Wilson, Gayle

by Anne's Perfect Husband

  "Lodged between the ribs. You are lucky. If this had penetrated half an inch deeper, I should not be digging this morning's souvenir from your hide. Bloody lucky, I should say."

  "Major Sinclair's surgeons have warned him there is always the possibility that fragment may shift and endanger the heart," McKinley said.

  The surgeon's mouth pursed as if he were thinking about that. And he again touched the obscene ridge, which lay just to the left of Ian's breastbone.

  "Given where it lies, I wouldn't be willing to probe for it. More likely to do you harm with trying to remove it than with leaving it alone. Eventually the cartilage will simply incorporate itself around this, I should imagine. That one's a souvenir you're destined to keep, I should think, Major Sinclair, whether you like it or not."

  "What does that mean?" Ian asked. "What you said about the cartilage."

  "Have you ever seen a spike driven into a tree? Over the years the trunk closes around the iron until it becomes a part of the wood itself."

  "There's no guarantee of that," McKinley warned.

  "Oh, no, of course not. And no guarantee that it won't either. I have seen it happen."

  "Have you?" Ian asked McKinley.

  "Not personally."

  "But...it is possible?"

  "Anything is possible," the physician said. "I told you I'm a firm believer in the ability of the human body to heal itself. Given that we meddlers get out of the way."

  "Do you want to keep that?" the surgeon asked, nodding toward the ball he had put down alongside the forceps on the table. "If not, may I take it? Morbid, I know, but I have a collection of these from the affairs I've been called upon to attend. Few of them in as good a shape as this one. I tell you again, Major Sinclair, you're a lucky man."

  He smiled at Ian, one brow raised in inquiry.

  "Take it," Ian said.

  "Thank you. I shall send you my bill."

  He wiped his hands on a stained cloth he pulled from the bag he had brought with him to the Elms. Then, after rolling down his sleeves, he carelessly threw the instruments he had used back into it. Their metal clanged against whatever else was inside. The bullet he dealt with more carefully, placing it into a small drawstring pouch, which he then dropped into his jacket pocket.

  "Did you think he was going to shoot the old man?" Ian asked, as he watched.

  The surgeon looked up, his brows lifted in surprise. "Of course," he said, as if there had been no question about Travener's intent.

  Then he put on his jacket, picked up his bag and bowed to his colleague. Neither Ian nor McKinley said anything else until he was out of the room.

  "I don't suppose you would care to explain how you came to be shot during a duel in which you were not a participant," the physician said.

  "Not particularly," Ian said.

  "I didn't think so. May I ask if your ward was involved?"

  Ian laughed. "Are you already planning your report to my brother, Dr. McKinley?"

  "I ask simply for my own edification, I assure you. You are quite the most interesting patient I've ever had, Mr. Sinclair. I like to keep abreast of your adventures. I should imagine, however, that so would your brother. Have you sent him word about this one?"

  "No," Ian said, looking down at the neat bandage the physician had just finished tying around his arm.

  "And you don't intend to, I take it."

  "No," Ian said, raising his eyes to the doctor's again. The direct hazel stare left McKinley in no doubt about his feelings on that point.

  "Then may I suggest that you take care, sir," the physician said. "You have had more than your share of close calls of late. I wonder what the odds would be of so many dangerous accidents happening to one gentleman. Especially to one who professes to be... What was the term you used? Living sedately?"

  There was a short silence, McKinley's eyes refusing to release Ian's without an answer. And when it came, it was at best an oblique one.

  "You will probably be relieved to learn that my ward has returned to school."

  "A much safer situation, I suspect. Have you told that to your brother?"

  "My brother and I are presently...estranged."

  Ian wondered if it would be safe to reestablish communications with his brother, now that Anne was safely back at Fenton School. He wasn't completely sure, however, that he trusted Dare's contrition at having overstepped the bounds of their relationship.

