Valor's Reward

by Jean R. Ewing

  It was another two hours, however, before Lord Clarence left.

  First they must all drink a toast to the law, and the men who had been searching the grounds must be given hot drinks and their orders. The hounds must be rounded up and temporarily put in the stable. The housemaids must be sent back to work and the cooks to the kitchens.

  With a calm smile Michael sat in the drawing room and was charming and witty, while the rain beat at the windows and turned the countryside into a sea of mud.

  Dear God, where the hell was she? Even if he lives, he will not survive long if he is hiding outside.

  At last the judge left, and Lady Steal retired to her room with a headache, insisting that Peter come and read to her.

  Michael was left alone. He quickly unfolded the note. It began with a quotation from Publilius Syrus: Beneficium accipere libertatem est vendere. The rest, in perfect Greek except for the lines from Phaedrus at the end—Non semper ea sunt quae videntur—was short and to the point.

  She thanked him for his kindness. Her ankle and shoulder felt much better. She had taken a little money from his dresser, but she had left him her books, the donkey, and her pistol in compensation. She had left.

  He collared Dover, but the manservant could tell him nothing. Miss Whinburn had eaten her breakfast and Dover had left her in the bedroom. So Michael began to make his own very meticulous, very thorough, search of Tresham.

  * * *

  Jessica lay on the roof of the orangery and shivered. She had no idea how she’d found the strength to get up there. She had known she must leave Tresham since the moment she awoke.

  As soon as Dover left her alone, she had packed up her bag and cleaned up the room. Her books were too heavy to carry. She would leave them, along with her grandfather’s dueling piece, which Lord Deyncourt had anyway neglected to return to her.

  With her bound ankle she could walk quite well if she didn’t hurry, and she would just have to endure the ache.

  It had taken a long debate with herself to justify taking the earl’s money, but she could redeem any remaining debt once she began working, and now that her donkey cart was destroyed she would have to buy a seat on the stage.

  Jessica had gone down the back stairs, meeting no one. It seemed that all the servants had disappeared. She slipped into the garden and was limping away from the house, when she heard the hounds.

  She ran. Gasping with pain, she managed to get to the orangery and, hefting her bag behind her, climb up a neighboring elm. She dropped both the bag and herself onto the flat roof and prayed.

  The baying came closer.

  Jessica peeked over the parapet. The hue and cry was racing toward her hiding place, the hounds in full tongue, when the clouds fractured. Within seconds the downpour was so blinding that the hounds began to mill about, and their handlers called them off. Soon everyone had gone, and Jessica was left to the mercy of the elements.

  Now she wasn’t sure that it mightn’t be better to be discovered and hanged, after all. For she was very cold and shaking uncontrollably, and she knew that she didn’t have the strength left to get down from the roof.

  She could no longer dream of walking to a staging inn. Her ankle was throbbing insistently and she could feel it swelling beneath the bandage.

  Miss Jessica Whinburn was going to die up here and never be found, until birds built nests in her skeleton and raised fledglings in woven beds of red hair. Would Michael Dechardon Grey, Lord of Deyncourt and all those other places, wonder why she never paid back his money and redeemed her books?

  Jessica put her arms about her bag and laughed weakly as the downpour battered at her. Better that than allow the betraying tears to come.

  * * *

  “It’s all right,” a quiet voice said. “They’ve gone.”

  Jessica opened her eyes and looked up. It was getting dark and the rain had stopped. Lord Deyncourt bent over her. He had wrapped a warm cloak about her body.

  “Why, I am quite the thing, thank you,” she said with a desperate bravery. “How did you find Judge Clarence?”

  The earl dropped on his heels beside her. His eyes seemed perfectly serious, his features as grave as a priest’s.

  “On the verge of apoplexy, as it happens.”

  “Not really! Will you tell me what he said?”

  He brushed wet hair from her forehead and smoothed his fingers over her cheek.

