by Gordon, Rose
“Have another momentary lapse?” Lucy asked, her tone light.
Despite himself, Simon laughed. “Indeed.”
Lucy shook her head; what appeared to be a slight smile pulled on her lips, but didn’t meet her eyes. It was hard to guess her age. She was older than him, but it couldn’t be by much. Not that he could dare ask her. “Other than suffering at your own hands by stretching your lips and contorting your face, are you hurting anywhere else?” she asked, pulling him from his thoughts.
“No, ma’am,” he lied. Truth was, there wasn’t anywhere on his body that didn’t hurt. But that mattered very little. He might be a commoner, but even he knew that any young lady, whether of breeding or not, wouldn’t be inclined to nurse a gentleman beyond fetching him a glass of water or a cool rag.
“That’s good,” Lucy said.
From the corner of his eye, Simon saw Seth making an eating motion with his hands. “I’m ravenous,” Simon burst out.
“Oh,” she said, her face turning a fetching pink. She smoothed her skirts. “Of course, I’ll go start a pot of soup.”
Simon and Seth exchanged a look, but their victory came to an abrupt end when Lucy spoke again. “While it’s cooking, I’ll write a letter to your family to let them know you’re all right.”
A flash of hope sparked in Simon. She’d only said she’d write them to inform them he was all right, she hadn’t said anything about making arrangements for him to return home. Catching sight of her lifted brow, he realized she was waiting for a name. He racked his brain. Who should he have her contact? He had no relations other than his parents. His mother would be on Lucy’s doorstep in a trice, making a fuss that could be rivaled only by a wounded war hero returning home. He shuddered. Of course she’d love the chance to fawn over him and reassure him that the sudden emergence by his half-brother that he never knew he had hadn’t changed the way she felt for Simon.
That was not what he needed. Nor did he wish for his father to come. Simon was injured, but not so severely that he was about to be visited by the Angel of Death. If his father, Walter Appleton, had any reason to believe Simon wasn’t still at that blasted house party in Telford, he’d insist that Simon be the one to go visit Lord Drakely about his investments. Lord Drakely himself was pleasant enough, it was that bewitching, tart-tongued shrew he housed that Simon would rather avoid. Simon shuddered again. His last encounter with one Miss Henrietta Hughes had been more than enough for him to know spending any more time with her was at the bottom of the list of things he wished to do.
“So many relations,” she teased.
“Do you have to contact any of them?”
“Yes,” she said, the same time Seth said, “No.”
Simon and Seth grinned at each other. He had no idea what the connection between Lucy and Seth was, but it would seem that Seth would be a wonderful ally in softening Lucy. “You’ve got a good number of bruises and cuts,” Lucy began. “Though nothing looked too deadly—”
A coughing attack came over Simon. Lucy had seen Simon’s injuries? That’d mean… Lucy was Seth’s mother? No, she couldn’t be. She was too young to be his mother. Through squinted eyes he looked from one to the other. Seth’s eyes were green and his hair sandy blond. Lucy’s eyes were blue and her hair was dark. Seth must favor his father.
“Indeed, he does,” Lucy said in a cool tone, startling Simon. He hadn’t realized he’d said that aloud. Lucy lifted her chin and cleared her throat. “Who is it that I shall be notifying of your whereabouts, Mr. Appleton?”
“My brother,” Simon blurted, distracted. He hadn’t meant to insult her; he was just trying to make sense of who she was. He didn’t care that she was obviously more than just a few years his senior. Nor that she had an imp.
“And just who is your brother and how shall I reach him?”
“He’s currently at Lady Cosgrove’s house party in Telford,” he muttered offhandedly as a slow smile pulled on his lips. Perhaps his connection to Giles might be to some benefit to him after all. Not that he expected Giles to actually come to claim him. The two barely knew each other. Giles wouldn’t come; but Lucy didn’t need to know that. He’d just pretend not to understand why Giles didn’t come for him and enjoy his time with Lucy—mayhap even persuade her that he could be a good husband to her.
“And his name?” her crisp voice sent chills down his spine. Did she have a problem with those nobles who did nothing but attend house parties all season? He flashed her a reassuring smile. He detested those sorts, too. They’d get along nicely.
“Lord Norcourt,” he answered through gritted teeth.
She nodded stiffly and quit the room.
Chapter Three
Telford
Later that day
“A missive for you, my lord,” Clarke, the butler said, holding out a silver salver toward Giles.
Giles snapped up the missive and flipped it over. He frowned. There was no wax seal. Odd. He shrugged and unfolded the note that gave him a reason to ignore his mother’s prattle.
Dear Lord Norcourt,
Your brother has been recovered. He is at my home, but would likely prefer to return to his home to finish recovering. Please come to collect him at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely,
L. Whitaker
Giles frowned at the words written out on the parchment he held in his hand. If his “brother” had been recovered, then why did he need to be taken to his own home to recover? He blinked. No matter. He was intrigued, which was far more than he could say he was at the conversation between his mother and Lady Mary that swirled around him.
