Realm 06 - A Touch of Love

by Regina Jeffers

  Godown pushed past Carter to investigate the shooting, and for once, the baronet did not follow. Instead, he sank to his knees. Lucinda rushed to his side. “Carter.” She braced him to the ground.

  “Lucinda?” he asked as he lay back.

  “I am here,” she said unbuttoning his dress coat. “God,” she prayed aloud. “Assist me to stop this blood flow.” Her fingers tore open his waistcoat, sending the buttons flying. She tugged his shirt from his breeches. “Your knife,” she demanded.

  “A pocket in my boot,” he murmured weakly, not protesting her forwardness, which told her he was severely injured.

  Lucinda caressed his cheek, her fingers leaving streaks of blood upon his skin. “No leaving me, Carter Lowery,” she said adamantly. “I shall not tolerate it.” She clasped his face in both her hands. “Your games end here.”

  He gave an exhaustive sigh, but Lucinda thought she recognized a hint of a smile upon his lips. Frantically, she wrestled the knife from his boot and cut strips of cloth from the tail of his shirt. Without asking, she worked his dress coat from his shoulder and down his arm, cutting parts of it away. Although they cleaved at her heart, Lucinda ignored his groans of pain and his guttural protests.

  Using the knife, she slit the shirt’s sleeve to his shoulder. “Oh, Carter,” she moaned. “You are the most stubbornly infuriating man of my acquaintance.” As she spoke, Lucinda folded the cloth strips across the seeping wound and used her weight to press it hard enough to staunch the blood flow. “Do you realize how many times I have tended your wounds?” she asked, but he did not respond. Anger coursed through her. She could have lost him on this night–lost him before they had truly known each other.

  Frustrated, she placed the palm of one hand over the back of the other to hold the bandage in place. “Assistance will arrive soon,” she encouraged, but he lay lifeless upon the ground.

  “I swear, Carter, if you die on me, I mean to revive you and kill you all over again. How could you be so foolish?” Despite her words, Lucinda bent forward to kiss his lips softly.

  “Harp…harp…harp,” he said through a weak smile.

  His expression eased her worried heart. “You must admit you have missed my harping.” Her words came upon a cracked whisper.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Please do not force me to spend my life worried for your safety,” she pleaded through her tears.

  Without warning, with his free hand, he pulled her down where she might rest her head upon his chest. She could hear the small shudder in his breathing: It matched hers. Silently, he stroked her head, and Lucinda felt her world complete. The steady beat of his heart filled her. “Lucinda,” he whispered, and she raised her head to look upon his pale countenance. “I can only promise to love you with each breath I take.” Despite his wound and the situation, he regarded her with an implacable finality, which somehow gave her comfort.

  “And I love you, Carter Lowery.” She leaned over him to brush her lips across his a second time. His eyes closed again, but this time in contentment, the tension draining from his expression. He had given himself up to her care.

  Lucinda swallowed hard and returned to tending the wound. As she dressed it, she told him of how she wished to proceed. She hoped her assurances penetrated his unconscious state. “My uncle has been so good to me,” she said through tight sobs, “I would prefer to postpone our joining so I might spend, at least, one Christmastide with him and Simon at Charles Place.”

  It was late the following afternoon when Carter opened his eyes. He was in his room at the family townhouse, and his mother and Arabella tended him. For a moment, Carter wondered if he had dreamed of Lucinda’s declarations of love. He recalled closing his eyes to listen to her melodic voice speaking of her hopes for their future and to wait for his rescue, but he could recall little beyond that gesture.

  When Bella realized he was awake, she leaned closer. “Thank Goodness,” she said with a smile. “We thought you might sleep through the night again.”

  “Lucinda?” he whispered. He caught Bella’s hand to keep her from moving from focus.

  “We sent Mrs. Warren home with the earl,” she said as she straightened the blanket across his chest. “I fear you must marry the woman, Brother Dear.” The hint of a joyful taunt laced her words. “The lady quite shamelessly refused to leave your side until Lord Charleton threatened to have his footmen carry her to his coach. The earl was quite distraught for his niece’s health. The whole scene was reminiscent of my hoydenish ways with your brother.”

