dr. Mayton could do; there was no known cure for blindness. He tried to console the earl by suggesting it might only be a matter of time before his sight returned. But the earl had laughed darkly and shook his head. “Apparently, Dr. Mayton, you don’t know the quality of mercy when you see it.” With that he had turned away, refusing to say anything else.

  Dejected, Dr. Mayton had met Lady Albright in her sitting room and explained that he had exhausted all resources available to him, that there was nothing more he could do for her husband. Her eyes glistening with tears, she had nodded solemnly and had asked, was it possible he might send for a surgeon? Of course, he had told her, but surgery on the head was almost unheard of and, moreover, there was no known procedure to restore sight. Lady Albright had turned away, walking slowly to the window that looked out over the gardens. She had looked terribly regal, dressed in a pale green gown—how sad, he had thought, that the earl would never gaze into her lovely countenance again. She stared out the window for an eternity it seemed, but at last she turned. Tell me what to do, she had asked.

  Dr. Mayton had seized upon that—make him live, he had said, teach him how to live with his blindness. And by the time Lady Albright had shown him to the door of Longbridge, he had no doubt that she would make her husband live again, whether he wanted to or not.

  Make him live. Dr. Mayton’s words reverberated in her mind. But exactly how did one do that? With a shawl wrapped around her shoulders Lilliana sat in a chair pulled up to the window in the suite adjoining Adrian’s, staring at the stars. The room was bathed in darkness except for the weak moonlight that streamed in the window; even the fire had grown cold. She absently wondered how long she had been sitting in the chair, knowing only that the sun had just started to sink into the horizon when she had sagged into it, exhausted.

  She had, of course, moved back to her rooms the same day of the accident, desperate to help him but unsure how to help him. Her efforts seemed awkward and contrived after the appalling words they had exchanged. But oh God, she was devastated by what had happened to him! Never had sh
e felt such sorrow for anyone—the magnificence of him, the spirit of the strong and reckless adventurer—all of it cut down by blindness. Lilliana pulled the shawl tighter, shivering at the omnipotent forces that could do this to a man. She understood his terror—to rob him of his sight was to rob him of life. Regardless of what had gone between them, nothing that had been said could make her turn her back on him now, not when he was in such distress.

  He needed her.

  Not that he would ever admit it. He had sent her away a dozen times or more, refused to see her, and forbade the little maid who tended him from allowing her entry. He had even suggested through Max that she return to Blackfield Grange until such time his sight had returned.

  Ridiculous. It was instinctive, she supposed, but she knew it was grief that caused him to act so petulantly. But she did not want to aggravate him, and tried to help in another way—by attempting to dispel the awful rumors circulating about the entire parish. Unfortunately she was not particularly successful, in part because the rumors were so fantastic they created a life of their own.

  The “dangerous gentleman” was a danger to himself. The Earl of Albright had tried to kill himself, they said.

  How those rumors angered her! Dr. Mayton had, of course, given her Adrian’s explanation for what had happened, but it was hardly necessary. A man of Adrian’s character would never attempt anything so cowardly. And if for some reason he had thought to end his own life, she was quite certain he would have succeeded. Whatever had happened that afternoon, he had not attempted to take his own life, and she had to think of a way to help him. She would think of a way.

  Lilliana gathered her feet up under her dressing gown, propping her chin on her knees as she stared at the moon, thankful for the late-night silence so she could think. It was somewhere in the depth of that silence that she first heard the sound of a wounded animal. Straining to hear it, she lifted her head. There it was again—a low, aching moan, as if the animal were in pain. Immediately, she thought of her pups, relegated to a small pen Mr. Bottoms had built for her near the terrace. She came swiftly to her feet and went to the window, peering outside.

  The sound came again, so faint as to almost be imagined, swelled a bit, then faded. Lilliana jerked her head around to the door that connected her rooms to the master suite.

  Adrian.

  Oh God, it was Adrian! She gasped softly as the low, keening sound came again, a sound unlike any she had ever heard a human make. It was coarse, sickening—and heart-wrenching. Adrian was in pain.

  She moved quickly to her bedside and lit a candle, and without hesitation opened the connecting door, wincing as the moan grew louder. Carefully, she stepped into his room. He did not notice her; it took her a moment to remember he could not see the light. Lying on his bed, he was curled into a ball on bedcovers that had been thrashed into a furious heap. He moaned again, and slowly, quietly, she moved across the room, lifting the candle high. As she neared the bed his head suddenly jerked up. Her gaze riveted on his hazel eyes—she had no idea what she thought she would see, but she had not imagined them to look the same. But dear God, they were the same deep hazel eyes with the same gold flecks. A little scarred around the edges, but the very same eyes frantically roaming the room as he came up on his elbow.

  “Who is it? Who is there?” he snapped.

  She unconsciously took a step backward, and his eyes flashed with unimaginable terror. Struck speechless by the extraordinary display of emotion, Lilliana moved cautiously to the bed table and set her candle down.

  “For God’s sake, who is it?” he demanded, the fear evident in his voice.

  “Adrian. It’s me.”

  His hazel eyes widened, and he suddenly fell over on his side. “Get out!” he groaned helplessly.

