It was Gillie who tore up her petticoats for bandages, although Wickenden imagined she had fewer garments that anyone else present. Together with his own necktie and a few ruthlessly extracted from his fellows, there were enough to bind the splint to his leg.
While he set about it, he heard Gillie suggesting someone ride ahead and fetch Doctor Morton to the castle.
Wickenden took out his flask again. “We’re going to move you into the carriage. I’m afraid it might hurt.”
“Give him this,” Kate Crowmore said, stepping down from the carriage to place a small crystal bottle in his hands. For once, he was grateful to see it.
“Open your mouth,” he commanded Braithwaite.
“Why, what’s that?” Braithwaite demanded suspiciously.
“Laudanum. Trust me, it will help.”
While Braithwaite opened his mouth to deny the necessity, Wickenden deftly spilled a few drops over his lips and passed the bottle back to Kate. Then, with the help of Bernard and Winslow, he lifted the earl and they maneuvered him into the carriage.
Gillie and Kate had placed cushions against the side wall of the coach so that he could sit against them with his legs out straight. He closed his eyes immediately, and Wickenden could almost see the waves of pain rolling over him.
There wasn’t much more he could do about that. “It’ll get easier,” he murmured, gripping the earl’s shoulder for an instant. “Hold on to that.”
Jumping down, he caught Lady Serena about to mount the carriage steps to her brother. “You should go with Lady Frances,” he said quietly.
“Someone needs to care for him in there…”
“Let Gillie and Kate do it. He won’t like you to see him in such pain.”
Serena stared at him, then at Frances and Gillie.
“He’s right,” Gillie said ruefully. “We’ll look after him until we get to the castle, I promise.”
*
Dinner at the castle was, understandably, a slightly subdued affair. Although the countess and her daughters tried to keep up light conversation, their anxiety for the earl was obvious. The party broke up early to go to their own rooms and leave the family alone together.
Braithwaite himself seemed to be asleep, exhausted by pain and Kate Crowmore’s laudanum.
Wickenden, leaving his bedchamber door open since he wasn’t averse to company to distract him from thoughts of his friend’s pain—and of Gillie, if he were honest—pushed up the window sash and let the cool sea breeze whip around his face.
He’d dismissed his valet already. Only a single candle burned beside his bed, but he liked the darkness, outside and in. It seemed to match the thoughts in his heart.
“He’ll survive, you know,” said a familiar voice from the doorway.
Wickenden straightened and turned to see Kate leaning against the doorframe—one of her unladylike and yet most endearing poses. He wondered how long she’d been there.
“I know,” he said. “It seems to be a clean fracture and didn’t break the skin. Besides which, he’s strong as an ox,”
“Exactly. So why are you so miserable? Longing for the old days when you were surrounded by pain and gore?”
“You mean by the glory of war?” he said sardonically.
“Is that not what I said?”
He walked across the room toward her, picking his coat off the bed as he passed. It seemed a nod toward civility although he couldn’t actually be bothered putting it on.
“What do you want, Kate?”
“Do I have to want something?”
He leaned his shoulder against the wall opposite her, “Well, I don’t believe you came to talk about either war or Braithwaite. Although I have to thank you for your care of him.”
“No, you don’t. In any case, I only supplied the knockout drops. It was your friend, Gillie, who knelt beside him and kept him still during the journey. She has…grit. I can see why you like her.”
“Can you?” he said wryly.
Easing her back off the door, she moved into the room, pushing the door over to give them privacy. In typically Kate fashion, she ignored convention and possible scandal. “What was your generous plan? To show the world that a very eligible man was considering marriage and then leave as if she’d rejected you?”
“Something like that.”
“But you didn’t let her in on it, did you?”
“She understands. She isn’t a fool.”
“Well, that’s debatable. But either you are, or you’re being unkind. Can you not see how she looks at you? Are you so used to the adulation of women?”
“Adulation?” he scoffed. “Gillie?”