  “How long?” he asked through dry lips. He forced his eyes open to concentrate on what Bella shared.

  “Some twenty hours.”

  “Do not tire him,” his mother warned, but all Carter could consider was Lucinda had sat with him for a full day. She did love him: His ramblings had not been a dream.

  “Send her word…I am awake…and I look forward to seeing her…tomorrow,” he said with difficulty.

  “I will do so immediately,” Lucinda declared. “Permit the baroness to show her youngest her concern. I shall inform Lawrence and the baron of your recovery. They have waited most impatiently. I shall also send word to Mr. Pennington. You are quite the hero, Carter. The prince sings your praises.”

  He nodded his understanding. When Bella withdrew, his mother pulled a chair closer to the bed. She intuitively smoothed his hair into some semblance of style before she sat to wrap his hand into her two smaller ones. “I was so frightened, Carter,” she whispered on a rasp. “I believe I liked it better when I did not know the dangers you encounter in your position with the Home Office.”

  He did not look at her. “I am sorry…to give you pain,” he confessed. “I meant only…to bring honor to the family name.”

  She brushed the hair from his forehead. “Oh, my, darling boy. Please do not think I criticize. You were magnificently clever and astoundingly brave: Without you, Prince George would be lying in state. However, no mother wishes to think of her child in peril.”

  Carter laced his fingers with hers. “Without the government’s specialized training…I would likely have died…on one of Wellington’s…many fields of battle. Rather than to think…on how I might know Death…think of how my abilities…keep me safe. A man without…my training…would have met his end…last evening.”

  “I shall do my best to accept it. My only consolation is when you replace Mr. Pennington, you will spend your time in the office rather than on active investigations.”

  “You mean if…I replace Pennington,” he corrected.

  His mother laughed easily. “Trust me. Prince George means to have you close if trouble reoccurs.”

  A light tap announced his brother’s arrival. “Are you awake enough for another visitor?” Carter nodded his welcome. “Perhaps, Baroness, you might ask Cook for some broth to bolster our patient’s strength.”

  Their mother stood to make her exit. “I know when my boys wish to spend time without a parent.” As she passed Lawrence, she added, “Do not tire him too much. Carter requires his rest.”

  “Yes, Mother,” they said together, and the baroness smiled knowingly.

  Law watched her go before asking, “May I retrieve something for you?”

  Carter turned his gaze to the side table. “Some water.”

  The task appeared to set Law more at ease. He gently lifted Carter’s head and uninjured shoulder, bracing Carter against his chest, before holding the glass where Carter might drink his fill. When finished, Lawrence reversed the process. “I told Merriweather I would assist him with your ablutions tomorrow if you are feeling well enough. Your man was most obliging while the surgeon tended to your wound.”

  “Darek is…a loyal member of my staff.”

  Law finally assumed the seat vacated earlier by their mother. “I am better when I speak earnestly; polite babble bores me,” Law confessed.

  Although Carter’s mind kept an image of Lucinda’s countenance close, he attempted to anticipate his brother�
�s concerns. “I am a captive audience, Law.” His energy waned and waxed.

  “It is the lady, Carter. Although the family appreciates Mrs. Warren’s efforts to save you, neither father nor I will have you marry if it is not your desire. Bella speaks of the lady’s forwardness as if it is an accepted absurdity of your proposal, but Mrs. Warren’s reputation is the earl’s concern, not yours.”

  This was not a conversation Carter wished to have when his heart finally knew happiness. “Why is it…I recognized your desire…for Lady Hellsman, but you know nothing…of mine for Lucinda Warren?”

  Law’s expression spoke of surprise. “Then Bella has the right of it. You have always denied your connection to the woman.”

  “The right of it. The wrong of it. The everything of it. At least, Arabella understands love.” Carter squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. “Tell the baron…I mean to have the woman…and he should set his mind to it.” He turned his head away. “I believe…I will forego the broth…for more sleep. Please send Merriweather in…to sit with me.”

  Law stood slowly, but Carter chose not to look upon his brother. Against all Carter’s hopes, Lawrence had slipped into his old ways, acting as the baron’s agent. “I meant only to protect you, Carter,” Law said lamely in apology.

