Her Husband's Harlot

by Grace Callaway

  Nicholas should have been home by now. What could have detained him?

  Pacing in front of the fire, she tried to calm herself. There must be some good explanation. Most likely he and Mr. Kent had got caught up in details surrounding the theft. Or perhaps Nicholas had stopped by his club for a drink. He'd gotten held up in a game of cards or something of the like.

  But Nicholas did not gaming—he thought it a waste of time. And would he be still consulting with Mr. Kent at two in the morning?

  Helena gnawed on the tip of her thumbnail. Perhaps it was the influence of Miss Wollstonecraft's writings, but at this moment her capacity to reason seemed dwarfed by the tides of sensibility washing over her. This behavior was most unlike her and more like ... her mother's.

  With a groan, Helena pushed away that thought. She had enough to worry about without upending that particular pin drawer. Despite her best efforts to rationally analyze the situation, she felt a rising panic. Nicholas could be lying injured somewhere. Beset by footpads. Or, sweet heavens, could he have gone back to the Nunnery? That possibility shocked her system like icy water. What if even now he was searching for the mystery nymph? Prowling the bawdy house, ready to select a substitute if he did not find her ...?

  Attempting to breathe deeply, she pulled on the bell.

  Several minutes later, a sleepy-eyed Bessie came into the room. The maid slanted a look at the untouched supper service, and her eyes grew large.

  "Is everything alright, my lady?" Bessie asked.

  Helena forced herself to speak calmly. "Lord Harteford has not yet returned. If you would be so kind as to see if he sent word?"

  "Of course," Bessie said.

  But of course he had not. Crikstaff would have informed her immediately if the master had sent a note. Helena took up the pacing again. Just as she was contemplating summoning the carriage and heading to the Nunnery herself, she heard a sound from below stairs. She went still, her breathing loud in her ears. Yes, there it was again, the unmistakable sound of a key rattling in the front door. She hurried toward the bedchamber door, remembering just in time to throw on a woolen dressing gown. She cracked open the door and peered out. The hallway was empty save for flickering shadows.

  She could hear murmurs now, coming from below stairs. There was Crikstaff and ... yes, Nicholas. She let out the breath she had not realized she'd been holding. Then her brows puckered. Yes, that was Nicholas' distinctively deep voice, but his tones were rumbling in a most unusual manner. Good heavens, was he ... singing? And there were other male voices now, quiet and low, voices she could not quite place.

  What on earth was going on?

  She tied the sash of the robe tightly at the waist and headed to the stairs. Halfway down, she was met by Bessie coming up.

  "Oh, my lady, I was just coming to fetch you." The maid's lips trembled, and some of her brown curls had escaped from beneath her mob cap. "Mr. Crikstaff said to—"

  "Whatever is the matter, Bessie?"

  "It's Lord Harteford," Bessie whispered. "He's been shot."

  It took a moment for the words to register.

  Nicholas. Shot.

  Helena flew past Bessie and down the stairs. She hurtled toward the voices coming from the drawing room. She stopped short in the doorway. Nicholas was slumped on the settee, Mr. Kent standing to one side of him. Another man she did not recognize was checking on the bandage wrapped around Nicholas' head.

  "H-how badly is he injured?" she asked in a choked voice.

  At her words, Mr. Kent and the other man turned. Nicholas blinked owlishly.

  "Lady Harteford." Mr. Kent bowed, speaking quickly. "Pray do not concern yourself. Lord Harteford is fine. He has encountered a mere flesh wound and has been recovering rapidly under Dr. Farraday's care."

  "Quite so." Tall and distinguished-looking, Dr. Farraday appeared to be in his fifties and spoke with a thick Scottish accent. "'Tis quite fortunate I arrived when I did. Mr. Morg—, I mean to say Lord Harteford, suffered no great blood loss. The bullet only grazed the temple. It took but a few stitches to patch him up. He's right as rain now, aren't you, lad?"

  Recovering her senses, Helena stumbled over to the settee. Kneeling, she looked up at her husband's ragged face. Beneath the snowy bandage, his forehead was pale. His jaw was stubbly with a night beard, and lines bracketed his mouth. His hazy grey eyes appeared blood-shot and slightly unfocused.

