Outside, Michael called to tie the horses to the carriage to keep it from tipping into the ditch.
“There you are.” Sprawled out next to his feet, which were against the far wall of the carriage, lay a young woman. He knelt down beside her in the cramped quarters. Shadows from the skittering of lightning came in the windows. He removed his gloves and shoved them in the pocket of his greatcoat.
“Miss?” He moved lower to spy a crushed chip bonnet that at one time was probably quite pretty. “Miss? Can you hear me?” He untied the ribbons under the woman’s chin, removed the hat, and tossed it aside. Dark waves of hair tumbled down, and he brushed them away to get a look at her face as his eyes adjusted to the dark. She did not respond to his touch or voice. He imagined she was pretty and sweet, like his younger sister, and his heart ached for this woman’s suffering. He shook his head. This was neither the time nor the place for flights of fancy. His fingers touched something warm and sticky in her hair. Blood.
Please, don’t let her be dead. He found her pulse weak but steady and released a breath he hadn’t known he held. He glanced around and noticed the rear window of the carriage was the only space large enough to fit her through. Lifting her up to the door at the top would be nigh on impossible in her current state.
Marcus stood up and opened the door to find rain pelting him in the face. This was not how he anticipated spending his birthday. “Michael!” he growled.
“Here. How is she?” The shorter man’s face popped into view.
“Unconscious, but alive. She received a blow to the head. I am going to try to break out the back window. We can pass her out that way.”
“I’ll be there.”
Marcus sank down and closed the door. He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the moisture off his face. Lord, help me. Marcus felt around for a carriage blanket and placed it over the young woman. A metal box that had probably caused her injury was near her head. The locked box most likely contained valuables, but there was nothing else to hand. He smashed it against the glass. A slight crack emerged in the thick pane. There wasn’t enough space to get momentum. He tried again without success. He set it back where he found it.
Replacing his gloves, he grabbed the handle by the uppermost door and swung his feet toward the fractured glass. A resounding crack was his reward. He dismissed the sharp pain as he pulled himself out of the broken window. Come on, Marcus, push! He made another attempt.
This time, both legs pierced through, and glass sliced his trousers at the knees as he drew them back. He picked at the shards in his trousers. The third time, he shattered most of the glass. He dropped down to the unconscious woman and grabbed the metal box to finish off the sharp edges around the window frame.
Michael peered in. “Your valet will not be happy with you, Remy.”
Marcus rolled his eyes. “Max will recover. I can always get a new pair of boots.” Marcus removed the glass-covered blanket and set it aside before he squatted down to lift the woman. Time crawled as he gathered her in his arms. Her head rolled back as he moved her to the window. He glanced down as a flash of lightning illuminated her face. Marcus’s breathing labored, and he swallowed hard. Steady on.
“I’m ready,” Michael called, breaking the moment.
Marcus glanced up to see his friend there, waiting with one eyebrow raised.
Marcus struggled to wrap her in her cloak. The woman in his arms gasped. “Miss? Miss?” Marcus resisted the urge to shake her, fearing he would cause her pain. Her eyes fluttered open, and she gazed up at him. He couldn’t ascertain their color. She gave a weak smile before her eyelids closed. He passed her through the window to the waiting knight. Once she was safe in Sir Tidley’s arms, Marcus placed the safe-box outside the carriage. Due to his larger size, he could not exit the same way she had. He opened the door and pulled himself up into the stormy night.
Michael had brought the injured woman over toward the people standing under the tree to keep dry.
Lord Theodore Harrow stripped his greatcoat and spread the garment so they wouldn’t place the young lady on the wet ground.
The rain abated for a moment, and Marcus strode over and handed the box to the older woman under the tree. “This is yours, I believe.”
The matron with graying hair and imperial bearing, wearing a wet fur hat and fur-trimmed cloak, grabbed the box from his hands. She resembled a drowned dog. In spite of that, she managed to give Marcus a glare reminding him of a short-lived governess he once had. He shoved the unkind thoughts aside as the woman spoke, her voice strident.
