Alison's Scandalous Affair (The Fallen Angels NOVELLA series Book 1)

by Julianna Hughes

  "You know about my going to him for help the night of the Wellesley’s ball. What you may not know is that I had known him when he was a corporal under my father's command and went by the name of Gordon Campbell."

  Ali's eyes snapped back to the duke. She knew she had seen the man before, but as tired as she had been she had not put the two names together. "I knew you back then as well," she breathed out. "In passing. But I remember you now."

  He just smiled and nodded his head. There was definitely more going on here than the two of them were telling her, but that could wait for later.

  Katie glanced at her husband, then continued in a firmer voice once again. "After we were married, we helped find some evidence against Reginald. Evidence that would have put him in prison or had him hanged for his crimes. But before he could be arrested, he attacked our coach the night of the Wellington's ball."

  Alison nodded her head, "We heard about the attack. All of London knew about it by the next morning. And through my friends at the War Department, I also learned that your husband rescued you the next day."

  Katie grimaced and then glanced over at her husband. He squeezed her hand and nodded. Gabe then took over the explanation.

  "After we made sure Katie was safe, I and some others rode on after my cousin. We caught up with him a couple hours outside of London. But before I could get to him, he captured me, and he was about to kill me when the man upstairs stopped him."

  Alison swallowed the bile in her throat and flopped back against the sofa. Her mind was in turmoil as she pieced together everything that she had just been told. Her dear friend Imogene had been raped and murdered by her own cousin, and then Katie had been abducted by the same man and probably would have faced the same fate if not for the duke. And then the man in front of her had nearly been killed by the same man who had murdered his sister. What a horrible tangle.

  "Thank God you are both safe," she breathed.

  Katie gazed at her and then looked at her husband. "There is more," she said.

  "Dear God," Alison said and sat back up.

  The duke took a deep breath and then spoke in a haunted tone. "The man upstairs is a solicitor by the name of John Netterman."

  He paused as if he was waiting for something. But she wasn't sure what. The name sounded familiar, but she couldn't place it.

  Then the duke continued. "He was Imogene's husband. They were secretly married in Scotland the year she came out. The night she was murdered, she had gone to my father to tell him about the marriage."

  "Dear God in heaven," she exclaimed. "I knew him!" She shook her head. "I mean I know him. He and my husband were friends. They had gone to school together. The year Imogene and I came out we met them at our first ball. I fell head over heels in love with Phillip and Imogene fell..."

  She turned and looked up as if she could see the man she had spent the better part of the night tending to. "She fell in love with a university student who was going to be a great lawyer one day."

  Alison turned back to the couple, and in a reverent voice said, "She fell in love with a man by the name of John Netterman, the fourth son of the Earl of Exetter. But she never married him. At least not that I knew about."

  She barely heard what else the two people told her about her friend's secret marriage and the night John had saved the duke's life. They did confirm her suspicions that he had been horribly tortured for two days by the monster that had murdered her friend. It was a miracle the man was still alive, and providence that he had escaped the man's clutches in time to save Gabe. But save him he had. And now the duke and Katie wanted to do everything they could to save John's life. So did Alison. He was a link to a friend she had lost a long time ago. And she wanted, no she needed to save his life if at all possible.

  After finishing her third cup of coffee, she excused herself to go check on her patient one last time. As she climbed the stairs to his room, she tried to reconcile the man she had treated during the night with the laughing carefree man that had fallen in love with her best friend. At the time, she had been so wrapped up in her own romance that she had paid the man scant attention. She mostly remembered being grateful that her friend had found someone to love. Alison hadn't wanted Imogene to be alone when she married Phillip, and she was sure the two of them would marry one day.

  The thought brought her to a halt on the landing. Why hadn't Imogene ever told her about her marriage? She knew there were still a great many things the duke and Katie weren't telling her. The hell of it was, she wasn't sure she wanted to know what they were anymore.

  Shaking off the gloomy thoughts, she continued down the hall to the room the man had been placed in. Gingerly, she opened the door and spotted a soldier sitting by the man's bed. Blinking rapidly, she looked around and only now noticed that a number of the people working at the townhouse were uniformed soldiers. Another mystery, but one that she could explore later.

  "Corporal," she called out quietly. When the man turned, she waved him over and told him to go get some coffee, or breakfast, if he wanted. With a grimace and a short nod, he quietly left the room and headed down the hall.

  Taking a step into the room, Alison stared intently at the man lying on the bed. His face and head were battered, and bandaged and quite unrecognizable. Even if she had remembered him, she wouldn't have been able to tell who he was with the amount of damage to his face.

  Even his eyes were now covered by bandages, so she couldn't tell what color they were. Which was a ridiculous observation, as she couldn't recall what they were from twenty years ago. Back then she only had eyes for Phillip.

  If only she had fallen in love with the lawyer and Imogene had fallen in love with the cavalry officer. The thought made her shudder with guilt. It had been an unkind thought and Alison wouldn't have wished Phillip on her friend. He would have destroyed Imogene's spirt as he had destroyed hers, but at least she might have still been alive. Or would she? She would never know the answer to that question.

