Anne Gracie - [The Devil Riders 02]

by His Captive Lady

  Harry frowned. “What little dolly?”

  The girl pulled a small cloth doll from the baby’s box. “It’s hers, my little pet’s.”

  “Very well.” He shoved it in his pocket. “Now, give her to me.” He carried her gingerly through to the other room. He’d never carried a baby before.

  “You’ve got her, then,” the woman called Mother said. She held out a grimy claw. “That’ll be twenty quid.”

  “What?”

  She shrugged and said like a horse dealer, “She’s healthy and she’s a good little thing, ’ardly ever cries, ’ardly ever have to give her a dose.”

  Harry frowned. “A dose?”

  In answer the woman reached down beside her chair and lifted a blue bottle. “Blue ruin,” she said with a grin of rotting stumps. “Better’n muvver’s milk for keepin’ a baby quiet.” She uncorked the bottle. “Good for baby and good for me.” She took a long swig, smacked her lips, and offered it to Harry.

  He declined it with a shudder. He’d drunk blue ruin often enough in the back room at Jackson’s boxing saloon.

  He looked at the woman and shuddered again. Giving it to babies—ye gods!

  He knew it was done. Some of the camp followers fed their babies a little gin or rum in the war to keep them quiet. But what people did in war was one thing. This was quite another.

  “I’m not paying you a penny,” he told the woman. “This child was stolen from her rightful mother and you were paid by a villain to take her. We’re leaving.”

  Ignoring her indignant screech and the torrent of abuse that followed him down the stairs, he took Torie out into the cold December streets. He handed her to Evans, mounted Sabre and took her back. It was cold, too cold for a baby dressed in nothing but rags. He opened his coat and tucked Torie inside, carrying her in the crook of his arm.

  “Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you cleaned up.”

  It was too late to get back to Alverleigh tonight. Too late and too cold. “The nearest respectable inn,” he told Evans.

  They found an inn and Harry ordered a meal for himself and Evans to be served in an hour, and in the meantime for a small bath and warm water to be brought up to his room.

  It was dark, but he sent Evans off to try to purchase clothes for a baby and anything else he thought Torie might need. Thank goodness for Mrs. Evans and her large brood.

  He carefully laid Torie on the bed and began the process of unraveling the noisome rags she was wrapped in. The last few were stuck to her little body and when he tried to peel them off her, she cried. And cried. And cried.

  It was a heartbreaking sound. Harry was frantic. He had no idea what to do. He picked her up carefully; without the bundled rags she was so tiny and fragile he was afraid of damaging her.

  He scooped her up with one hand behind her neck, supporting her head, and held her against his shoulder the way he’d seen women do it. She howled miserably.

  “There, there,” he murmured, “it won’t be so bad once you’re all cleaned up and nice.”

  She continued howling. Harry paced up and down, feeling increasingly frantic.

  A maidservant arrived with a small tin bath and a can of hot water. “Thank God,” Harry greeted her with relief. He held the baby toward her. “She’s crying. What do I do?”

  The girl shrank back. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know nothing about babies.” She dumped the bath in front of the fire, half filled it with water, and put the can beside it “She’s probably just hungry.”

  “Hungry?” Harry said. “But she had a feed a couple of hours ago.”

  The girl gave him a pitying look. “She’s a baby.”

  Harry felt like an idiot. Of course. Tiny growing creatures fed all the time. He knew that about puppies and foals, why hadn’t he thought of that for Torie? “Milk,” he told the girl. “Fetch some milk for her, immediately.”

  She gave a smirk and left.

  Harry rubbed Torie’s back soothingly. She kept yelling. “Dinner’s coming now,” he told her. “Won’t be long.”

  The girl brought the milk back in a peculiar-shaped china receptacle, with a hole in one side and a nipple-shaped spout at the end with perforations in the end. It was warm.

  “You’re lucky Cook had this bottle,” the maid said. “Somebody left it behind a few weeks ago.”

  He took it and carefully tried to apply the nipple to Torie’s lips.

  Nothing. She roared louder than ever.