“I’m off to—” he looked down at the missive in his hand to the direction scribbled at the bottom— “Shrewsbury.” He gave a quick nod to where his mother and Lady Mary sat staring at him with slack jaws then exited the room.
He went straight to his room and rang for Franks, the valet he’d hired when he’d arrived in London. He had never planned to have such a man. It was silly really to have a man help you dress and shave. He was capable of those things. Why did he need anyone to help him? He didn’t, but it “wasn’t done”, to not have such a man. Or so he’d heard during his second visit to White’s. He shook his head. It still didn’t make any sense to him, but right now, it seemed like just another stroke of good fortune on his part.
When the man arrived, Giles informed him that he would be leaving as soon as Franks could get him packed.
“How long do you plan to be gone for, my lord?”
“Forever.”
“You don’t wish to stay for the duration? It’s only—”
“No,” Giles cut in, grabbing hold of all of his clothes that hung pristinely in his closet. He walked to the bed and carelessly dropped them in a heap. Franks’ sharp gasp startled Giles. They were only clothes.
“I’ll pack your room, my lord,” he said. “Why don’t you go say goodbye to your mother?”
Giles froze. Say another goodbye to his mother? No. That held less appeal than visiting an outdoor privy in the dead of winter. She’d developed this strange fascination with him at some point in the last year and other than manipulating things to force him to return and see her, she was dratted annoying with all of her inquiries and inane chatter. No, he thought as he scanned his bedchamber, saying goodbye to her wasn’t a priority to him.
Now, packing his art supplies was a priority.
He walked over to the desk in the corner where he’d put his pencils and papers upon arrival. With the same care Franks was exercising in packing his clothes, Giles went about packing his drawing materials for his departure.
He placed the tall stack of parchment perfectly upright in the side of his satchel then reached for the smaller case of pencils. He mindlessly flipped open the top of the case and stared at the line of pencils within. They needed to be sharpened. He dropped his eyes to where his knife still lay on the side of the desk. Giles use a knife? Never! He’ll cut his finger off—and only a finger if he’s fortunate
.
Giles blinked back the thought and continued packing his supplies. He was a man now. A man. Men weren’t careless with sharp tools. Nor did they care what others thought of them, he reminded himself once again. They just did whatever they wanted—no matter what anyone else thought. He hadn’t spent much time in his father’s presence, but he’d spent enough to know that.
“Where shall I tell McDougal you will be traveling, my lord?”
Giles withdrew the missive from his breast pocket and handed it to Franks.
If the man found his behavior odd, he didn’t show it. Which was for the best. Giles might be a man of few words, but “You’re sacked,” were two he was fairly certain he could string together. He frowned. He’d never really understood the origin of that phrase, either. At least with telling someone to stuff it, there was a literal meaning. The one who said the phrase was implying the offending person stuff their mouth with something to make them unable to say anything more. When someone was sacked, what happened? Did someone pack all of their belongings—including the person being “sacked” into a large bag? He didn’t think so. It would be quite a humorous sight if it did, but it didn’t seem logical.
Then again, logical wasn’t a word many people often used in connection with Giles anyway, so perhaps that is what happened to someone who was sacked. Giles shrugged. He didn’t really care, but neither did he want to see such a fate befall Franks. He rather liked the man.
“Your carriage will be pulling up the drive shortly, my lord,” Franks said, coming up behind Giles.
Giles nodded once to show his understanding. His brother had left early the morning before—presumably to escape having to spend any more time in Giles’ company after the uncomfortable conversation about the state of Sebastian and Isabelle’s marriage. He shrugged again. That was of no consequence to him. The two hadn’t been getting along well before that. In fact, the two hadn’t gotten along very well since the first time they met less than a fortnight earlier.
He scanned the room one last time to make sure he wasn’t leaving anything in his haste then quickly glanced out the window through the break in the curtains. The sun was lower than he remembered it being when he’d come upstairs. It must have taken him longer than he realized to get ready to leave. No matter. It wouldn’t take him long to collect his brother. They could make it back to London around midnight.
Downstairs, his carriage waited for him in the drive. He wasted no time getting inside and rapping on the roof. The last thing he wanted to do was linger and risk being accosted by his mother again. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the blue velvet squabs. She meant well. At least he thought she did. A sudden tightness gripped him. What if she didn’t mean well and she’d manipulated his return to mock him? That’s why most people were kind to him. Then as soon as he trusted them, they did something to hurt him.
His mind traveled back to when he was only twelve and a lad named Charlie Mercer who lived at the orphanage with him had convinced him that he should swim in the pond without any clothes. He’d claimed that was how everyone else swam. Then, after Giles had removed his clothes and started swimming, Charlie left and returned moments later with an angry nun in tow.
The intense cramping that had overcome his hands, arms, shoulders, and chest from clenching his hands so tightly at the memory jarred him back to present.
He forced himself to relax his muscles. His mother wasn’t like that. Or was she? She’d once sent him away with nothing more than a few whispered lies about loving him and seeing him soon. Giles might not have ever received the education for a boy of his station, nor attended university, but even he knew that twenty years wasn’t soon by anyone’s definition. He sighed. He’d been hurt too often to put much stock in his mother’s actions. Or his brother’s for that matter. Which is what made this latest development so interesting. If he took Simon to his house to be cared for, they’d be forced to spend time in each other’s company and maybe they could become friends. He lowered his lashes and swallowed hard. Friends? Not bloody likely. The man positively hated him. And for no good reason. Giles had tried to remember his manners when they shared company.