  He did not open his eyes. “Last evening should have proved…I am quite capable of persevering…even during the most difficult situations. I do not require…either Blakehell’s or your protection.”

  When next he woke, it was daylight, and Merriweather was carrying in a tray holding hot coffee, toast, and eggs.

  “Good morning, Sir.” His valet placed the tray on a side table before bracing Carter to a seated position. “It is good to see a bit of color returning to your cheeks, Sir.”

  Carter ran his free hand over the two-day stubble bristling his jaw line. “Some food and then a shave,” he said in response. “Do you know what time Mrs. Warren means to call?”

  “I believe I overheard Lady Hellsman tell your brother the lady is expected at one, Sir.” Carter glanced to the clock on the mantel. Only half past eight. Plenty of time to speak to Pennington and to have the inevitable “talk” with his father. As if he understood Carter’s thoughts, Merriweather added, “Your family is still abed, Sir.”

  Carter nodded his gratitude. “I am famished.”

  “I chose items which did not require a second hand for cutting,” Merriweather explained as he set the lap tray across Carter’s legs. “I did not think you would appreciate my having to feed you.”

  Carter tossed a grin in Merriweather’s direction. “I am long beyond the gruel years.”

  Merriweather’s mouth compressed into a thin line. “As I suspected, Sir.”

  He had been truly famished, but the food, along with his ablutions, had proved the trick. By the time Pennington ushered Kerrington, Swenton, Crowden, and Kimbolt into the room, Carter had improved enough to maintain the conversation.

  “Did we discover who shot the prince’s assailant?” he asked one of his more nagging questions.

  Swenton handed Crowden a five pound note. “I told you the baronet would cut straight to the unknown,” the marquis said with a smirk. Crowden slipped the note into his pocket while amusement filtered through his tone.

  Carter raised his eyebrows. “You placed a bet upon my response?”

  Swenton chuckled. “It was only between Crowden and me. At least, we did not add your typical fare to the books at White’s. By the way, I bet you would first ask of the prince.”

  Pennington sat heavily in a nearby chair. “Bets aside, Crowden had a most unusual encounter when he left you at the stables.”

  Although curiosity gnawed at his composure, Carter kept his expression perfectly neutral. He knew the marquis would answer in good time. “I chased after a sound rather than a shadowy figure as you had. A distant footstep. A crunch of gravel.”

  “Which led to…” Carter encouraged.

  “Leave him be,” Kimbolt warned, his smile roguish. “You know how Crowden loves to embellish a story with his many accomplishments.”

  It was comforting to be in a room with men secure enough in their company to leave titles behind. It was almost as it was when they were in the field together–before duty and responsibility had called each man home. “You were saying something of a superior sense of hearing.” Carter’s lips twitched with amusement.

  Crowden gave a mock wince. “And my superior sense of investigation.”

  “Of course, I could never deny your ability for detailed inquiry.”

  It had taken several more minutes and more teasing before Crowden disclosed, “It was Jamot. He took his revenge on the man who meant to blame the Baloch for the attack on the prince. His story made little sense until I examined the pockets of the man you chased. The prince’s assailant carried several documents, which appeared to be written by Murhad Jamot, but as we all know the Baloch has learned to speak our tongue, but has not mastered our script, I knew the items to be forgeries.”

  “Jamot?” Carter did not know why the tribesman’s presence in this matter surprised him. Since the Baloch’s appearance on English shores, many of his investigations led to Jamot. Likely, the man from the Suffolk inn had befriended the Baloch with the purpose of diverting the Realm’s investigation into the assassination of the English prince. From what Carter knew of Mir’s man, the Baloch would have been singular in his retribution. “Jamot has taken a liking to you, Crowden,” Carter taunted.

  “Not so much,” his friend assured. “I place the changes in the fact the Baloch has lived in England for more than two years. With each of his interactions, Jamot appears to see Englishmen without the taint of Shaheed Mir’s prejudice. In reality, the Baloch appreciates an honorable opponent.”

  “Did Jamot escape?”