“She doesn’t moon after you,” Kate allowed. “But you must be blind not to see that the girl is in love with you.”
“Oh nonsense,” he said, impatiently. “I brightened her dull life – and mine—with a few days of flirtation. There is no harm done.”
“Idiot,” Kate said without heat. “It has already gone beyond that, even for you. Unfortunately, you’re in a cleft stick. Because of her station, you can’t take her as your mistress. But equally, her station isn’t high enough for you to marry her. So for God’s sake, do the decent thing and leave her alone.”
Wickenden scowled at her. These were the thoughts he’d been trying increasingly not to think.
“Miss Muir is your friend, now?” he said with sarcasm.
“On the contrary, she dislikes me cordially. Though mainly, I suspect, because someone passed on to her rumors about you and me.”
He stared at her from his unchanged position against the wall. “There have been no rumors about you and me for at least seven years.”
“We could make some,” she said outrageously. “After all, you and I are, to some extent at least, unfinished business.”
Kate had broken his heart once. When he’d been very young, a promising officer but a second son with no great prospects. She’d loved him, but chosen to marry Crowmore. Ironic, since he’d become his father’s heir shortly after the wedding. She’d thrown herself at him once or twice, when he’d first entered the London world of fashion, but there had been too much between them for an honest relationship. Or he’d been too piqued to indulge himself. God knew she was a beautiful woman, and thoroughly desirable. And if the wit he’d once loved had grown a little acerbic, well, that suited her, too, He knew there was still a sweetness inside her somewhere. And he’d grown to admire the new bravery she’d found, such as hadn’t been there when they’d both been young.
He straightened and deliberately kicked the door shut before walking toward her. Taking her by both shoulders, he gazed down into her face. He read eagerness and just a little fear in there. And blatant desire. How easy it would be to slake his lust in her now…
Except, she would no longer be his Kate. The best of his Kate. As she most definitely was not his Gillie.
He touched his forehead to hers and released her. “Go,” he said.
For a moment she didn’t move. Her breath caught as if she would take matters into her own hands, but then, perhaps she read in his eyes that despite his temptation it would make no difference. She didn’t even utter a parting shot as she left, and normally, she did those rather well.
Chapter Nine
By the time Gillie returned from the castle, it was getting dark. A solitary lamp had been lit in the hallway, but brighter lights shone from the cellar.
“Bernard?” she called. Considering recent events, she was reluctant to go down there alone, and yet, if the cellar had been opened from the tunnel…
Bernard stuck his head out of the cellar door. “You’re back. How is his lordship?”
“In terrible pain, I think, but they’re making him comfortable. What are you doing down there?”
“Apparently we had some visitors while we were gone,” Bernard said grimly. “Fortunately, Danny was ready for them and they didn’t come beyond the new door we put up at the end of the tunnel, but you know if they’re determined
to get in here they will, one way or another.”
“Maybe we should just have them taken up by the Watch for breaking in. It might keep us safer while we worry about the rest of this mess.”
“Yes, but we have to catch them first! Or the Watch does. And no one seems to know where they’re staying. Lord Braithwaite’s people couldn’t find them either.” Bernard began to climb the stairs. “Shall we have dinner? I’m starving.”
Gillie discovered her aunt dozing in the parlor. She was about to creep out again and go to the kitchen when she noticed an envelope propped up on the mantel shelf. Walking over, she saw it had her name on it, inscribed in a hand she did not recognize.
Her first thought made her heart lurch. Lord Wickenden.
But that was foolish. Why would he write to her when he had been in her company for most of the day? Right up until half an hour ago, in fact. Besides, the script looked rather feminine to Gillie. She tore it open and saw at once she was right. It was a brief message on one side of a single sheet, signed Lillian Derwent. The note invited Miss Gillyflower Muir to call on Mrs. Derwent tomorrow morning at the Blackhaven Hotel, at her earliest convenience.