  “It’s best if you’re sitting,” the girl advised.

  He sat on the bed and cradled her in his arms, rocking and murmuring. He placed the china nipple against her mouth. She sobbed bitterly.

  “Tip it up a bit,” said the maid.

  He tipped it so some of the milk splashed into her mouth. She kept crying, but the little mouth took in some of the milk. The rest dribbled down her chin. He gave her the bottle again, but she wagged her head, avoiding it, and sobbed.

  “Used to the breast, I expect,” the girl said. She was enjoying watching him flounder.

  “I thought you didn’t know anything about babies,” Harry said accusingly.

  “I don’t,” she said firmly and left.

  He struggled on, holding her, rocking her, nudging her lips with the nipple, trying to coax her to drink, and finally persistence paid off. Torie’s howls died a sudden death and she began to drink.

  Relief swamped him. She drank a good amount of the milk in the container and when she subsided, he put it away.

  “Now for your bath,” he told her, and the moment he spoke, she started to wail again. He tried the milk, in case she was still hungry but she howled. He picked her up and started rubbing her back, to soothe her.

  A violent burp erupted from the tiny body, and a trickle of sour milk ran down his coat. She stopped, and Harry held his breath, but then she looked at him and kept crying, though not so desperately.

  Maybe the bath would help. Harry put his hand in the water. It was no longer hot, just a bit warmer than lukewarm. He was tempted to call the girl back and get some hot water, but Torie’s sobs were killing him, so holding her carefully, he lowered her into the bath.

  The howling abruptly stopped on a hiccup. Her eyes widened as if she were concentrating intensely on the sensation.

  “Not used to water, are you?” he said.

  She gave a little shuddery breath and moved her hands. Her tiny fingers opened and closed as if trying to grasp the water.

  Harry chuckled and immediately she looked up at him. “You like water, don’t you? Let’s see if you like this.” He swished her gently back and forth in the water and felt the tense little body relax.

  She looked at him solemnly, a small angel, who’d never yelled blue murder in her life.

  “I expect butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, either,” Harry told her.

  The water turned a dirty gray. Slowly the rags wrapped around her little hindquarters softened and he was able to peel them off her one by one. Her delicate skin was red where they’d stuck.

  “You need some salve on that, you poor little mite.” Harry wished Mrs. Barrow was here. She’d know what to do about that redness. He lifted her out of the dirty water, laid her on a towel, bolstered her with a couple of pillows, and rang for someone to remove the dirty water and rags.

  He ordered a second bath and sent a message to the cook for a handful of salt and some almond or olive oil or goose grease.

  He bathed Torie again in warm water with a little salt and she screwed up her face at first. He suspected it might sting a little so he swished her back and forth in the water to distract her. She loved it, kicking her little legs and gurgling with pleasure. He chuckled at the sound and again, she stared at him as if fascinated.

  He washed her thoroughly, lifted her out, dried her, and lightly stroked almond oil over her skin. “That should help soothe you,” he told her.

  She watched his face intently. She had her mother’s eyes. She was all Nell, he thought. Her mother’
s daughter, wholly and completely.

  Evans wasn’t back yet, so he wrapped her in a clean, dry towel, then slipped her into a pillow slip.

  “Now, go to sleep, sweetheart,” he told her and left her to it. She took a deep breath, her face turned red and—“Don’t start again,” he begged her. She looked at him with troubled eyes, her lips trembling.

  “That’s blackmail,” Harry said severely.

  She opened her mouth. He sighed and picked her up. She calmed immediately.

  “That appalling woman told me you were a well-behaved young lady,” he told her. “Of course, those weren’t her exact words, but it’s what she meant. How am I going to explain to your mother that you’ve picked up bad habits while you’ve been away?”

  She sighed and watched him with big eyes. Nell’s eyes.

  He rocked her against his chest. “Your mother is going to be overjoyed to see you. She’s been breaking her heart over you, young Torie, and I can see why. So it’s going to be a big day tomorrow and you need plenty of sleep.”