  "I see," McKinley said. "Then I shall hope for the earl's sake that this estrangement will soon be mended. He cares a great deal about you."

  "Thank you. And thank you for your services today. May I ask how you knew I had need of them?"

  "I believe your brother's butler had been given instructions to send for me in case you were again... indisposed. I assume he felt that being shot qualified."

  McKinley, too, picked up his bag and turned toward the door. Before he reached it, he stopped and looked over his shoulder at Ian. "That reminds me. He asked me to give you a message when I came upstairs. Slipped my mind until now."

  "Dare?"

  "The earl's butler," McKinley corrected. "It seems there is a man downstairs who insists he must see you. He says it's quite urgent."

  "Did Williams give you his name?"

  "A Mr. Smythe, I believe. Which doesn't tell you much. Something to do with an estate, I think he said."

  ***

  "I don't believe it," Ian said, his eyes still scanning the documents the solicitor had handed him as his brain tried to make sense of them.

  His arm hurt like hell. Williams had helped him into a fresh shirt and had then fashioned a sling from one of his cravats to support the injured member.

  Considering the papers he had just been handed, he was very grateful that McKinley had not insisted on administering a dose of laudanum. Even with his mind free of the effects of the drug, he was having a hard time coming to terms with this.

  "Frankly, Mr. Sinclair, we found it difficult to believe ourselves. However, I do assure you that the information contained in those papers is quite correct. We went to a great deal of trouble to verify it before we approached you."

  "But...how can this be?"

  "What prevented him from gaming this away, too, do you mean?"

  Ian looked up, realizing that Mr. Smythe knew his former client very well indeed. "You wondered the same thing."

  "We believe he simply forgot he owned them. These were virtually worthless ten years ago. The idea of using gas for light was the merest speculation then. That was the kind of investment Darlington loved, of course. The more far-fetched the better. The more risk involved, the greater the reward, he believed, if one won through."

  "As it seems he did in this case," Ian said, still studying the documents.

  "Luckily for his daughter, he never realized what he had. Or this, like the rest, would surely be gone."

  "How much are the shares worth today?"

  "The value has gone up rapidly in the last year, and it continues to rise. Gas is already being used to light factories in the north and certain streets of this very city."

  "A rough idea will do."

  "The current value is listed on the third page, I believe," the solicitor said.

  And when Ian had found the place Mr. Smythe had referred to, his eyes quickly came back up.

  "Per share?" he asked.

  The solicitor nodded.

  "And Darlington held...?"

  Since he was managing the documents with only one hand, Ian awkwardly turned back to the first page. He had vaguely remembered that the total number of shares Anne's father had purchased more than a decade ago had been listed there.

  "Good God," he said, when he had found the figure.

  "Exactly." Smythe's voice seemed to hold a note of satisfaction over Ian's shock. "Your ward is a very wealthy young woman."

  "So it seems," Ian agreed absently. He was doing a calculation of just how wealthy in his head, just to be sure he hadn't made any mistake.

 
"And I can't see anything happening that would bring the price down," Mr. Smythe went on. "Quite the reverse, if you want my opinion."

  "Who knows about this?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I am wondering whom you have told about my ward's fortune," Ian repeated patiently.

  The lawyer looked taken aback by the question. "I'm not perfectly sure I understand you, Mr. Sinclair."

  "It's very simple. I should like to know who in your firm has been made privy to this information."

  "My associate, of course. Our clerk as well, since he drew up the papers you are now holding. But surely, Mr. Sinclair, you don't believe you can keep this sort of thing secret?" the solicitor said.

  Ian wasn't sure what he heard in the tone of that question. Suspicion of his motives? If so, Ian found that he didn't care. If word of Anne's fortune got out, every bounder in the country would come courting, despite the scandal that had been attached to her name.

  "I would like to protect my ward from the attentions of those who are interested in only this," he explained, lifting the documents.