For a moment, Gillie couldn’t think who on Earth Mrs. Derwent was. Then she remembered that Kit Grantham’s mother had remarried quite recently—something Kit hadn’t been entirely happy about before he left for Spain, although he had cheered up when his stepfather had purchased his captaincy for him. Gillie was sure his name had been Derwent.
Perhaps Kit’s mother too, was worried about Captain Grantham’s somewhat erratic behavior. It was probably pain from his wound.
The following morning, Gillie took Mrs. Derwent at her word, and, with Mattie in attendance, walked round to the hotel before church.
The Blackhaven Hotel was a sprawling collection of buildings joined into one behind an impressive new façade and a large, pillared portico leading to the front door.
Sparrow, the doorman, was one of her father’s retired soldiers. As usual, he grinned at her, greeting her by name as he opened the door for her. She paused to ask after his family and pronounce her pleasure in their good health and then walked across the wide foyer to the reception desk. It was deserted save for a weary looking young man who barely remembered to take his elbows off the desk to address her. Presumably, she didn’t look wealthy enough for the establishment.
“Good morning,” she said civilly. “Please be so good as to inform Mrs. Derwent that Miss Muir waits upon her.”
“Take a seat, Miss, and I’ll send someone up to her.”
“Thank you.” Gillie hesitated a moment, while the young man sent someone scurrying up the staircase with her message. Then she said, “I understand you have a Mrs. Muir staying with you also. Do you happen to know if she’s receiving?”
The young man frowned with apparent disapproval. “Foreign lady? French or the like.”
“Spanish, I believe,” Gillie replied patiently.
“She isn’t here anymore.”
Gillie blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“She and the gentleman settled up yesterday and left.”
“Did she leave a forwarding address?” Gillie asked.
“No, she didn’t.”
“Thank you,” Gillie said faintly.
Signaling to Mattie to come also, she chose one of the comfortable sofas facing into the hotel coffee room. Her thoughts raced. Had she and Bernard really won as easily as that? Had the supposed Mrs. Muir taken fright at the mere mention of investigation and fled before she was found out?
It did seem the likeliest explanation and one she was certainly disposed to believe. Surely everything else would be fine if the problem of the grasping stepmother was only removed.
Excerpt for the problem of Smuggler Jack and the traitors, of course. And Lord Braithwaite’s leg. And the fact that Lord Wickenden was leaving tomorrow and her chances of ever seeing him again were truly remote. For some reason, this last seemed the most terrible event of all, and yet it was laughably unimportant to anyone but Gillie.
Still, she would have the memory of his wicked charm and his even more wicked kisses to hug to herself. In time, that would be enough. She certainly wasn’t the type of milksop to pine away for love. She had too much pride and too many responsibilities for that.
A very stern looking ladies’ maid made her stately way down the staircase and across the foyer to Gillie.
“Mrs. Derwent will receive you upstairs,” she pronounced, without even a curtsey, as if she and Gillie were of the same station in life. “Please follow me.”
Beside her, Gillie could feel Mattie bridling, but she quelled her with a look. She’d heard Serena and Frances prattling about ladies maids who were so puffed up with their mistress’s importance that they barely acknowledged duchesses as their equals. Gillie didn’t bear a grudge about such trivia, though she preferred to judge people on their character than their class.
“Wait here,” she murmured to Mattie, and followed the superior maid up the staircase and along the quiet passage. The maid opened a door on the left and entered first, announcing, “Miss Muir, madam.”
Mrs. Derwent, in a very fine morning gown of lavender wool, was seated at her desk, writing letters or something else that was clearly of more importance than the morning caller she herself had summoned. Despite her tolerance of the maid, Gillie began to bridle at such rudeness. However, before she could actually open her mouth, the lady rose and turned to face her.
She was younger than Gillie had imagined, and the remains of beauty still lingered in her face and trim figure. She could see the resemblance to Kit at once, although her expression was less open than his.
