The Fall of Lord Drayson (Tanglewood Book 1)

by Rachael Anderson

  Lucille Beresford, how can you think such wicked thoughts! she chided herself. She must remember her papa’s favorite sermon about the Good Samaritan and help this man, but coming to the aid of someone she did not care for at all was an extremely unpleasant prospect.

  Georgina arrived out of breath at Lucy’s side and wrung her hands, clearly agitated. “’E’s dead, isn’t ’e? Oh, Miss, wot should we do?”

  “Calm yourself, Georgy,” said Lucy. “I am afraid that he is not dead. See? Still breathing.”

  “Afraid?” Georgina widened her eyes at Lucy. “Why would ya wish a stranger dead, Miss? Ya, the daughter of a vicar!”

  “He’s no stranger to me, and I really do not wish him dead,” said Lucy. “But I have no wish to help him either. Still, something must be done, mustn’t it? We cannot leave him here to die.” Lucy folded her arms and began rubbing them in an attempt to warm her body while she gave the matter some thought. Should she send Georgina for the doctor? No. Even if her maid saddled Zeus and rode him to town, it would take hours for them to return. They could not leave Lord Drayson out here in this wretched weather until then.

  “Should I go for ’elp?” Georgina asked, still wringing her hands.

  “Perhaps after we get him inside.”

  “Get ’im inside? ’Ow do ya s’pose we do that?”

  “By dragging him, of course,” said Lucy. “There are two of us and only one of him. I am sure we can manage. Come now. You take that arm, and I shall take this one.”

  Georgina didn’t look overly convinced this was a good plan, but she moved to do as Lucy suggested. They each grabbed an arm, hefted the earl’s upper body, and pulled and exerted, maneuvering him closer to the house one painfully cold step after another.

  When they had made it about halfway, Lucy’s muscles gave way. She dropped the earl’s arm and collapsed on her knees, breathing heavily.

  “Merciful heavens, he’s quite weighty, isn’t he?” Lucy said. “What has he done, lined his pockets with lead?”

  Georgina fell to her knees across from Lucy and ran her palm along the arm she still held. “Lined wif muscles, more loike,” she said, studying the earl’s face. “’E’s a ’andsome one, ain’t ’e?”

  Lucy glared at the maid. “Georgy, don’t you dare find anything to admire about this man. He is odious, I tell you. Odious.”

  “Even odious men can be ’andsome, Miss.”

  Fueled by her mounting frustration, Lucy stumbled back to her feet, grabbed hold of the earl’s arm and began pulling again. It took another twenty minutes or so, but they eventually managed to drag him up the stairs and into the house, where they deposited his body on a large rug in front of the fire.

  Exhausted, both women sank onto the sofa to regain their breaths, not caring at all that they were drenched and filthy.

  “Wot na, Miss?” said Georgina, looking like a shivery wet bird. “Should I fetch the leech?”

  “Gracious no,” said Lucy. “At least not until the weather has cleared and you are dry and well rested. I will not sacrifice your health for this man’s.” That, and Lucy truly despised visits from the doctor. She had suffered through one too many of them when her father had taken ill and was not anxious to have the doctor cross her threshold again. It was bad enough the earl had to do so.

  Georgina didn’t looked convinced. “Are ya sure, Miss? ’Is skin don’t look ’ealthy at all. I would ’ate for ’im ter catch a fever on account a me.”

  “And I would hate for us to catch a fever on account of him,” said Lucy firmly.

  “But we can’t just leave ’im on the rug, can we?”

  “I am not as heartless as that,” said Lucy with a sigh, almost wishing they could leave him there. “We shall get him out of his wet clothes, tend to his scrapes, and deposit him on the bed in the empty room off the kitchen. Will that suffice?”

  “Yeah, Miss, but—” Georgina stopped talking and bit her lip.

  “But what, Georgy?” said Lucy with a hint of impatience in her tone.

  The maid’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Wot if ’e awakens whilst we’re undressin’ ’im?”

  Of all the things to be worried about! thought Lucy crossly. “Then I shall whack him with that candlestick and put him back to sleep.”

  “Miss!”