He sighed again and pressed his forehead against the glass window. He’d always loved to look out the window while in a carriage. It was amazing what was just outside the window: trees, lush fields, occasionally a house, and animals. His heart lifted. Just a few feet from the road was a field with one, two, three, four, no five horses grazing. Four were chestnut and the fifth was black and at least three hands taller than the others. What it might be like to ride him! He licked his lips and admired the animals. But soon they were gone and empty fields filled his view. Then a dense thicket of trees of various heights and outlines came into view.
Suddenly, the horses slowed and Giles leaned back against the squabs and took a deep breath to settle the sudden bout of nerves that had come on when the horses had changed their speed and he realized that they must almost be to their destination.
Chapter Four
Lucy cupped her hands in the basin of cool water then splashed it on her face. With a sigh, she idly ran her wet hands over her face. That boy—her boy—would be the death of her and he was not yet twelve.
All morning he’d pleaded with her not to send word of Mr. Appleton’s condition to Lord Norcourt.
She ignored his pleas and hummed as she dashed out her missive to his lordship.
He just wants a father, a voice somewhere in the back of her mind reasoned as she stared aimlessly out of the little window in her kitchen.
She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her fists. This was not the way to get one. Well, neither was sending her on “discreet” assignations. Lucy was a fallen woman. Everyone knew it and accepted it. Everyone except the child she conceived and bore out of wedlock, that is.
She clenched her fists. After Lord Norcourt reclaimed his brother, she’d just have to explain the facts to Seth and pray he wouldn’t hate her.
Whether because he realized he couldn’t dissuade her or because he thought to try a different tack, Seth had holed himself up in the room with Mr. Appleton and had refused to speak to her from the moment she’d returned from the village to use the majority of her savings to pay a messenger to take the note to Telford post haste. She needed the money of course, but she needed Mr. Appleton out of her home before Seth had more of a chance to grow a fondness.
The echoing sound of hoofs clopping up the drive stole Lucy’s attention. He’s here. Lord Norcourt, whoever that was, had arrived. She exhaled and steeled her spine. She’d grown up on the estate of a wealthy viscount and knew just how haughty some of those lords could be. She had little doubt this one, though only a baron as Seth had informed her some time ago, would be much different.
Trying not to appear too anxious by meeting him at his coach, she took measured steps and made her way to the parlor, but not without first glancing into her bedchamber and getting a quick peek at Seth and Mr. Appleton having a conversation. Well, perhaps conversation wasn’t entirely accurate. It seemed to her that Seth was doing most of the talking. Explaining what it was like to live out here and asking the man random questions about his life in London.
Likely Mr. Appleton would be just as delighted to leave as she’d be after this was all over. She shook out and smoothed her skirts then went to the parlor.
Just as she entered, the baron’s servant knocked on the door.
Suppressing her disdain for the nobility and forcing a smile, she walked to the door, pulled it open and caught her breath.
***
Giles instinctively tightened his fingers around the leather strap of his satchel and stared at the woman who stood just across the threshold, unsure what to say.
“Would you like to come in?” she invited.
He bobbed his head once and stepped into the dwelling. Once inside, he continued to stare at her as the scent of honeysuckle surrounded him, calming him. Odd.
She returned his gaze and it
was all he could do to hold it. You must look at their eyes, Giles, Sister Catherine had scolded him almost daily. It was easy to do with this woman as she had the most beautiful blue eyes he’d ever seen. Her husband won’t be happy when he comes out and sees you staring at his wife. His body jerked and every muscle in his body tightened painfully. “Mr. Whitaker,” he croaked.
A wide smile came over her face. “I’ve been called many things, my lord, but never that.”
Giles stood motionless. She’d just made a jest, he realized, otherwise she wouldn’t be smiling so broadly. How unfortunate that he didn’t understand it. “Where is he?” he practically barked, flushing.
“Forgive me, my lord,” she murmured softly. “I was only jesting. I didn’t mean to make sport of you.”
He clenched his jaw. Wasn’t jesting and making sport of the same thing? Of course they were. The other boys always “jested” about him and roared with laughter. She wasn’t laughing, though. Not even smiling anymore. Perhaps, it was just a misunderstanding. Exhaling, he repeated, “Where is Mr. Whitaker?”
“Dead.” She covered her mouth with her hand. Her face colored a violent red and she lowered her hand. “I’m Lucy Whitaker, the one who sent you the note. I signed it L. Whitaker because I didn’t think you’d come if you knew I was a single woman. Actually that’s not true,” she amended; her cheeks coloring. She frowned, then cleared her throat, but didn’t say anything further.
Something Giles didn’t recognize twisted in his gut as the word dead echoed in his mind. What a shame that such a fine woman was left to be a widow. Moreover, how unfortunate that she’d been left to care for Simon alone. “I’m sorry.”