  Crowden flinched self-consciously. “The Baloch is a wily man.”

  Pennington scowled. “I prefer not to think on the possibility.” He gave Crowden a deathly glare of disapproval. “In reality, we solved two different investigations: Ransing and Woodstone’s art thefts and the Monroes’ threat to the prince,” he said all businesslike. “It was a fluke as to how the investigations overlapped through distant cousins.”

  “Then the man who shot me was related to Dylan Monroe?”

  “His father,” Pennington explained.

  “What have we uncovered regarding the Monroes?” Swenton grinned widely. “Admit it: That was your next question, Lowery.”

  Carter threw a pillow at the baron. “I require a new circle of friends,” he taunted. “Ones who do not presume to know me so well.”

  Like an indulgent father with several boisterous sons, Pennington ignored the banter. “The Monroe family are French émigrés who lost everything with the Glorious Revolution. The Monrets, as they were known upon the Continent, fled France with nothing. Apparently, the Earl of Holderman provided minimal assistance, but, generally, distanced himself from both father and son. Somehow, the Monrets came to the convoluted conclusion their strife came at King George’s hand. That George III could restore them to their lost fortunes if the King wished to use his power for good. Killing Prinny was to be their revenge.”

  “The Monrets’ complaint is one we have heard previously, but the family have taken it to the extreme. It appears there is more than a bit of Bedlam in Holderman’s family tree,” Kerrington observed. “I expect the man to withdraw from Society for an extended period.”

  After the debriefing, the conversation turned more cordial. Each of his friends meant to return to their country estates. “Too much notoriety,” Crowden grumbled. “Grace hosted a drawing room full of nattering gossips this morning. I am unaccustomed to such notice.”

  “I imagine Lady Godown can handle ‘nattering gossips.’” Kerrington assured. “Your wife is more than capable.”

  “Lady Godown is magnificent.” Crowden’s countenance bore his recent besotted state. Carter had to remind himself the Crowdens had been wed but nine months. T
he Kerringtons some eighteen. The Fowlers twelve. The Wellstons eleven and the Kimbolts six. The connections often appeared those of longer standing.

  Kerrington asked, “Have you spoken your proposal to Mrs. Warren.”

  “Not officially.” Carter laughed nervously. “I mean to do so today.”

  “Linton Chapel is at your disposal when you are prepared to speak your vows. It has brought each of us phenomenal fortune.”

  Carter nodded his gratitude. “I will speak to my lady.”

  Soon afterwards, his friends departed, and his father appeared in the opened door. “Are you well enough for company?”

  Carter motioned the baron forward. “The bullet went through the flesh. If the surgeon would permit it, I would be up today and at my desk.”

  “Your mother will be pleased to have you speak so. Fernalia has been beside herself with worry.” His father accepted the seat Carter indicated. “I suppose you know the reason I wish to speak to you. Lady Hellsman says Mrs. Warren and the earl mean to call at one.”

  “So I have been told.” Carter would insist his father broach the subject first.

  With a sigh of resignation, the baron began, “Mrs. Warren has my eternal gratitude–first, for saving my life and then yours, but…”

  “The lady has saved my life three times,” he interrupted. Carter had decided his father should be made privy to all the scandal surrounding Lucinda Warren. The baron was one to ferret out each damning detail and use it again and again to prove his point. Carter meant to diffuse his father’s attack. “Once in Suffolk and again two evenings prior.”

  “You said three times.” Blakehell studied Carter suspiciously.

  “On the battlefield. Mrs. Warren is the boy I left behind.”

  The baron shifted uncomfortably. “I thought you said Mrs. Warren saved you? What in blazes was a female doing on a battlefield?”

  Carter knew his father held very antiquated ideas about women and their roles. How he meant to shock the baron brought a smile to his lips. “Colonel Rightnour had been ill before the battle, and Mrs. Warren would not permit his following Wellington without her assistance. It was a foolish decision upon both the lady’s and the colonel’s parts. The colonel fell in battle, and I stumbled upon his regiment. I attempted to protect the boy I found grieving over the colonel’s body. When I was shot, the boy followed my litter to Brussels and assisted in my care.”