“I am Lady Widmore, and this is my daughter, Lady Heticia Widmore.”
“Lady Widmore, Lady Heticia, Lord Remington at your service. This is Lord Harrow and Sir Tidley. Our friend has ridden to my estate nearby to get help.”
Lady Widmore nodded her head. “That was well done of you. This has been a most vexing evening. My carriage is ruined. It’s bad enough that I have to replace two wheels, but now the glass too?” Her nose rose a fraction as her eyes snapped as much as a ruler to the knuckles.
The three men glanced at her nonplussed.
Lady Heticia simpered and batted her eyes at Marcus. “I’m cold and wet. How much longer before the carriage arrives?”
Marcus gave her a quick glance before he turned away. “Lord Westcombe will be here soon enough.” He moved to kneel next to the unconscious form on the forest floor. “What is her name?”
“Miss Storm,” Lady Widmore replied with a snort.
Marcus commenced checking the young woman’s arms and legs to assess any broken bones. He watched her face as the clouds began to move past and the moon started to shine bright. Blood oozed from a gash on the side of her head. He loosened his cravat. “Michael, can you help me hold up her head while I bind her wound?”
Michael was next to their patient before the question was complete and lifted her head.
Marcus smoothed away the dark tendrils of hair stuck to the blood. He proceeded to wrap the linen around and tie it off. He brought the hood of the cloak up to cover Miss Storm’s bandaged head.
“Max will have another charge against you, Remy.” Michael gave a cheeky grin.
“There’s a reason I left my valet in London, Michael. So I would not have to be hounded about boots, cravats, and my lack of dash.” The flat tone delivered a warning to his friend. Marcus looked down again at the young woman.
Dark hair outlined her heart-shaped face, half covered with the white bandage across her forehead surrounded by the rich burgundy of her traveling cloak. Long, dark eyelashes splayed against pale cheeks. “Sleeping Beauty.”
“I don’t think a kiss will do the trick, though,” Michael whispered.
Lord Remington startled. Had he spoken aloud? His cheeks grew warm. He was grateful to hear the rumble of a carriage coming from the west. “Phillip has arrived.”
Marcus rose and strode to the road only to gape at the old, small gig his fastidious friend drove. Lord Phillip Westcombe pulled past and managed to turn the horse and buggy around before he came to a stop next to them.
“Sorry, ol’ chap. Stickney is getting another carriage ready, but this one we were able to hook up in record time. I figured with an injured party, speed might be of the essence.”
Marcus nodded before he turned and strode over to the group under the trees. He knelt to gather up Miss Storm in his arms. “I apologize, ladies. Another carriage will arrive posthaste.”
Lady Widmore blocked his path to the carriage. “You cannot mean to leave us here? She will be fine waiting.” Lady Widmore’s spite-filled eyes glanced at the woman in his arms.
“Unless you would like the indignity of riding in the wagon of the gig, you will have to wait. The inconvenience cannot be avoided. You will have the company and protection of Lord Harrow and Sir Tidley. It’s the best I can do.” Marcus moved around her and strode to the carriage.
Michael followed.
“Let me help you, R
emy.” Michael took the woman from his arms while Marcus leapt up into the front seat of the open gig next to Phillip. Once settled, he lifted her up to him.
Marcus leaned the woman against his chest, with her head resting on his shoulder, before he gave Phillip the nod to drive off. Miss Storm’s hair tickled his cheek, and he detected the sweet scent of roses emanating from her in spite of the damp. Something unexplainable stirred deep inside him. Lord, how can I be attracted to an unconscious woman? He shivered. He pulled her limp body closer to his own. Every protective instinct was aroused.
Through the uncomfortable ride, Marcus fought to keep his charge secure against the strength of the jolts as the carriage wheels hit dips in the road. Marcus’s back ached from the strain.
“Sorry your respite from town life has eluded you once again,” Phillip began. “You don’t think—”
“—this was intentional?”