  Approaching the bed, she gazed at the man, trying to remember what he looked like beneath all the blankets and bandages, but she couldn't. All she remembered were the wounds and what had been needed to treat them. Deal with what is in front of you. It was a frame of mind she had adopted a long time ago. Something she had needed to survive. Not only as a nurse but as the wife of Phillip Sheiling with a precious daughter to take care of.

  John Netterman wouldn't be the first person she took care of that she personally knew. She would just have to adopt the same attitude toward him that she had for all her other patients. But this time it would be harder, as here was a man from her past, from before all her schoolgirl illusions had been shattered by a man she had recklessly given her heart to. Something she would never do again.

  Chapter 4

  Time had lost all meaning to John. For days, weeks, or maybe it was months for all he knew, he drifted in and out of the nightmares that plagued him. His body alternated between an inferno and an iceberg. But the pain that racked his body was ever present, and his dreams replayed the beatings he had endured. And yet, the worst was not the pain, nor the nightmares that constantly greeted him like an old friend each time he awakened. It was the darkness. The blindness.

  He repeatedly woke up fighting the men beating him to find himself locked in mortal combat with a demon—a soft feminine devil. He was fighting to remove the bindings that were covering his eyes. And woven into his memories of the demon was an angel that came to him, soothed his fears even as the horrors of his nightmares and blindness assailed him.

  Over the last two weeks, his fever had gone—even though his night terrors had not—and his wounds no longer encumbered him. At least, he was told it had been two weeks since his fever broke. According to those who were caring for him, it had only been a month since he had escaped from his wife’s murderer, but it seemed much, much longer to John.

  Each day he could feel his strength returning. But the forced blindness still persisted at the bloody doctor's insistence.
And was enforced by his constant companion, a nurse by the name of Mrs. Alison Sheiling. He had come to think of the woman as both his personal demon and angel, and his lifeline to reality when he was awoken by one of the reoccurring nightmares that tormented him.

  She was an enticing and beguiling distraction to his dark imprisonment. She always came on the soft whispers of lilac and vanilla, as if she was just coming from the kitchen after baking a batch of pastries or a cake. Treats she did in fact bring with her on many of her visits, a fact that would see him several stones heavier by the time he was completely back on his feet.

  The soft tread of feet reached him and pulled him back to the present. His hearing had improved greatly over the last couple of weeks. He could now hear faint voices in the hallway, not distinguishable, but audible enough to identify the speakers. The Duke of Belfort was the easiest. His valet, an impertinent Irishman with a strange mixture of cultured English with an occasional Irish brogue, was also easy to distinguish. The duchess's softer voice was also easy for him to identify.

  Because, although the duchess and Mrs. Sheiling both had similar cultured and authoritative voices, there was no mistaking who was in charge when the two women were in his room. Mrs. Sheiling reminded him of a general going into battle.

  He heard soft footsteps pause at the bottom of the stairs. Then he strained to hear a muted conversation with the Irishman. His heart thudded resoundingly in his chest. His personal angel was on her way with another tray of hot tea and pastries. He hoped for the cherry ones, as they were now his favorite.

  Straining, he could hear her climbing the stairs, and then her sweet, contralto humming drifted down the hallway to his open door. His pulse picked up and his hands grew warm. John had no idea what the woman looked like, but he was half in love with her already. He knew that was ridiculous and probably brought on by his dependence upon her. But there was nothing he could do to stop his visceral reaction to her each time she came near him.

  Over the last couple weeks, he had been able to determine a few things about the woman. The first had been her scent, lilac and vanilla with a heady dose of female. She also had the softest skin he had ever known. Each time she touched him, he could feel the gentle softness of her skin. John could also feel the quiet strength of her hands as they tended to him.

  And then there had been the first time she had helped him from his bed. She had placed his hands on her shoulders and ordered him to use her as a crutch. John instantly noticed the height difference between the two of them. It had startled him as he had conjured up a much different picture of the woman from her commanding personality. Her head had barely reached his chest.

  His instinct had been to pull away. He had not wanted to crush such a diminutive woman with his bulk. He was three inches over six feet, and heavily muscular—a side product of the hours he spent in the boxing rings and other things he did to keep up his strength for his clandestine career as a criminal investigator. But when he tried to pull away, he discovered that the woman was surprisingly strong herself despite her diminutive size. She had borne his weight with no difficulties at all.

  "Ah, good, you're awake," she said, as she entered the room.

  He grunted, then said, "For the last hour or so."

  "A bit grouchy, are we?" she replied. He could hear the amusement in her voice and didn't know if she was annoyed or not.

  "No. Just antsy. I need to get out of here. Is there a chance I can take a stroll in the garden?"

  "You are a mind reader, Mister Netterman," she replied. He had asked her to call him by his first name, and she had agreed. But she still used his surname most of the time. "I just asked Mister Coogan to have your lunch taken to the garden, and one of the footmen should be along shortly to help get you down the stairs. After we've eaten, we can take a stroll around the garden, if you are up to it."

  Feel up to it? If he could get the bloody woman out of his way he'd fly down the stairs to the garden on his own. That was what he wanted to say. Instead he said, "Yes, I believe I can manage a slow walk."

