Dangerous Pursuit (Lords 0f Whitehall Book 1)

by Ann Chaney

  “Serena, I’m here at Moreham’s behest.”

  “Yes, I’m certain you would only climb three stories under duress. I do remember how much you abhor heights. Conquering the trellis is a much greater challenge than the apple trees at Pendleton.” Mocking laughter resonated in her voice.

  “If I remember rightly,” he commented, shifting from one foot to the other trying to ease the pain in his shoulder. “I was the one who climbed that tree to rescue you. Your brother ignored your cries for help and rode off without a care.”

  “True, Thorne regarded me a pest. He still does when he deigns to visit. As for needing to be rescued, I was only nine years of age. I was supposed to be frightened. You were ten and six. Your intention was good, but you were the one who clung to that branch until Papa came along and rescued us both.”

  “My recollection is a bit different than your own. You had your scrawny arms wound around my neck so tight I feared strangulation. Your father’s appearance was fortuitous.”

  Serena still possessed the same mischievousness as she had that day when she sat primly in the apple tree and cried wolf. Teasing him about his dislike of heights did give him hope they could get past the memory of four years earlier.

  What Serena didn’t know was his fear of heights came from a tutor’s perversion for terrorizing a seven-year-old boy. It was at that age, the monster had dangled Richard by his heels over the parapet at Camberley when he failed to correctly recite all seven cases of Latin declensions. The crazed man wouldn’t pull him up until he got every tense right for that day’s word list. The only good that came of it was he’d won many a coin over the years besting lesser Latin scholars.

  Next, Serena would mention his particular aversion to the sight of his own blood. He might be one of the King’s Own, but the sight of his own blood caused him to swoon like a girl. Had borne the affliction for as long as he could remember.

  Lost in the past, Richard sensed rather than saw Serena step closer to him. He had had enough. “Well, are you going to shoot me?”

  She nudged the pistol into his belly. “Do not tempt me. At present, I’m more curious about why you need my help tomorrow evening. Besides the pistol isn’t loaded.” Serena tossed the weapon on the foot of her bed. “You must learn to not talk to yourself. I heard you grumbling.”

  He didn’t comment on her taunt, nor did he thank her. Churlish of him, but he did have his pride. He refused to give her the upper hand. While she’d been frequenting the ballrooms of London, he’d risked his life to rout the Frenchies. He was the one who faced his fears time and time again while risking his life. Richard performed his duty whether by clinging to a loose slate on a Paris rooftop or riding hell bent down a dark country lane under a new moon.

  “Are you listening to me?” Serena asked.

  “Sorry. Long night. High building. Rough landing. You were saying?”

  “I. Have. A. Question.” She enunciated each word as if he were hard of hearing.

  “Ask away.” He leaned forward in a slight bow. The motion sent a sharp pain through his shoulder forcing him to clear his throat to cover his groan.

  “Why now?” Serena canted her head in the direction of the mantle clock. “Tomorrow, no make that today, you could’ve called on me. Climbing in my window—while romantic—is highly impractical for a man afraid of heights. Four years ago, you were quick to inform me and anyone else standing nearby how little you regarded me.”

  “Four years ago, you were a child playing at being a woman grown.”

  “I was eight and ten years old. I made my bow to the queen that season. Not two months later.”

  “What was I supposed to say? Had I voiced what I was thinking when you appeared in that ballgown, your brother and father would have called me out. Thorne’s always been a better shot and the earl loves swordplay. No woman including you is worth taking ten steps and turning on a field of honor. Not even you are worth the risk of death.”

  “Oh, you’re infuriating. You insulted me!” Serena stamped her foot. She raised her hands, palms out and heaved a deep breath. “As much as I hate to admit it, you’re right. Enough of this reliving the past.” Another deep breath. “If I can endure Society’s lofty expectations and criticisms, I should have the fortitude to deal with you. Stop dithering and answer my question.” Without taking her eyes off him, she moved backward to the table to light another candle. “Why are you here? Must be s-something s-serious.” She froze in place, her eyes wide with fear.