Phillip nodded. “I tend to be suspicious.”
“Two wheels? Why, when one would suffice? Her traveling companions show little concern for her.”
Phillip shrugged.
“Don’t worry, Westcombe. With the four of us working together, I suspect we can manage to avoid being compromised.”
Lord Phillip Westcombe glanced at the girl. “Are you sure she’s really unconscious?”
“Yes, Phillip.” Marcus glanced down at the pale face. “She cannot attend to our conversation.”
Phillip drew the gig up to the front door and tossed the reins to a waiting groom. He jumped down from the equipage and hurried around to help Remington descend with the woman in his arms.
Marcus strode up the steps, and the doors opened to allow him entrance.
“Marcus?” Phillip called.
“Yes?” Marcus turned.
“I’ll head back to help the others.”
“Thank you.” Marcus nodded and proceeded into the house and up the stairs as a frantic Mrs. Hughes urged him on. His dog, Charlie, yipped at his heels. At the top, they took a right turn, headed down the south wing of the mansion, and slipped into the room his housekeeper indicated.
Mrs. Hughes frowned at the damp state of her master and the woman in his arms. “Here, let me help you get her wet cloak off, and we will set her in the bed.”
Together they managed to remove the garment, and Marcus placed her on the mattress by the pulled back counterpane. He stepped away as water dripped from his hat.
Mrs. Hughes moved to remove the girl’s shoes and noted Marcus’s continued presence. She chided him. “Young man, you need a hot bath, some salve for your legs, and something to eat. At least drip yourself dry in the hallway and not on the carpet.” She turned her back on him in dismissal.
Marcus drooped. “I will leave her to your care.” He strode to the door and paused. “Her name is Miss Storm.”
“How appropriate,” she muttered as the door closed behind him.
He stood in the hallway. Water dripped on the wooden floor in a sad rhythm. His terrier sat by his side looking at the door, waiting for her master’s next step.
Drip. Drop. Drip. Drip. Drop.
For a moment, he did not know what to do. Happy birthday, Marcus Allendale, Viscount Remington. Happy birthday, indeed. He shook his head and grimaced. He didn’t want to leave but became more aware of how cold and damp he was. He strode down to another hallway, followed by the dog, toward his own suite of rooms to dry off and tend to his wounds before he returned downstairs to welcome his unexpected guests.
A short time later, Marcus paced in his study as Charlie watched. Fresh clothes and a sip of brandy warmed him, but he was restless. That was nothing new. For weeks, he held a conviction deep inside that it was time for him to seek a bride. What would it have been like to come home tonight to someone other than paid servants? To have a wife minister to my wounds?
He snorted. If only he might find a woman he liked, who had a perfect combination of purity as well as the ability to preside over his home and be a political hostess. If she were attractive, that would be a bonus. He longed for the kind of marriage his parents had. They had been in love. He understood such unions were rare amongst the beau monde. Hollowness ate at him from within.
But the girl upstairs. Something unsettled him when he looked at her. In a brief moment when her eyes had opened and she had gazed into his eyes, he was undone. Intrigue and hope vied for a place in his heart. Perhaps her unexpected visit here would give him opportunity to explore that further.
2
Marcus awaited his friends.
Dr. Miller had refused to stay for dinner. Miss Storm remained unconscious, which concerned the doctor as well as Marcus. This would not be a short visit for his guests.
Sir Michael Tidley entered the room. He glanced around. Spying only Marcus, he took a seat to consider his friend. Marcus’s dog jumped up to receive some absent-minded petting from the knight.
“Charlie, dear dog, you should be aware that your master is already half in love with Miss Storm,” Michael teased.
The terrier barked.
“I beg your pardon?” Marcus scowled as he sat down and proceeded to pick at his fingernails.
“I don’t know when I’ve ever seen you look at any woman the way you did that young lady tonight.”
Marcus steepled his fingers, tapped them against his nose, and avoided eye contact. “You imagine things.”
“Hmmmm.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Marcus narrowed his eyes as he placed his hands on the arms of the chair, poised to move.