  To her, he was the most precious sight in the whole world.

  "Thank God," she whispered, rubbing her cheek against his hand before looking up. "Does it hurt very much, my darling?"

  "Better bloody believe it," Nicholas agreed cheerfully. "Like 'avin' a flamin' poker shoved 'tween the ears. Or up the—"

  "Dr. Farraday," Helena said with a frown, "your patient is in pain. Is there nothing you can do?"

  Dr. Farraday smiled wryly. "Your husband already finished a bottle of whiskey. I would not advise more pain relief than that. After a good night's sleep, he should be fit as a fiddle."

  "Harteford's got a hard skull," Mr. Kent agreed.

  The two men apparently found that remark humorous as they both stood there with smirks upon their faces.

  Helena continued to frown at the good doctor as Nicholas picked up her hand and began to kiss it playfully. "Surely you have instructions for his care, Doctor. Is there anything specific I am to do?"

  "I 'ave some ideas fer you," Nicholas said, with a good-natured leer.

  "In a minute, my love," Helena said soothingly as she extricated her hand. She stood to face the doctor and Mr. Kent. Her eyes narrowed at the ill-concealed looks of amusement on the men's faces. "Do you not think you are taking my husband's injury a bit too lightly, Dr. Farraday?"

  Dr. Farraday stopped smiling. "Lady Harteford, I am an experienced physician. I have seen hundreds of such cases and far worse, I might add."

  "In your experience then, Dr. Farraday," Helena said, "is there not some intervention for a patient who at this very moment professes to be in agonizing pain?"

  "Yer a 'eartless bastard, Farraday," Nicholas agreed and yawned hugely.

  "Furthermore," Helena continued, crossing her arms, "what is your advice on monitoring the state of my husband's injury? What are the signs of infection that I should be aware of? How oft need his dressing be changed? What is the expected healing time for such a wound?"

  Dr. Farraday turned a dull shade of red.

  Ambrose Kent spoke up. "Lady Harteford," he said in the placating tones that one might use with a high-strung horse or a slow-witted child, "I understand your concern. But, you see, Farraday here is one of the finest physicians in London. He has attended countless such injuries before—"

  Helena cut him off with a hand. "Yes, speaking of injuries, I confess I am most curious as to how my husband sustained his. How is it, Mr. Kent, that the Marquess of Harteford came to arrive home with a bullet wound to the head?"

  Mr. Kent shoved his hands in his pockets. He exchanged looks with Dr. Farraday, who shrugged as if to say, You're on your own with that one, lad.

  "It was but a small matter, my lady," Mr. Kent began.

  "A small matter?" Helena's hands braced her hips. "You return my husband to me, bloody and bandaged, and you call that a small matter?"

  For a moment, Kent looked almost shamefaced. Then he jerked his head toward the couch.

  "It was his lordship's own idea," he muttered. "I told him St. Giles was no place—"

  Helena whitened at the mention of the notorious slum. "You took Harteford to St. Giles? No one in their right mind ventures forth there! Why, it is said that there are gin houses on every block and places called rookeries where crime flourishes among men, women, even children ..."

  "You are remarkably well informed, my lady," Kent said, a touch of admiration in his voice. "The literary society again, I presume?"

  "What in heaven's name were you doing there with my husband?"

  Kent shrank back a little at the fierce look in Helena's eyes.

/>   "We were following a man suspected to be involved in the warehouse theft." Kent spoke with his shoulders hunched. "I told your husband to stay in position while I checked in with my men. But he must have seen the villain and took off after him like some bloody hero. He was lucky I had one of my men posted farther up along the street. He followed your husband and the suspect for most of the way and intervened when he saw Lord Harteford getting ... injured."

  "Obviously, the timing of your man's intervention leaves something to be desired," Helena snapped.

  "Caster is one of my best men," Kent said stiffly. "He did all he could. If it hadn't been for him, Harteford might have sustained a more serious injury."

  "I must be sure to convey my gratitude, then."