  Her heart aching to the point of bursting, Lilliana moved to the bed and laid her hand on his shoulder. “I won’t leave you,” she whispered tearfully. “Not now, not ever.”

  For a moment he did not move. But then his hand abruptly shot out, flailing as he searched for her, grabbing at her shoulder, her breast, and finally her hand, which he clutched so tightly, she feared the bones would crack. He lifted himself up, pulling her into his embrace at the same time. “Lillie, Lillie! he whispered frantically. “Hold me. Dear God, please hold me—”

  Choking on a frightened sob, Lilliana melted onto the bed and gathered him in her arms.

  “Hold me,” he muttered helplessly, and clutched her so fiercely that she could scarcely breathe. He pressed his face to her breasts, taking tortured gulps of air.

  “I won’t leave you,” she murmured, “I will never leave you.”

  Sleep came at last, after days of tossing and waking often in the hope that by some miracle his sight had returned. In the rare moments Adrian had actually slept, he had been tortured by recurring visions of Phillip’s face in death, Benedict’s eyes at his wedding, and the devastation on Lilliana’s face when he had told her the true reason he had married her. This was hell, at long last come and richly deserved. An eternity of darkness to be endured with nothing but those hideous images forever playing in his mind’s eye.

  This was the quality of his mercy, and dear God, it was terrifying.

  When he had finally determined he had gone completely mad, she had come and had touched him, had awakened something buried deeply within him that he hardly recognized. She had come and wrapped her arms around him, banishing the terror that engulfed him for a time, soothing his fear with her caress, the dulcet tone of her voice, and the soft scent of roses in her hair. And finally, he had slept.

  For how long, he had no idea, but it had been a peaceful, dreamless slumber. When he awoke to the blackness again, it had taken him several moments to remember where he was, that he held her in his arms. She was sleeping—he could feel her steady breath on his neck. She smelled so sweet, he thought drowsily, and for the first time in days he felt safe, a comfort in her arms that soothed the ragged edges of his mind.

  But then the powerful terror struck him anew. He was blind! God, dear God, how could this have happened? What sin had he committed that the Lord would strike him blind? The punishment seemed so cruel—too cruel to allow her to bear it with him. Was his hell to be hers too? What sort of life was this, bound to a blind man who had married her for revenge? Cast me to hell, but not her, dear God, not her. No! He would not commend her to hell with him—she had to go. As soon as possible, without looking back. She had to go!

  He suddenly shoved her away, ignoring the small, sleepy cry of alarm. “Go on, Lilliana. Go to your room,” he growled.

  She stirred; the mattress dipped next to him and he understood she had come up on her elbow. “Adrian, are you all right?” she murmured. “Can I get you something?”

  “Please God, don’t treat me like an invalid,” he said nastily, and roiled away from her. “Go. Go back to your rooms.”

  Her hand touched his bare shoulder, and he jerked away from her lest he succumb to the comfort of her arms again. “Adrian, I meant what I said. I won’t leave you.”

  “I don’t want you here, Lilliana! Go!” he said more forcefully.

  “I will not allow you to push me away,” she said stubbornly. “You need me, and I—”

  “Jesus, did you hear me? Get out!” he bellowed. Silence. What was she doing? He at once felt very self-conscious and unsure of himself … he was not in control.

  “No,” she said quietly.

  Now she was alarming him. All right, all right, in a moment of weakness he had turned to her. But the Princess of the Grange would not talk herself into some foolish sense of responsibility. He rolled again, groping for the edge of the bed. Swinging his legs over the side, he gripped the mattress on either side of his knees, afraid to stand, afraid of the awkward steps into blackness. “Go back to your rustic little Grange and leave me be!” he growled.

  “I’m not going anywhere. Have you forgotten? I am married to you,” she said firmly.

  His alarm gave way to pani
c—sheer, unarguable panic. Was she insane? Was she so dense she could not comprehend what he had become, how it would ruin her life? “Not for long,” he said bluntly. “I intend to divorce you.” He heard her swallow convulsively. Good. Someday she would thank him for his cruelty.

  “I will fight you,” she muttered softly.

  Good God, she was stubborn! He made a sound of great disgust and shook his head. “You are unabashedly stupid, aren’t you?” he sneered. “A plain little idiot. What must I say to get through that thick head of yours? I am through with you, Lilliana. I don’t want you here. I am releasing you so you can spread your thighs for Benedict. Go!” he snapped, and winced, nauseated by his own reprehensible words.

  “Don’t be an idiot, Adrian,” she shot back. “I married you for better or worse, and I am not going anywhere. So just stop this!”

  He shoved to his feet, wildly praying he did not stumble headlong into a chair. With his hands he groped in front of him. The wall. Thank God. He turned so that his back was pressed against something familiar. “By all that is holy, I cannot speak any plainer, madam. I want you gone from Longbridge. I don’t give a bloody damn about your misguided sense of duty. I want you out of my sight—”

  His breath stuck in his lungs. She was out of his sight, all right, but he could feel her eyes on him, imagined them full of pity, and his anger soared. “It would not matter if I could see you now. I wanted to be rid of you long before this happened. It was a mistake to have married you, a colossal mistake. Heed me, madam, I do not want a parish princess for a wife. I want you gone!”