  He knew instantly where her mind had gone. Thorne. He lunged forward, wrapping his uninjured arm around her trembling body. He held her close and rubbed her back. “Serena, Thorne is fine. I received a letter from him today with the weekly dispatch. Wellington’s excited about striking back at the French. Thorne says the general is traveling with Horse Guards as escort. He’s doing well. Couldn’t be more so if he was down the hall in his own bed. I, on the other hand, cannot say the same.”

  Serena drew a deep breath. The distinctive coppery smell of blood filled her nose. Only then did she see how Richard’s left shoulder hung lower than the right. She reached out and touched him. Sticky wetness on her hand sent her heart racing. What had he got himself into?

  He moved away and tugged at his jacket sleeve to work his bloody arm free to expose the dark stain of blood on his white linen.

  “Merciful goodness,” Serena muttered. She drew her breath through her mouth to battle the need to cast up her accounts.

  She balked at the notion of chastising him. The tongue-lashing would come later after she tended his wound. Reaching around him, she worked the jacket off his good arm and tossed it to the floor. Serena took his arm and helped him sit in her reading chair by the fireplace.

  “I need Nettie. Just rest for a moment,” she ordered as she turned away.

  He seized her hand. “We need to talk about the Duke of Whitney’s ball.”

  She wanted to bash the silly man over the head. “You’re bleeding. I need to clean the wound and bandage you. You may believe you are the sole guardian of the King’s Government, but trust me, His government will not crumble before sunrise.”

  Serena crossed the room to the bell pull and yanked it hard. She looked back to find his gaze trained on her and shivered. How she wished she had met another gentleman, any other gentleman, and fallen in love with him as deeply as she had with Richard.

  Nothing had changed in four years. No other gentleman affected her as he did. She refused to accept less than complete love and devotion. Life was fraught with highs and lows. She wanted a caring and loving husband with whom to battle the trying times and relish the joyful moments. Was that too much to ask?

  Unfortunately, Richard Weatherington was that man for her while she’d always be his best friend’s little sister in need of rescuing. Enough of that sort of thinking for now. Richard needed her help.

  She hurried to wash his blood from her hands. Only then did she realize she was wearing her nightrail. It wouldn’t do for Nettie to find her dressed so. She grabbed her woolen dressing gown, shoving her arms into the sleeves and tying the sash with more force than was necessary.

  Richard’s chuckles rang through the room.

  How dare he find humor in their circumstances? If any servant besides Nettie answered her summons, they would find themselves married before sunrise. Aunt Philly would see to it. Her spinster aunt had said often enough that Richard would make the perfect husband for her. This little encounter would be all her aunt needed to see her belief become fact.

  After that horrid night, Richard had sailed for France, at least that was what the gossips had reported. Thorne never said where he went or what his friend was doing. Not that she had asked. She refused to show any interest in his whereabouts. A year ago, he’d returned to England. Within a few months, his father had died. A carriage accident killing his father and three servants. Being a good son, he took his mother home to their family seat at Camberley to mourn in private.

  She’d never
forget that night at Pendleton, her father’s country home. She’d dreamed of the moment when Richard Weatherington would see her as a lady, rather than a spoiled child whom he was always rescuing. She’d imagined coming down the stairs to find him standing at the bottom, waiting for her.

  That dream turned to ashes when he stood in the ballroom and treated her like a child who’d sneaked into the room. He denigrated her gown as scandalous and inappropriate for a lady of good family. The incident had been witnessed by some of Society’s worst gossips.

  Enough woolgathering about the past. Time to nurse the one man she’d rather put a bullet into than any other. She winced at that thought. Richard still owned her heart.

  She’d argued with herself many a night to put her feelings for him aside. Find another to love. No doubt, he would do the same. That thought of him belonging to another shook her every resolve. The sticking point was he was hers. Would always be.