  "I understand your concern, of course. I am very much afraid, however... With the plans to use gas to light the whole of London, the newspapers will doubtless go public with the information about the company's investors very soon. You'll find yourself tilting at windmills if you hope to keep it quiet, Mr. Sinclair. Granted, this can only make your job more difficult, but I'm afraid that can't be helped. News like this will get out. Can't be helped," Smythe said again, shaking his head.

  He was probably right, Ian acknowledged in disgust. With the circulation of this information, his role as Anne's guardian would, of necessity, expand. Not only would he be protecting her, he would also need to guard the fortune her profligate father had left.

  Which would, he realized belatedly, also make quite a difference in Anne's desirability to the gentlemen of the ton. To men who might be legitimate prospects for husband. Thus far, no one other than Mr. Travener—

  No one other than Mr. Travener... Who had returned from Portugal shortly after Darlington's death.

  Which might, Ian acknowledged, have nothing to do with what Mr. Smythe had just discovered. Despite his self-admonition to fairness, Ian found himself thinking about Travener's connection to everything that had happened since they had been in the capital. He had been there, rather conveniently there, on the day of the riot. He had also been there the night Mayfield had publicly insulted Anne. A chance meeting. And yet...

  Ian had wondered at the time how the old man had recognized Anne as Darlington's daughter. She looked nothing like her father. Not in the shape of her face or her features or her coloring. There was nothing about her that should have identified her as a Darlington. And yet, according to what he had been told, Mayfield had bumped into Anne at a crowded ball and had immediately made that identification.

  Or, Ian wondered, a slow trickle of ice slipping down his spine, had Anne been pointed out to the general? Deliberately identified as the daughter of the man who had killed his beloved son? If so, for what possible purpose?

  Almost unconsciously, Ian touched the wound on his arm, which throbbed with the slightest movement. McKinley had questioned the number of close calls and accidents he had suffered lately. Admittedly, for someone who had deliberately chosen to live "sedately," he had found himself in situations that were not only potentially dangerous...

  He took a breath, knowing that he was right. Too many situations that were not only dangerous, but strangely suspicious. As if they had been arranged. Even this morning, the substitution of pistols in the duel now seemed irregular. Not by itself perhaps, but in context with the rest. And certainly in context with the outcome.

  Too many close calls and dangerous accidents...

  "Mr. Sinclair?"

  Smythe's voice interrupted that unwanted realization. Ian's eyes lifted to the solicitor's face, although his mind continued to work on those possibilities as his visitor talked.

  "I take it you agree that we shouldn't sell the colonel's shares. Sell them for Miss Darlington, I mean. As her guardian, the management of her resources is completely in your hands. Legally in your hands. As her father's solicitor, however, I should advise against—"

  "I don't intend to sell them. I do, however, wish you to determine who knows about this," Ian said, indicating the packet of papers he held.

  "Who else knows about those shares? Only those people I mentioned."

  "How did you find out about this investment?"

  "It was in going through the colonel's belongings, which came straight to us from Iberia, that our clerk found a letter that made reference to it. And when we began to investigate—"

  "So someone else might have seen that same letter?"

  Someone in the army, perhaps?

  Smythe shrugged. "Someone had to pack his kit. His batman, I suppose. An orderly. Some subordinate, in any case. We could query the colonel's commanding officer if it's important. Of course, that will take a while, even if we send our request through the dispatches."

  "Would you do that, please, Mr. Smythe? I think it might be important."

  "Indeed?" Smythe said, his tone skeptical and his brows lifted again. "Then...of course, I shall, Mr. Sinclair. If you think it important."

  Ian nodded, his mind already running ahead. And it was certainly time, he acknowledged. He had been very slow to understand what was going on.

  Of course, until he had had this, the last piece of the puzzle, which had made everything else fall into place, he had had no reason to be suspicious. No reason to have any doubts at all, except his own feelings of jealousy. And even now...