  He placed her back on the bed in the nest of pillows. She immediately wailed. He picked her up and she stopped.

  “All right, I’ll hold you till you fall asleep.” She fitted perfectly in the crook of his arm. “Sleep, do you understand, young lady? That’s an order.”

  She watched him with wise little eyes and batted her small fist around. He’d never realized what a miracle a baby’s hand could be; five little fingers, each with perfect miniscule fingernails. Her closed fist was like a little fern, ready to unfurl. He stroked it with his index finger, marveling at how big and coarse his hand looked by comparison.

  Her tiny fist unfurled and five impossibly small fingers closed around his index finger and clung tightly. She gave a little sigh, the long lashes fluttered and she fell asleep, still clutching his finger.

  Harry’s chest felt thick and full.

  The little scrap of humanity clung to his finger, claiming him. And Harry’s heart was lost to her. Torie was his. Or rather, he was Torie’s. For life.

  Just like that, he had a daughter.

  Evans returned forty-five minutes later and found Harry sitting on the bed. “I’m sorry, sir, I was only able to get some cloths—for the wetness, you know.”

  “Didn’t you get any clothing? She’s got none. I threw out the rags she was washed in. They need to be burned.”

  “I’ll work out something, sir,” Evans said. “And perhaps while I’m at it you’d like me to wash your shirt. And I’ll take your coat. It’s ruined, of course, but you’ll need something to wear home, so I’ll see if I can get it looking a bit more respectable.”

  Harry stared at him. “Evans, what did you do for Sir Irwin?”

  “I was his valet, sir.”

  Harry grinned. “Excellent. In that case you may take my shirt and coat with my goodwill, and see what you can do with them. I’ve needed a valet for some time.”

  “Thank you, sir. You won’t be sorry, sir.”

  “I’m no dandy,” Harry warned him.

  Evans tried to hide a smile. “Oh, I realize that, sir.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “In the meantime, there’s a pie there getting cold.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Evans lifted the lid and saw that none of the food had been touched.

  “Not hungry, sir?”

  Harry shook his head. “Starved. But I can’t move.”

  “Can’t move, sir?” Evans looked concerned. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  Harry looked sheepish. “No, but I’ve been captured,” he admitted. He glanced down at the infant sleeping in the crook of one arm, still clutching a finger of the other. “I’m terrified she might wake up and set to howling the place down again. My daughter has a powerful set of lungs on her.”

  “Your daughter, sir? But I thought she was—”

  “No,” Harry said firmly. “She’s mine. Her mother and I have been searching for her for weeks.”

  Evans’s face cleared. “Then it was all a terrible mistake, sir?”

  “That’s right, Evans. A terrible mistake.” There was no need for anyone to know any different. Harry looked down at the tiny scrap holding on so tenaciously. “But she’s back where she belongs now, or she will be once she’s in her mother’s arms.”

  He hired a chaise for the trip home; horseback would jolt Torie too much. Evans rode behind, leading Sabre.

  He’d considered going shopping to buy a carry basket and baby clothes, but neither he nor Evans knew where such things could be purchased—in Evans’s experience women made them—and in the end Harry decided it was more important to get Torie back to Nell. The most important things were napkins and milk, and Harry had stocked up on both.

  So Torie came home to her mother dressed in several towels and a pillow case and she rode in Harry’s arms. She seemed to like it there very well, gazing around her with bright, interested eyes, fingering the buttons on his coat and clinging firmly to his finger whenever he presented it.

  When they turned into the drive at Alverleigh, she was sound asleep, tucked snug inside his coat. He’d stopped a few miles away and fed her and burped her and changed her napkin so she would be clean and content and ready to meet her mother. For a tiny scrap of perfection, she was able to make the most horrendous sounds and smells. The carriage pulled up and Harry climbed carefully down so as not to waken her.

  Tymms opened the door and before he could say anything Harry shushed him with his finger. “Don’t say anything to the others, just inform Lady Nell—discreetly—that a visitor—no, two visitors await her in the blue salon.”