  Richard, his eyes closed, sat still with his head resting on the back of the chair. She hurried into her dressing room to get several towels and a washbasin of water. As a precaution, she left the door ajar, so she could hear if he called out or worse, fell out of the chair.

  She carried her supplies into the room, placing the basin near the fire. Once she had everything organized, she unbuttoned his coarse woolen waistcoat and eased him forward to slip the garment from his body.

  “Talk to me, Rena,” he whispered in her ear.

  Her heart skipped a beat at hearing his pet name for her. “I have not been called Rena in a long time.” Didn’t he know how much hearing that name on his lips hurt?

  “I’m going to cut your shirt off, easier for me and less painful for you. If you move too much, the bleeding could worsen.” She untied the scarf around his neck and reached for her sewing scissors to cut the cloth of his garment. She gasped at the soiled bandage on his right shoulder. No wonder he had made so much noise climbing the wall.

  The earl had asked her earlier if she were planning on attending the Whitney’s ball. She had said yes. Miss Gillian Browning, Whitney’s ward, was her bosom bow. Friends supported friends.

  She should have known. Moreham’s question fell more into the realm of small talk. Not business of the Crown. Moreham never engaged in chitchat. She truly didn’t enjoy this aspect of her work with Moreham. She believed in plain speaking. Men like the one resting in her bedchamber and the spymaster talked in riddles.

  For the past year, Serena had joined Moreham on his forays into Society. The earl wasn’t the most outgoing of gentlemen. He’d sent many a young lady into the withdrawing room in tears. Rumors of a more intimate involvement between her and the earl were rampant which meant their ruse was working.

  She removed the soiled bandage before wetting a small towel and cleaning the dried blood from his shoulder. “When did this happen?”

  “Last week. Moreham’s man did the stitching. I must’ve fallen on that side when I came across your windowsill. If you’ll wrap it, I’ll be on my way.”

  He turned his head toward her. She touched his cheek to nudge his head to the side. “Don’t look until I tell you.”

  A scratch on her bedchamber door signaled Nettie’s arrival. Serena took a deep breath hoping her face was a mask of indifference. The maid’s eagle eyes missed nothing. Nettie had been a part of her father’s household for as long as Serena could remember. When Serena left the nursery, Nettie took on the duties of her maid. Over the years, the line between servant and mistress had blurred.

  “Enter.”

  Richard stiffened, “I shouldn’t have come. His lordship will skewer me with that old saber he took off a colonist at Yorktown if he finds me in your bedchamber.”

  “You should’ve thought of my reputation and Papa’s saber before you decided to call in the dead of night.”

  Serena ignored the maid’s presence at her back and squeezed his hand. “Don’t fret. Father is off at Cambridge. A new expedition is forming. He’ll never know you were here.”

  She gave her maid a sharp look. “Will he?”

  The older woman returned her glare, but after a moment, nodded her agreement before grabbing the poker to stir the fire.

  “Where is he planning to travel this time?” Richard asked, his voice barely a whisper.

  “Another voyage to South America. He wants to further explore the Amazon.”

  “The earl does love his flora,” he remarked. “Funny really. He likes flowers and I have a honeybee problem. We should talk.”

  “Talk? What about? He’s not a political man, while you don’t possess a scientific bone in your body.”

  “My apology. Making a poor jest,” he muttered.

  She remained silent, intent on cleaning the thin gash on his arm. For some reason without warning, Richard shifted in the chair causing her to fall forward into his arms. He grunted. She struggled to right herself. She sat back on her heels and watched Richard look down at his arm where a thin drip of blood ran down his arm. All color drained from his face as he slumped forward. One of the best agents of the Crown fainted.

  “Nettie, help me,” she called out. Why would a man who knew the sight of his own blood caused him to faint look down at his wound?

  She and Nettie struggled to keep him from toppling over. After tussling for what seemed like hours, but was only minutes, they managed to move him back into the overstuffed chair once more. Serena heaved a deep breath and brushed her hair back from her face before continuing to clean the wound.