  “I am only teasing, Georgy,” said Lucy. Goodness, where was her maid’s usual sense of humor? “Truth be told, I will be glad if he awakens. Then we will excuse ourselves and allow him to finish the job himself.”

  Georgina didn’t look appeased. Her forehead crinkled with worry even as her body shivered from the cold. “Mrs. Beresford will not loike this at all. Two women alone wif a man. We should fetch Mr. Shepherd. ’E’ll kna wot ter do.”

  “We are not going to fetch anyone right now,” said Lucy. “This man will be gone before Mama returns, so there will be no need to tell her about him at all.” Mrs. Beresford would never leave Lucy on her own again if she learned of this situation, and Lucy had rather liked feeling independent.

  Georgina was shaking her head. “I don’t kna, Miss. That would feel loike a lie, and your papa used ter say—”

  Lucy heaved a sigh of frustration. “I never lie, Georgy, and I wouldn’t ask you to take up the habit either. If my mother asks if we were required to rescue a gentleman and tend to some scratches and bruises, we will answer that we did indeed, and you may have my leave to tell her everything. But if she does not ask, it is not a lie to say nothing, now is it?”

  “I suppose not, Miss.”

  “Good, then we are agreed.” Lucy pushed herself up from the sofa and cringed at her filthy skirts. “Let us change into something dry, and I will see about finding the odious man something to wear. Together, I am certain we can get him dry, dressed in clean clothes, and off to bed. How does that sound?”

  “Loike somethin’ a proper vicar’s daughter would say,” said Georgina. “Except the odious part, that is. ’A do ya kna ’im, anyway? I ’ave never seen ’im before. I would ’ave remembered that face for sure.”

  “His name is Colin Cavendish,” said Lucy, offering no further information than that. “And you can take my word that he is, indeed, despicable. As soon as he wakes up, you shall see for yourself.”

  Lucy forced her tired body up one flight of stairs to her bedchamber where she quickly changed into a worn blue morning gown and tied her hair back with a ribbon. Then she ascended two more sets of stairs to the attic, where she paused in front of one of her father’s old trunks and eyed it with misgiving. It had taken her and her mother months to muster the fortitude to carefully fold all of his clothes and stash them in these trunks. They had recounted many memories while doing so, shed many tears, and folded many clothes that day. When it came time to close the trunks and leave them behind, Lucy had never felt heavier.

  Memories were tricky things. They could play with one’s heart, twirl it around the way her father used to twirl Lucy around, and then drop it in the dirt to be stepped upon, never to feel the same again.

  Lucy’s heart had been tread upon too many times, and she knew from experience what the cost would be if she opened that trunk. But what other choice did she have? Dress the earl in one of her gowns? She almost giggled at the thought. If only one would fit him, she might be tempted to do it. But alas, he was too large. The only clothes that would work rested before her in this dark and dusty room.

  Drawing a deep breath, Lucy knelt in front of the trunk, unhooked the latch, and hefted it open. She had hoped to smell the scent of sandalwood that she had so often associated with her father, but sadly, that scent had departed, replaced by the unfriendly odor of must and old wood. She picked up the white shirt on top and breathed it in, hunting for sandalwood and not finding even a hint of it.

  She set it down and sighed, feeling a renewed sense of loss. It was for the best, she tried to tell herself. If her father’s scent was still intact, it would be much harder to share the clothing. Yet the memories were as vibrant as ever. He
r father, wearing this shirt as he exited the church after giving a wonderfully inspiring sermon. The people in his parish had flocked around him, wanting a word, and yet his eyes had sought out his wife and daughter. When he saw them, his mouth lifted into a smile and his hand rose in greeting. Lucy’s mother once told Lucy that she would never have to wonder if they came first in Mr. Beresford’s eyes because he would prove it to them every Sabbath after service.

  And he had. At least until the day he no longer could.

  Tears pooled in Lucy’s eyes, and she quickly blinked them away. She dug into the trunk, determined to find something for the earl to wear that would not reduce her to a watering pot every time she glanced his way.

  Near the bottom of the stack, she finally found a soft, pink shirt and dark green trousers, both of which her father had worn once and never again. Given to him by a sweet, elderly woman with poor eyesight and poorer judgment, her father had put them on one day only to immediately remove them when his wife made the comment, “You look like a pink rosebud.”