  He looked down at the papers he held, papers which made Anne Darlington an incredibly wealthy woman. And suddenly, the feeling so strong it was almost a premonition, he knew, despite the fact that he couldn't yet prove anything, that he wasn't wrong in what he was thinking.

  Desperate men adopt desperate measures. And it seemed there could be little more desperate than the murder Travener had attempted this morning. Actually, Ian realized, he could think of only one thing—

  The thought brought him out of his chair so rapidly that, given the blood he had lost, his head spun sickeningly. He groped for the table, knocking the documents to the floor.

  "Mr. Sinclair," the solicitor said, his voice shocked. He also stood to place a steadying arm under Ian's elbow.

  Ian shook his head, trying to clear away the gray void that had threatened. When he looked up, Smythe's eyes were on his face, wide with concern.

  "Find out who packed the colonel's belongings. And on your way out, ask Williams to have my brother's curricle and his grays brought round at once."

  "Surely, sir, you are in no condition to undertake—"

  "A quite necessary journey, I assure you. Else I should not attempt it...at this particular time."

  Smythe held his eyes, concern growing in his own. Finally, at whatever he read there, he nodded.

  "Then Godspeed, Major Sinclair. I shall pray you arrive safely at your destination."

  ***

  "You have a visitor."

  Anne pulled her unfocused gaze from the scene outside the second-story window to find Margaret Rhodes standing in the hallway, watching her. In the days since her return, Anne had become accustomed to being watched, at least by the girls who had known her before her brief sojourn in London. She wasn't sure what they found so interesting, but whatever it was, it was enough to provoke uncounted hallway discussions, all quickly shushed into whispers when she approached.

  "Not the one from before," Margaret added.

  "Not my guardian," Anne clarified, feeling her heart rate slow in disappointment and with something that felt strangely akin to gratitude.

  "But a gentleman nonetheless," Margaret assured her. "Top of the Trees and even more handsome than the last, if you fancy my opinion."

  Of course, when you are Margaret's age and living in an all-female institution, the visit of any handsom
e gentleman is an event, one sure to cause romantic speculation. Anne herself had certainly been guilty of that in the past.

  "He's waiting in Mrs. Kemp's parlor."

  "Thank you, Margaret," Anne said, unfolding her legs from the window seat on which she had been curled.

  After her weeks in London, Anne had been far more aware of the chill that seeped through the stones of Fenton Hall. And the spill of afternoon sunshine coming in through the tall windows of the upstairs solar had been too inviting to resist.

  Her hours-long daydreaming had done nothing for her attire, she realized. She shook out her skirt, smoothing her hands over the deep wrinkles that had resulted from her position. Not a very ladylike position, Elizabeth would have chided.

  As she worked, Anne was thankful the Countess of Dare couldn't see her poor hands, already reddened again across the knuckles with the cold. With that thought, those hands hesitated, still hovering over the fabric of her skirt.

  Even more handsome than the last, Margaret had said. Dare? Was it possible that her caller was the Earl of Dare? And if so, why would he have made this long journey?

  Again, quite against her will, her heart began to race. Determined not to provoke further gossip among the girls, she tried to hide that sudden trepidation when she looked up to smile a dismissal at Margaret.

  "Shall I go down with you?" the child asked, obviously not interpreting the smile in the way it had been intended.

  "I'm sure you have lessons," Anne suggested briskly. "And I do know my way to the parlor, Margaret. Thank you for bringing me the message."

  "Do you think he's the one?"

  "I beg your pardon?" Anne said, imbuing her voice with a touch of adult disapproval, her exact tone borrowed from the headmistress.

  "The one you're in love with. Do you think this could be him?"

  There were a dozen responses Anne might have made. Six months ago, some teasing comment would have leapt from her tongue, guaranteed to evoke laughter in her audience. Now, however...

  "Do you think this could be he," she said, correcting the girl's grammar instead. "Not that it would be any of your concern, Margaret, if he is or not."