  She drew a sigh of relief when she saw the state of the injury. His skin was cool to the touch and the flesh a healthy pink. A row of tiny stitches held the torn skin together. Moreham’s man had done well. No need for her needle and threat. This time.

  Serena applied a thick layer of herbal salve and covered the wound with a pad of cloth. Nettie helped her shift him forward, so she could wrap the bandage over his shoulder. Richard didn’t open his eyes as they moved his body back and forth to wrap the linen strips. Once they had finished, she sank to the floor and stretched her arms up in the air to ease the stiffness.

  “Nettie, fetch him one of Thorne’s jackets and clean linen.”

  The maid scowled at her but said not a word as she left the room. Serena knew she’d hear an earful later.

  Richard tried to shift in the chair. She patted his knee, “I’m here. Rest for a bit. The best medicine is for you to sleep.”

  “Only for a few moments.”

  How she wanted to save this man from his demons. What woman wouldn’t want a handsome man to enter her bedchamber in the still of the night?

  Her shock had plunged into terror when she saw the blood. His blood. No injury was minor. No matter how carefully she tended to his wound. Any injury could lead to infection and fever from a dirty blade. A single thread from his shirt or jacket could cause an infection to fester.

  Leaning forward she brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. Her fingers tingled. How many nights had she lain in her bed and dreamed of touching him? She took in a deep breath and told herself all would be well. Richard Weatherington was healthy and would heal quickly. She wanted him fully recovered so she’d not feel guilty when she loaded her pistol and shot the bullheaded man.

  Chapter 3

  Richard woke with a start. Where was he? The sight of Serena asleep at his feet brought the events of the interminable night back with amazing clarity. Time was wasting.

  He nudged her with his foot. “My lady, will I be able to climb out of your window before first light?” Serena mumbled incoherently and settled back asleep. He reached down and shook her shoulder with his good hand.

  “Serena, wake up. We must talk.”

  She sat up, yawning. “I must’ve dozed off for a bit. As for your departure, Nettie will most assuredly insist on showing you out through the garden door.”

  “I don’t need to rest, and I don’t need an old woman leading me around like a babe in the nursery.”

  “Nettie hears you call her an ol
d woman, she’ll take a broom to you.”

  “I’ll be good to the old girl.” He winced as he tried to move his arm. “White’s betting book has a series of wagers about you becoming Moreham’s countess. I asked him about the eventuality, but he refused to answer. You are a beautiful woman and he is an earl in need of a wife. Your wedding would be the premier event of the social season.”

  “Cease moving that arm. I don’t want the wound to start bleeding again. As for what Moreham has or has not told you about our arrangement, I know for certain he has said nothing. Our agreement is I’ll provide assistance for his work as long as my role remains undiscovered. Aunt Philly and Nettie have no idea of what I’ve been doing, and I want to keep it that way.”

  “As I said, Moreham has said nothing. Before he left for Portugal, Thorne told me you’d expressed an interest in helping Whitehall. If Moreham wants you involved, I’d say your role in his schemes is far more than passing on bits of gossip. As for the subject of marriage? That premise is not so farfetched, I’ve witnessed many strange connections on my travels. The intrigue of what we do causes one to find comfort where one can. As for you and Moreham? Nothing surprises me anymore.”

  Serena jumped as the clock on the mantle struck the hour. She waited for the third stroke to fade before replying. “I think you just insulted me. Most fortunate for you that I don’t hold a grudge. I’ll work with you.”

  “Of course, you will. I had no doubt as to your cooperation.”

  She gave him a glare filled with exasperation. Perhaps he’d gone too far. One of his failings that.

  Serena remained as she was for several moments. “We have two hours before the tweenie comes to light the fires. Change into Thorne’s things. Then we’ll talk. We have plenty of time for you to take a second nap and a discussion about what you and Moreham have planned for this evening. I have no doubt I’ll rue the day I agreed to help.”