  The memory caused Lucy to smile, for Lord Drayson surely deserved to look like a pink rosebud. Perhaps the new attire would inspire a new, prettier disposition.

  Thus satisfied, Lucy slammed the trunk closed and trotted down the stairs, where the air became easier to breathe.

  It took some work to free the earl from his sodden clothing, especially since Georgina insisted on covering the man with a quilt while they worked, but they eventually finished the job. By the time darkness encased the house, the earl, outfitted like a pale flower and ensconced in bed with his scrapes cleansed and dressed, continued to sleep quite soundly.

  Lucy, on the other hand, did not sleep a wink, which did nothing to help her disposition.

  “Cum dilectione hominum et odio vitiorum,” Lucy murmured to herself as she descended the staircase the following morning. She repeated the phrase while helping Georgina in the kitchen. Her maid had long since stopped protesting Lucy’s efforts to aid with the cooking, for it did no good.

  “Wot does that mean?” Georgina asked when Lucy repeated the Latin phrase yet again.

  Lucy glanced up from the broth she was stirring. “It’s from St. Augustine. It means ‘with love for humanity and hatred of sins.’ My father quoted it often in his sermons.”

  “Wot did ’e mean by it?” said Georgina, busy punching out scones from dough.

  “It means that whatever wicked sins a person might commit, we must separate out the bad and find a way to love him in spite of his wickedness. It is a beautiful idea, is it not?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And much easier said than done, I’m afraid,” added Lucy. “For I cannot think of one thing to like about that man.”

  “Ya mean Mr. Cavendish?”

  The spoon stilled in Lucy’s hand as she thought about how to answer the question. Colin Cavendish was not Mr. Cavendish. He was The Honorable Colin Cavendish, Earl of Drayson, come to take their home away. Should Lucy correct her maid and explain all, or would that only complicate matters by causing Georgina to fret as well? Lucy had no way of knowing whether or not they would be able to keep a maid on once they left. If only her mother were here to help shoulder this burden and tell Lucy what they should do.

  “Why do ya find ’im so odious, Miss?” Georgina asked. “’As ’e done somethin’ horrid ter ya?”

  Again, Lucy hesitated. Perhaps it was best to keep the whole situation as contained as possible until she had time to give the matter some more thought.

  “He named his horse Darling,” offered Lucy as her excuse.

  Georgina’s hands stilled on the cutter, and her brows furrowed in confusion. “Darlin’?”

  “Yes,” said Lucy. “What sort of man would name a male animal such a name, I ask you? It is not to be born.”

  Georgina blinked at Lucy three full times before she burst out laughing. Her body quaked as she leaned over the dough and laughed and laughed. When she finally recovered, there were tears in her eyes. “Oh, Miss Lucy, yer a strange one ter be sure. I figured ’e’d made improper advances on ya or somethin’ of the sort. I’d about made up me mind ter go for the constable, whether ya loiked it or not.”

  “In that case, I am glad I told you,” said Lucy. “The constable would have thought us most silly, indeed. Naming one’s horse Darling is certainly not a crime, after all.”

  “It seems it is ter ya, Miss.” Georgina laughed again, her smile bright. Through the window behind her, a ray of sunshine glimmered through the clouds, lifting Lucy’s spirits. Sunshine in March was a good omen and gave Lucy reason to hope. Perhaps once the earl awakened, he would be so grateful for the service she and Georgina had rendered him that he would find it within his heart to consider an alternative to forcing them out.

  It could happen, she insisted to herself. Even ogres had hearts, after all.

  Lucy was tipping a spoonful of broth down Lord Drayson’s throat when he coughed and spluttered and opened his eyes, only to squeeze them shut again with a moan. “Oh, my head.”

  Lucy wasn’t surprised by his moan. He had a nasty lump at his temple with a dark bluish hue to it.

  His eyes blinked open again, more slowly this time. He flickered a glance to the right and to the left before settling his gaze on her. His forehead creased in confusion. “Where the devil am I?”