“You get grumpy when life doesn’t quite go your way, and tonight definitely did not fit in your plans.” Michael leaned back in his chair and extended his legs out before him, crossing them at the ankles. His slimmer figure shown to advantage in a well-fitted pair of buff colored pants and custom made boots. He tied his cravat simply, and his dark hair, cut shorter than Marcus’s, had a little curl at the back where it met his shirt. Topped off with a brown jacket and turquoise vest, he was the image of a dashing Corinthian.
Marcus sighed. “I had hoped to come home and relax.”
“Women are not relaxing.”
“The one who is unconscious will not be a problem. I have serious doubts about the other two.”
“Did they give you more grief when they arrived?” Michael’s mouth twitched in an effort not to smile.
“Most certainly, but I doubt we will see any more of them this evening. Their servants showed up a half an hour ago in a separate carriage. Stickney awaited them at the turn-off.”
“This was not an anticipated stop?”
Marcus shook his head. “You and Phillip are too suspicious. No. They were quite put out to be here, until they entered the foyer.”
“Rose Hill is an impressive property.”
“It’s home.”
“It would be an even nicer home if you had a lovely wife to share it with.” Michael’s voice was all seriousness.
“The thought has crossed my mind. I am eight and twenty. My brother Jared is off to war, and my sister, Henrietta, is happily married to Lord Percy. This house is empty without either of them here.”
“Has anyone in London sparked your interest?”
Marcus gave a harsh laugh. “I am tired of the masquerade of the beau monde. Maybe my standards are too high, but I cannot imagine living with a woman who doesn’t share my faith.”
“Somewhat difficult to weed out during a contra-dance. You don’t really want a whey-faced Methodist do you?”
“Their faith doesn’t make them unattractive, Michael, but some seem to think when one accepts Christ, they forgo any joy in living. Definitely not the kind of woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.”
“But Miss Storm? You’ve not shared one word with her. What draws you?” Michael leaned forward.
Marcus rose to walk over to the drink table, picked up a glass, and motioned to the decanter. “Brandy?” Noting his friend’s nod, Marcus poured two glasses. His friend delighted in b
aiting him. He was too tired to deal with this nonsense tonight.
“Thank you.” Michael rose and strode over to accept the glass. The dog curled up on the other end of the chair to watch. “You are avoiding the question.”
“I am not.” Marcus brought the glass to his lips and sipped, closed his eyes, and swallowed. “I don’t know the answer.”
“You don’t know the answer to what?” An elegantly attired Lord Phillip Westcombe strode in. He had meticulously combed blond hair and his cravat intricately tied. He wore black inexpressibles and polished boots. His coat fit him like a glove.
Marcus suspected a footman had probably been conscripted to help him get it on and would be needed later to remove it. “Good evening, Phillip.” Marcus responded. “It is of no importance.” He glanced at Michael with a silent plea to let the conversation drop.
“Well, I’m famished. Has your wonderful cook arranged for something hot to eat?”
“But, of course. We only await Theo to go in to dinner, but it will be simple fare.”
“Anything your cook prepares is far from simple.” Phillip patted his flat stomach. “In the past, I have left your home, even after short stays, struggling to get my clothes to fit properly.”
Lord Harrow entered the room sporting country attire over his substantial form. While not as tall as Marcus or Phillip, he bore himself with understated dignity. He was barrel-chested but didn’t hesitate to fence or box with his friends although he preferred more sedate entertainments. His short, sandy brown hair was styled simply. “Did someone mention food?”
Marcus’s stomach growled in response. “Yes. Shall we remove to the dining room?”
~*~
They had already begun the first course when Lady Widmore and her daughter arrived to join them. The matron was dressed in a puce gown with low décolletage. She wore her greying blonde hair piled high with a few curls free on the side. Jewels sparkled on her neck, wrist, ears, and fingers. Lady Widmore stood ramrod straight at the table with her chin elevated as she acknowledged the men.
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