“Please,” the lady said, waving her hand toward one of the two chairs placed in the center of the room. She didn’t offer to shake hands. Mrs. Derwent took the other chair without waiting for Gillie to sit first.
“Mrs. Derwent, I beg you will not—”
“I shall come at once to the point,” Mrs. Derwent interrupted. “How much do you require to leave my son?”
Gillie blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Mrs. Derwent narrowed her eyes. “How much to leave my son?” she repeated deliberately.
“Forgive me, I have no idea what you are talking about,” Gillie replied. “Do I gather that you are Captain Grantham’s mother?”
“Yes, and I assure you I am quite up to your flim-flam. Your tricks will not work on a mother.”
“Flim-flam?” Gillie repeated, anger beginning to drown her bewilderment. “Tricks? What tricks? To my knowledge, I have never met you in my life before.”
“Whatever tricks gained you influence over my son, and even Lord Wickenden, whom I’ve never taken for anyone’s fool before.”
“Lord Wickenden?” she repeated. She must stop repeating the woman’s words. She sounded as insane as Mrs. Derwent. “What has he to do with your son?”
“Did he not speak to you on the subject? From his letter, I was quite sure that he had not, which is why I have come in person.”
“What subject?” Gillie asked.
“About leaving my son alone! He will not be permitted to marry you, as Lord Wickenden should have explained.”
The world seemed to tilt around Gillie. Suddenly, everything made horrible sense. Wickenden’s questions about Kit, his cutting in on her waltz with Kit, his apparent, inexplicable interest in her. Distracting her, weaning her, as he supposed, from Kit.
Refusing to let the terrible idea run away with her, she regarded Mrs. Derwent with caution. “Are you saying you sent Lord Wickenden here with the express purpose of preventing my marriage to Captain Grantham?”
“As much as one can ever send him anywhere,” Mrs. Derwent said with a touch of bitterness. “It seemed more discreet than posting all the way up here myself. Until I discovered the work was not yet done. But understand this, Miss Muir, no gaming house wench will ever sully my son’s name. You will take this one chance offered you, today, or the offer will be
withdrawn and you will not get a penny.”
“You wish to buy me off marriage with your son,” Gillie said, fascinated. Somewhere deep inside her a maelstrom was rising, a whirling confusion of emotion. “What on earth gave you the idea that I was going to marry him?”
“He told me so himself as soon as he came home from Spain.”
Gillie closed her mouth. Kit had imagined he was saving her from ruin. If only he would have listened to her.
“Don’t imagine you’ll get any more from marriage. Kit’s father was not a wealthy man and he will get nothing from his stepfather, not for such a marriage. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll take my offer today and vanish without trace into whatever darkness you emerged from in this dreadful little town.”
The maelstrom enveloped Gillie. She sprang to her feet. The world was falling in around her. She’d been treated rudely and insulted in just about every conceivable way by this woman, and worse than that, by Lord Wickenden, who’d never stopped insulting her from their very first meeting. That was Gillie’s mistake, her naivety and loneliness. But this, she would not take.
“You mistake true love,” she said frostily. “Nothing will keep me from marrying Captain Grantham. Good day, madam.”
The maid, who was either too stunned or too rude to open the door for her, merely gawped as Gillie stalked from the room and quietly closed the door behind her. No one would ever call into question her manners. On the other hand, she was actually shaking as she all but strode down the passage and descended the staircase. She could not be still, not yet, and yet she felt physically sick.
From the foyer, she rushed into the coffee room where she knew there were writing materials and sat down in an alcove to pen a short but urgent summons to Kit. She wrote his direction at the barracks on the folded note and stood. She didn’t even glance at the reception clerk, though she was aware he now stood straight behind his desk as if suddenly impressed by her haughty attitude. If only he’d known there was nothing haughty about her. It was sheer fury. Mattie, equally awed, scurried after her.
Barons, Brides, and Spies: Regency Series Starter Collection Volume Two Page 12