  She lowered the bowl of broth to her lap, not appreciating his tone at all. “Askern, Yorkshire, in the dower house at—”

  “Yorkshire?” the earl said, cutting her off. “What the deuce am I doing in Yorkshire? And at a dower house, no less?”

  Lucy wasn’t about to remind him. He would remember soon enough, and she was determined to keep the conversation as civil as possible until that time. She stood from where she had perched beside him on the bed and set the bowl on a small bedside table. “You fell from your horse and smashed your head on a rock. My maid and I—”

  “That is absurd. I never fall from my horse.” He paused and frowned. “Or, I don’t think I do. No, I’m quite sure I don’t. That’s preposterous.”

  “Well, you did,” said Lucy, feeling more and more cross. He had rudely interrupted her twice now in order to proclaim his own self-importance. What conceit.

  “Who are you?” He peered at her for a moment before lowering his gaze to his hands, which he lifted and turned over, examining his palms thoughtfully. “Even more perplexing, who am I?”

  Lucy’s brows drew together. He must have hit his head harder than she’d imagined if he could not recall his own name, though sometimes head injuries had that effect on a person, did they not? She was certain she remembered reading about that somewhere, or perhaps Mr. Shepherd had told her as much. He did so love reading medical journals.

  “You do not know who you are?” asked Lucy, curious. How long did it usually take for one’s memory to return?

  “Of course I do,” he said sharply. “I just . . . can’t recall my name at the moment.”

  “What about your mother’s name?” Lucy tested. “Can you recall that?”

  His forehead furrowed a moment before he pressed the heel of his hand against it and groaned. “What did you do, strike me with a mallet?”

  Lucy couldn’t help but think that she would very much like to strike him with a mallet. “I have already told you. You fell from your horse and struck your head on a rock.”

  One light eye opened and he glared at her. “And I told you that I never fall from my horse.”

  “How can you be so sure? You can’t even recall your name,” she countered.

  “Because I am sure about that. I can’t explain why, I just am, like I’m sure I detest broth.”

  Lucy eyed the bowl on the table and shrugged. “To be fair, I cannot say for sure that you fell from your horse, as I wasn’t there to see it happen. All I know for certain is that I watched you ride away, and when I next saw your person, you were lying in the path, unconscious. Perhaps a highwayman rode up behind you and clubbed you on the back of your he
ad—not that I have heard of any highwayman around these parts, but you never know. Or mayhap you ran into a low-lying branch. Or a monkey swung out of a tree and frightened you off your perch.” Lucy barely refrained from describing it as a “top-lofty” perch.

  “A monkey? In Yorkshire?” he asked. “Did you fall and hit your head on a rock, too?”

  “Ah, so we finally agree that is the most sensible conclusion, is it not?” Lucy smiled, feeling oddly triumphant.

  He answered with a frown and groaned again, tenderly touching the back of his head. “How did I come to be in . . . Askern, did you say? Or in this house? I am quite sure I do not make a habit of visiting dower houses in Yorkshire.”

  “Where would you be if not here?” Lucy probed.

  His forehead creased again, and he clamped his eyes shut. Moments later, he opened them again, and he shook his head in defeat. “Perhaps you could be so kind as to tell me. We can begin with who you are and go from there.”

  Lucy watched him closely, feeling a hesitancy to explain anything. She merely said, “My name is Lucy Beresford,” and left it at that.

  He did not appear the least bit enlightened. “That name means nothing to me, nor does your face. Who are you in relation to me?”

  His domineering tone made her hackles rise yet again. Yes, it would be maddening to not remember one’s name, but had he paused to consider, even for a moment, the effort it must have taken to drag his body down the path and into this house? Or the kindness it had taken to clothe him or pour broth down his ungrateful throat? Lucy had exerted a great deal of goodwill on his behalf, and now she suddenly wished she could pour the broth over the top of his puffed-up head.

  More than ever, it irked her that he was wearing her father’s clothes, even if they had been his cast-offs. Lord Drayson was the complete antitheses of all that was good and kind. Earl or not, the man could lend an ear to one of her father’s lovely sermons about humility and benevolence.

  As could you, came the pestering thought. Lest you forget the tale of the Samaritan.