  Heavy footfalls echoed in the hall, heralding the arrival of the footman, John hoped. They came to a stop just outside his room.

  “Mrs. Sheiling, I was told you needed some help getting the gentleman down to the garden?” the footman asked.

  Within no time, with Mrs. Sheiling on one side and the much taller footman on the other, they traversed the hallway, then maneuvered precariously down the stairs and across an endless expanse of unknown rooms and halls to reach the outdoors. And despite the pain the journey had caused to his broken hand and still sore muscles, John was ecstatic to feel the sun on his face.

  He stopped just outside the door and raised his face to the sun, enjoying the feel and wishing he could see the sky. Birds sang in the distance. A fragrant floral scent drifted on the breeze that touched his face. The sobering thought that he might not ever see the sun and these things again dampened his spirits, but he quickly pushed it away. He wasn't going to allow anything to ruin this outing.

  "I can get it from here," he heard Mrs. Sheiling telling the footman.

  "Very good, madam," the man replied and dropped John's bandaged arm. "If you need anything else, just call."

  He heard the man retreat back into the house, and then the reassuring arm of his angel slipped around his waist. And then she pressed her voluptuous body against his. Soft, full breasts crushed against his side as she supported him, and something stirred to life in the lower reaches of his body. He prayed that the pants he had been dressed in were not too tight or revealing, as he didn't want to shock or frighten the woman. Neither did he want her ending the contact.

  "It is just a few short steps to the table, Mister Netterman," she said.

  His chest deflated, but not his manhood. "Won't you please call me John?" he asked again.

  He felt her stir beside him and then tighten her grip. "Yes, John. I will." He grinned and nodded his head.

  "And if we are going to be informal, my given name is Alison. But all my friends call me Ali," she said.

  He heard an unusual hitch in her voice when she gave him permission to use her nickname and wondered about it. Dismissing it, he smiled. "Ali. I like that." He shrugged his shoulder and added, "And I like Alison too. It is a pretty name."

  "Thank you," she said, and he thought he heard amusement in her voice.

  She helped him to the chair and got him settled in what felt like a wrought iron chair. Once he was comfortable, he heard her sliding something toward him. Then her soft hand touched his just above the bandage on his right hand.

  “Do you think you can hold a sandwich in your left hand, Mister... I mean, John?” she asked.

  His right hand was splinted and tightly bandaged. A result of having all four of his fingers broken by his inquisitors while they were trying to discover how much he had learned about their criminal activities.

  They had not broken the bones in his left hand, only removed the fingernails, which made use of that hand painful but not impossible. Especially after the doctor had removed the bandages from that hand yesterday. It was still difficult to hold things, but he wanted to try so he nodded his head.

  He felt her fingers touch the top of his hand, and then she handed him something.

  “It is just a simple sandwich of cold meat and bread,” she told him.

  After he took three small bites, she touched his arm softly again. “Would you like a sip of lemonade?” she asked. “The sandwiches are a bit dry.”

  She must have seen him struggling to swallow the bites he had taken. But it wasn’t just that the sandwiches were a bit dry, his jaw still hurt like hell when he moved it too much, and his throat was still sore from the bindings that had been used on him.

  He nodded his head and held out his hand. She took the sandwich and slipped a cool glass into his outstretched fingers, and he took a sip of sweet lemonade—something he liked, and she seemed to make sure he had plenty of. When he handed the glass back, he could hear
her shifting around beside him.

  "I had wondered if you would have remembered me when I told you my full name," she said. John heard a slight hesitation in her voice.

  "Remember you?" he asked. He searched his memory for her name and couldn't recall it. "Were you a client of mine? Or your husband?" He usually remembered the names of those he had helped, but he had been doing it now for fifteen years and was bound to forget a few.

  "No," she replied, and definitely heard amusement in her voice this time. "Phillip and I were never clients of yours."

  John nodded his head. He hadn't thought so. Gabe had told him that his nurse's husband had been a captain in the army and had died about five years ago. The two had apparently been married for about fifteen years.

  "But you thought I might remember you by your name?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  His mind filtered through all the military families he knew and couldn't recall a single Sheiling among them. "Then from where might we know each other?"

  He heard her shift in her chair as the silence stretched on and on. Finally, she said hesitantly, "My husband was Phillip Sheiling. The third son of Baron Holden."

  He nodded. He had heard of the baron, but it had been years, and he couldn't remember much about the man or his sons.

  "You and my husband came down from university the year I met Phillip."

  Sitting up he turned to her as if he could see her. He now remembered the man, but not very well. They had been more of acquaintances than friends. Sheiling and he had hung out with the same group. In fact, a number of his classmates had all come down to London together the year he had met Imogene. After that, he had more or less quit running around with them and begun courting his wife in earnest.

  Her voice cracked. "I was with Lady Imogene Stoughton the night you two met."

  His body jerked as if she had just struck him. He could hear her trying to stifle a sniff and knew she was fighting back tears. "She was my best friend, John. We attended school together and then came out at the same time. I... I met Phillip at the same ball you met Imogene."