  Tymms gave an impassive bow, dying of curiosity but too dignified to show it, and glided away.

  Nell sat in the drawing room, trying her best not to fidget or pace. She fondled Freckles’s ears absently. Harry had sent her Freckles. Why? Because he thought she would need comforting? She was pleased to have her dog, of course, but she hated being kept in the dark. She was worried sick about Harry. His brothers had all returned, and all that they would tell her was that Harry was all right and that he had business in London and would be back in time for the wedding.

  They told her Sir Irwin had been crushed by a passing coach, and that she did not believe. It was a ridiculous tale.

  They told her Harry was perfectly all right, but they’d brought Sabre home and he’d been grazed by a ball.

  A ball. So there had been shooting.

  They were telling her lies for her own sake. And it drove her mad. As if Harry, knowing how worried she was about him, would go off to London on business.

  “Nell, dear, wouldn’t you like to learn how to do this?” Aunt Maude said to her. She was teaching Callie and Tibby how to knit. “I know you’re worried, my dear, but it helps to keep busy.”

  Nell shook her head. “I’m terrible at knitting.” Knitting only served as a reminder.

  Aunt Maude nodded and left her be.

  Tymms silently entered the room and to Nell’s surprise, came right up to her, bowed and said discreetly in her ear, “There are two visitors for you, m’lady, waiting in the blue salon.”

  “Two?” Nell jumped up and hurried out. Was it men come to tell her Harry was hurt, or worse? That sort always traveled in twos.

  She pushed open the door to the blue salon. It was Harry, standing with his back to the door, looking out the window.

  “Harry.” She flew across the room.

  He turned and she skidded to a halt, seeing what he held in his arms.

  “Shhh,” he said softly. “Not so loud. You’ll wake the baby.” He smiled.

  She stared, rooted to the spot. Stock-still. What was he doing with a baby? Where had he got it? And why?

  A cold, sick feeling stole though her. Did he think that he could bring her a substitute for Torie? Did he understand so little how she felt?

  She forced herself to speak. “I don’t . . . I don’t need . . .” She pointed at the baby, her hand shaking.

  “It’s Torie.”
r />   The words tore her fragile composure apart.

  She shook her head. “Torie is dead. She died—”

  “No,” he said gently. “This is Torie. Your father took her to Sir Irwin.”

  She stared, trying to work out why he would say such a thing.

  “I don’t believe it. Why would he do such a thing?” she whispered.

  “Because the law is that a baby belongs to its father. It’s the same reason that Lord Quenborough dumped me on my father’s steps that time—because I was his responsibility. This truly is Torie, your Torie.”

  Nell took a ragged inward breath. Her hand flew to her mouth. She started trembling. She couldn’t take her eyes off the bundle in his arms. She didn’t believe it, but oh . . . how she wanted to.

  She couldn’t bear to look, to experience again the pain she knew would come when she saw that this baby, like all the others, wasn’t her daughter.

  She couldn’t bear not to.

  She edged forward, one shaking hand outstretched, the other clutched fearfully to her breast. It wasn’t Torie, Torie was dead, she tried to tell herself, protect herself, to stifle the hope burgeoning within her.

  Hope was the cruelest emotion.

  The baby in Harry’s arms stirred and yawned mightily. She opened her eyes and looked at her mother.

  And Nell saw her own mother’s remembered eyes, saw her father’s brow, saw—

  “Oh God, it’s Torie,” she sobbed and lifted her daughter from Harry’s arms. She laid her face against Torie’s soft little neck and breathed her in. Her baby, her daughter, her Torie.

  “Torie, oh, Torie.” Trembling violently, she sank down on the sofa cradling her precious burden, rocking her, weeping.

  She smoothed shaking fingers over Torie’s face, remembering the delicate whorls of her ears, the soft golden fuzz.

  Something dropped out of the fold of the towel. A small rag doll.

  Nell stared. “Oh my God. What is that?”

  Harry bent and picked it up. “Just a doll the girl gave me. She said it was Torie’s, but it’s noth—”

  “Turn it upside down,” Nell whispered.