  “He is convinced that had I not so fortuitously turned up, he would have been murdered as well as robbed. What he most particularly cannot forgive, however, is the deliberate attempt to humiliate him in front of his servants and the total loss of a pair of expensive evening slippers.”

  Jessica tried to stop shaking. “Yet he could have sat there all night and had his coachman flog his team, but that would be less humiliating than walking a hundred yards through the mud?”

  “Certainly, if one is wearing shoes dyed at great cost to exactly match one’s stockings. Especially when one plans to cut a dash in front of Lady Fletcher, for whom one is developing a tendre.”

  He put an arm around her shoulders and helped her to sit up.

  She tried to make her voice light. “Did Lady Fletcher recoil from his muddy feet, or is she a sensible woman who could offer Gargantua a pair of warm slippers?”

  “Undoubtedly she recoiled. In fact, she fainted at the sight and had to be revived with salts.”

  Jessica wanted very seriously not to lean into his warmth and strength, but she couldn’t stop herself. “You have sent Lord Clarence away satisfied, I hope?”

  “Of course. He believes the villain escaped. I would rather have strangled the lad myself, so that he could have died here, but unfortunately I could not produce a body.” He gave her a wicked grin. “The grooms were both of a heavier build.”

  “When you promised to silence them, I was so convinced that you intended murder.”

  “Alas,” the earl replied. “You have found out that, unlike you, I lack sufficient mettle for a life of crime. Yes, the grooms are quite safe. I sent them with the donkey to Castle Deyncourt. But if I do not get you back to my bed, I believe I shall have your death on my hands, instead. Come, I will help you to the house, where you may remain now as secure as a dormouse.”

  “Your bed? Then you still want to make me your mistress?”

  “No, my dear innocent, I thought I might make you my countess.”

  Instantly, in spite of her sodden state, Jessica colored.

  “Oh, no, Lord Deyncourt,” she said. “None of that! I might accept, then mend my fortunes by bringing suit for breach of contract. How lucky you are that I don’t intend to marry!”

  He lifted her face and kissed her briefly. His lips were as chilled as hers.

  “Well, it was worth a try,” he said lightly. “But you’re thinking of Publilius Syrus, aren’t you? ‘To accept a favor is to sell one’s freedom.’”

  No, thought Jessica to herself. I was thinking of Phaedrus: Things aren’t always as they appear.

  * * *

  She awoke with a raving thirst. Trying to sit up in bed made her head spin. Weakly, she pushed back the covers. How had it become so hot? The fire had burned away to ash and cast only a faint glow over the chamber.

  She called out.

  The door to the room opened and someone came in with a candle. A tall man in some kind of long robe. The flame cast the planes of his face into sharp relief.

  He sat beside her on the bed and laid a cool hand on her blazing forehead.

  “Please, I’m so very thirsty.”

  “Hush, Miss Whinburn. You are quite safe. You were caught out in the cold rain. You have a little fever, that’s all.”

  A few moments later, capable fingers were helping her guide a glass of water to her mouth. She clung to the strength she could feel there.

  When he disentangled her hand from his own, she felt bereft. Hot tears scalded down her cheeks, and a cool, damp cloth sponged them away.

  “Ben has been killed?”
It came out as a muddle of sounds. Only her distress was clear.

  “Hush, now, Jessica. Don’t try to talk. Listen and I will entertain you with absurdities, shall I?”

  Strong arms gathered her and held her securely. The man in the soft robe lay back against the pillows, still holding her, and pulled the covers over them both as he began to murmur odd rhymes and snatches of nonsense. She burrowed into his chest listening to the soothing tones of his voice, while the fever shook her and he stroked her hair away from her forehead.

  Before long the tremors ceased, and she fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

  Michael lay still for a while and continued to hold her. What a bitter irony! The accomplished seducer playing the innocent nursemaid. Yet should it ever become known, she would be hopelessly compromised.

  He was suddenly furious with himself. Naive girls are not your style, are they, Lord Deyncourt? Why on earth hadn’t he already offered for the Incomparable Melton? He intended to make a suitable match that would leave him unencumbered. Honoria was perfect for the role and everyone expected it.