  "It was his lordship's own idea to follow the suspect," Kent grumbled. "I told him to stay put. For God's sake, back me on this, Harteford—"

  A soft snoring emerged from the couch. Nicholas had fallen asleep sitting up.

  For a moment, Helena observed her sleeping lord. Then she sighed. If he was to be passed out drunk as a wheelbarrow, he might as well do so comfortably. She bent over and lifted her husband's legs one by one onto the seat cushions. Her breath puffed with the effort it required to move his muscular limbs. Once Nicholas was sprawled fully on the couch, she arranged a tasseled cushion under his head. He continued to snore blissfully, undisturbed even as she began to pull off his left boot.

  A dangerous-looking blade tumbled out.

  She turned accusing eyes at Mr. Kent. The police man kept his gaze glued to a landscape on the wall, his concentration worthy of an art critic at the Royal Academy. With an unladylike snort, Helena finished tending to Nicholas, tucking his discarded jacket securely around him and brushing her fingers over his bristly jaw. In his sleep, his mouth hung open a little, like a child's after a particularly exhausting afternoon of play.

  Only Nicholas had not been playing—he had been busy getting shot at. Why had he acted so recklessly? Why, she thought with helpless frustration, did she understand so little about this husband of hers?

  Straightening, she faced the other two men in the room. Both looked like they wished to be elsewhere. Dr. Farraday, she noticed, had inched closer toward the door.

  "Perhaps we should take our leave," Mr. Kent said in a low, hopeful voice. "It has been a long night, and we would not want to intrude upon your hospitality."

  "Allow me to offer some refreshment," Helena said evenly, "and afterward you will tell me everything. And I do mean everything."

  FIFTEEN

  Nicholas opened his eyes.

  For a blessed moment, he thought it all a dream. He was in his bedchamber, lying in his own bed. He had no idea what time of day it was. When he tried to sit up, sudden bright pain lanced through his head. He fell back on the pillow and had to wait to regain his breath. Grimacing, he brought his hand to his temple and encountered a swaddled barrier. Not a dream, then. He shut his eyes as it came back to him, all of it.

  The night in the rookery, the specters of the past rising all around him. The sickening, humiliating fear that would never leave him—that wrenched his gut even now as he realized the consequences of his selfishness. It was his fault that Helena was now in jeopardy; by marrying her, he'd all but thrust her in harm's way. For the villain, whoever he was, knew about her. Had threatened to harm her if Nicholas refused to obey whatever nefarious demands were sure to follow.

  Bile rose in Nicholas' throat. Moaning, he tried to turn onto his side, to reach the edge of the bed in time. Miracle of miracles, a chamber pot stood there waiting. His insides emptied in sour wave. The door opened. He looked up with bleary, stinging eyes to see Helena rushing toward him.

  "Nicholas. Oh, my poor darling. Here, let me help you."

  For an instant, he fancied he'd died, for she appeared as heavenly as any angel. His own guardian angel, with hair as bright as a halo and eyes so loving that they momentarily stopped his mortal breath. Her soft hands brushed his forehead, guided his head back to the pillow. As she hovered over him, he allowed her grace to distract him from the horror of the night, like an oasis in a world of endless desolation. But even as he drank in her beauty, shame began to crawl over his skin.

  He could smell his own stench. He could imagine how he looked, bandaged and bloodied. And the danger he had placed her in ...

  Wrinkling her nose, his wife picked up the chamber pot. "Let me dispose of this, and I shall be right back. Do try not to move too much—your wound is not healed, my love."

  His throat clenched at the endearment. Paralyzed with misery, he could only stare after her shapely, robe-clad form as she left with the offending object. She returned minutes later, with two maids in tow. They deposited a steaming basin and a tray by the bedside. The homey smell of beef tea wafted to his nostrils.

  "Thank you, Bessie, Mary," Helena said. "That will be all."

  Behind her, the maids peered at him wide-eyed, before scampering off.

  Helena dipped the towel into the water, wringing it out before leaning over him. "We'll clean you up a bit first, I think."

  He caught her wrist. His voice emerged as a croak. "I can do it myself."

  "Nonsense," she chided. "You can barely sit up."

  To his surprise, he found she was right: he could not get up without her assistance. So he had to allow her to prop him up on feather pillows, humiliation and desire twisting his insides as he submitted to her gentle ministrations. She wiped his face and neck, behind his ears. The warm, clean linen felt blessedly good against his clammy skin.

  "Now, that is better, isn't it?" Turning, she arranged something, and then the mattress dipped as she perched on the edge of the bed, glass and spoon in hand. "Do you think you can take some of this? They're ice chips—Dr. Farraday said it might be better for keeping the liquid down."

  Come to think of it, his throat did feel like fire. He gave a reluctant nod.

  She carefully scooped up the ice and fed him a spoonful. The cold liquid pooled in his mouth, and he swallowed, wincing at the initial pleasure-pain of water trickling down his parched insides.

  "More?"

  "Yes," he said, and she continued to feed him spoonful by spoonful. Perhaps as a mother might a babe, although he could not claim that knowledge for himself. He was certain his own mother, what little memory he had of her, had never bothered. He did not blame her; maternal instincts were a luxury a whore could ill afford.

  He allowed himself to bask in his wife's tender attention even as he despised his own weakness. After last night, there was no question of being with Helena. That he had not been killed last evening was a miracle, but he knew the clock of justice was ticking. With each silent, inexorable beat he felt the urgency of borrowed time. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

  A life for a life.

  As it was, his life had already been extended by sixteen years. But fate was coming for him now. He could feel the hounds of hell breathing at his neck.

  But he could not—would not—allow his presence to put Helena in danger.

  "I suppose you are wondering how you got up to bed," his wife said as she gave him the last of the ice. "Or do you recall the events that transpired after your return home last night?"

  His memories of the night were of demons, of darkness and filth permeating his very soul. "No," he said tautly, "my memory fades after Farraday practicing his particular form of torture."

  Helena frowned. "Dr. Farraday put half a dozen stitches along your left temple. We are to leave the bandage in place for several days to keep the wound clean, but he assured me you will heal nicely. Although I am not at all sure I trust Dr. Farraday—he seemed overly cavalier about the whole business. I told him so last night, as a matter of fact."

  Despite his bleak mood, Nicholas's lips twitched. He'd wager all the horses in his stable Farraday had bristled at having his authority questioned. "Farraday served in the 33rd Regiment. He was at Quatre Bras and Waterloo and tended to the great Wellington himself."<
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  "Well, I hope he knows what he is doing where you are concerned," Helena said primly. She stood and fussed with the coverlet, not looking at him. "I had two of the footmen carry you upstairs after the doctor and Mr. Kent left. I thought you would be more comfortable."

  "That was kind of you." He did not know what else to say. That he did not deserve such tender consideration from her? That her wifely care was wasted on a marriage not destined to be? That the best thing for her would be for him to leave and never come back? "I am sorry for the inconvenience I have caused."

  "Inconvenience?" Helena's head snapped up. His chest squeezed at the heightened brightness of her eyes. "You could have died last night, and you apologize for the inconvenience?"

  Grimly, Nicholas met her wounded, bewildered gaze. "What else do you wish me to say?"

  What was there to say, after all? She would not understand, because he could not explain his past to her. It suddenly occurred to him that it would be easier this way, letting her hurt and anger build a wall of separation. Lord knew his own self-control had proved perilously thin where she was concerned. It would be for her own good to stay far away from him—even if it took her hate to accomplish it.

  He could live with that, at least temporarily, until he could figure out a more permanent solution for keeping her safe. His mind raced. An annulment would have to be procured; as soon as he could get himself out of bed, he'd light the fire beneath his solicitor's arse to make it happen. To remove himself from her well-ordered existence was the only fool-proof solution.

  But he needed time to make that happen.

  Fueling her hatred would buy him that time.

  "I wish," Helena said, her voice quivering, "to know what you were doing in the dashed slums in the first place. I wish to know why you never tell me, your own wife, anything. Oh, Nicholas, why must you strive to keep the doors closed between us?"

  Because the closer you get, the more I endanger you . Because I won't be the cause of you coming to harm. Because I'd die before I let anything happen to you.