  As soon as he was sure that Jessica was in a sound sleep, Michael extricated himself and slipped from the bed.

  He stood for a moment, gazing down at her. A riot of red hair spread across the pillows. Her freckles stood out strongly against her pale skin.

  With careful, impersonal, compassionate hands, he changed her bandages, combed her hair, and bathed her long limbs. However intimate it might be, however improper, however disturbing, she needed nursing.

  Yet Miss Jessica Whinburn was not his concern, other than saving her from Judge Clarence and delivering her safely to London. He would not become entangled.

  * * *

  Jessica opened her eyes upon a room lit dimly by one candle. On a table beside the bed lay a basin and some towels. The earl was sitting at the fireplace, staring into the fire. He was fully, even impeccably, dressed, as if his crisp white collar and correctly folded cravat could act as armor against emotion.

  “How long have I been ill?” she asked.

  He leaped up and strode over to the bed to gaze down at her. “A few days.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment. “And you nursed me?”

  “I fought in Spain for years. I have seen fever before.”

  “Soldiers,” Jessica said.

  He seemed remote, untouched by her distress. “Some of them died, but I was called upon to help my sergeant’s wife upon one occasion. Fortunately, both baby and mother survived.”

  “An odd task for you, surely?” A few days! Dear God! “And you take on these decisions naturally, don’t you? Did you give no thought to how I would feel about it?”

  “Don’t refine upon it,” he replied. “It was nothing personal. Dover offered his expert assistance. Before he became a widower, he raised six girls.”

  His tone was cool and reassuring, but Jessica felt hot humiliation burn to her soul. “Did I rave and mumble?”

  “Nothing intelligible.”

  “Then thank God for that!”

  She sat up and looked at him. Was he always like this? So damned cool and in control? She wished with a fierce passion that she had never met him, had never tried to save Lord Clarence’s horses. She would have been in London by now.

  “How many lives are at your disposal?”

  He looked surprised. “Too many,” he said.

  “Yes, of course. All the tenants of your vast estates are at your mercy.”

  “I suppose they are.”

  “But then growing up as the heir to an earldom, you have always taken that for granted.”

  “I did not grow up as the heir. The title came to me on my brother’s death, just six months ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Jessica watched him as he walked back to the fire and added more fuel. There was a hushed, intimate quiet in the room, broken only by the steady tick of a clock. The rest of Tresham lay in deep sleep.

  He stirred the fire with the poker.

  “He was twelve years my senior—an unbridgeable gulf for boys. Nevertheless, his death was sudden and unwelcome, and was followed very quickly by his wife’s. The tenants adored them, but unfortunately they had no children. Thus, all those poor souls have fallen under my despotic sway.”

  “Your tenants don’t like you?”

  “They resent me. But it’s none of your business, is it?”

  “No, I suppose I should be more concerned with the fate of the nation. You have a seat in the House of Peers, do you not?”

  “Indeed. And I serve my country where I may, Miss Whinburn. But affairs of state are not among the usual interests of young ladies.”

  “Because our understanding is too weak and our sensibility too delicate, of course. Only men have independence in their lives.”

  “Do they? I had a great deal more freedom of action before I became earl, I assure you.”

  “Fiddlesticks! Now you’re an earl, you may do as you like.”

  He laughed. “It may interest you to know, Miss Whinburn, that I am very far from being able to do as I like. Before I left London, for instance, I had a very uncomfortable conversation with the Prime Minister—and not only because he is concerned with riots over the price of grain and whether or not my radical politics might countenance revolution.”

  “And do they?”

  “If the poor are starving, they will make their discomfort known whether it is convenient for the government or not. Remedial action would hardly come amiss. Nevertheless, Lord Liverpool has plans for me. I am considered sound when it comes to foreign policy. My brother was invaluable to Britain’s diplomatic efforts in the past. Now the government hopes it can rely on me. Since more is always achieved under the auspices of a fine meal and a charming entertainment than was ever formally secured around the diplomatic table, Lord Liverpool believes it would be easier if I had a wife to act as hostess. He even has a particular lady in mind.”

  She met his eyes frankly as Deyncourt smiled lazily at her. “And how did you reply?”

  “You may imagine what you will, Miss Whinburn. But I will no doubt marry the lady.”

  Jessica watched him as he strolled back across the room. Why on earth he had told her that he was planning marriage? Was he warning her, or reminding himself?

  “It’s a touching tale, is it not?” he said. “Perhaps I am only trying to engage your tender sympathy for my own nefarious purposes. You can’t know, can you?”

  Jessica felt angry color stain her cheeks. She had been fascinated for a moment by this glimpse into his life. So he was a diplomat. But now he was saying that it was all part of some disdainful manipulation. Yet she would not look away, even when he gave her his most devastating smile.

  “However, you are correct in one thing,” he went on. “I have more freedom of action than you. Judge Clarence has called off the Watch. It is time that we put an end to this irregular arrangement, and I brought you to the front door like a proper guest.”

  “I would rather you take me to an inn where I can catch the stage.”

  “For God’s sake, Miss Whinburn! I can’t risk your fleeing again. You will remain here until I deem it safe to leave, and will then meekly travel to your aunt’s and stay with her for at least two months. I want your word on it.”

  “Why? Why do you insist on this?”

  “Because nothing else will suffice,” he said firmly. “You have become my responsibility, and I won’t discharge it by allowing you to try to make your own way in the world. You can have no idea of the dangers that await you in London.”

  “I had no idea of the dangers that I’d meet on the road,” she said sarcastically.

  “Exactly. Don’t think to gainsay me in this, Miss Whinburn.”

  “This is outrageous! What earthly concern is it of yours?”

  “Among other things, I owe it to your great-aunt,” he said. “Lady Emilia will take you in and dote upon you.”

  “But as I told you, she and my father quarrele
d most dreadfully.”

  “Did he also have red hair?”

  She flared up immediately. “What on earth does that have to say to the matter? Why must everyone always assume that the color of one’s hair determines one’s temperament? My father had dark hair and was always up in the boughs. Yet in spite of looking like a tree full of oranges, I do not have a temper.”

  “Obviously not,” the earl replied dryly. “Nor do I imagine that you are a typical young lady. Your behavior so far wouldn’t quite meet the demands of the dowagers. Never mind, Lady Emilia will teach you how to go on.”

  He could have no idea. How could she cope with the ton?

  “It is unconscionable that you should do this.”

  “Two months, or Lord Clarence may send his men with the chains.”

  It made no difference that she knew the threat was empty. And perhaps, because of the blunderbuss, and the orangery, and the personal, intimate tasks he had done for her for the last several days, she owed it to him.

  With both foreboding and reluctance, and filled with anger at her own helplessness, Jessica said, “One month, no more.”

  “I have your word on that?”

  “I promise on my honor that I will stay with my aunt like a douce chick for at least one month.”

  “Then thank God for that! You won’t regret it. Nothing is more amusing than life among the beau monde. You will be diverted, Miss Whinburn, and entertained. We shall repair to London as soon as I finish my business with the Steals.”

  “Do you run their lives completely?”

  He smiled very much as he had done while assuring her that black murder had been in his heart.

  “Of course. Lady Steal is hen-witted when it comes to money, and my ward—though good-hearted—is an impulsive boy. Tresham is encumbered with debt, but with proper management it can be brought about. In the meantime, it needs an infusion of capital.”

  “Which you will provide?”

  “Which a certain Miss Caroline Brandon will provide.”

  “Why, is she a relative?”

  He grinned. “She soon will be. She will marry Lord Steal.”

  “Oh, so they are betrothed?”

  “Not yet, Miss Whinburn. But they will be. Peter just doesn’t know it yet.”