by Nicole Byrd
“It was only a slight wound, not worth this much fuss,” he said, his tone gruff as he tried to conceal his delight at seeing her.
“If it had hit a more vital area, it would not have been slight at all,” she suggested. “I am thankful that you are able to dismiss the wound, and that Louisa was not hit.”
With a twinge of guilt, he remembered his fiancée. “Yes, indeed,” he agreed. “I think—” He paused and looked at the child.
“Miss, um, Sinclair?”
“Miss Circe Hill,” she explained.
“Miss Hill, I suspect that Runt would appreciate a walk, if you would be so kind.”
The dog, who had been lying quite sedately on the rug, wagged her tail at the mention of her name. Nor did Circe look convinced. “We have only just returned from a stroll around the park,” she pointed out. “But since you want to talk privately, I will take her out again.”
Mrs. Hughes was trying not to laugh.
John tried to hold on to his dignity; he had little else to clothe himself in at the moment. “Thank you.”
Circe called to the dog and led her away.
And they were blessedly alone. “Miss Crookshank sent down to the flower stalls herself and arranged a bouquet for you,” Marianne Hughes said. “The footman is putting it into water and will bring it up.”
“That’s very kind of her,” John said, feasting his vision on the lovely shape of her face, the blue-gray eyes, the well-shaped curving brows now drawn together with, could it be, concern over him? “Really, I will be up again very soon. And I hope you will contemplate my suggestion about us all removing to my estate.”
“I admit, it does make sense,” she said slowly, and his pulse leaped that she was considering it. “Although I do not wish to be a charge upon your staff.”
“Nonsense, it will be good for them to have visitors in the house, and I will be especially delighted,” he assured her.
“And I suppose it would be a good thing for Louisa to have a look at your—and her future—home,” Marianne went on.
He hadn’t thought of that, and his heart sank. “Um, yes, I suppose.” Would this just convince Louisa that he meant to keep his pledge? Hell. But the thought of having Marianne close at hand pushed that worry away. He would deal with it later.
“And I should like to be there—that is, it would be as well for you to have someone there to keep an eye on you as you heal. I’m sure your servants are attentive, but that is not the same.”
The idea of himself as an invalid was so repellent that he shook his head automatically. “No, no, I would not trouble you with such a burden.”
“How could it be a burden?” She actually took a step inside his room, and he thought that her voice warmed. Could it matter to her how he fared? Could she, possibly, care about him?
His body responded, even in its less than hearty state, and he was glad that the coverlet was thick enough to conceal the surge of blood to his groin. “Mrs. Hughes,” he began, then hesitated as a footman appeared, with a vase of flowers to place on the table near his bed.
They both paused until the servant withdrew, then Marianne added, “Your brother lent me a footman to help see Louisa safely home, and we went in his closed carriage instead of the barouche.”
He had a sudden vision of Marianne shielding Louisa with her own body, and it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Thank God she was not the one who had stopped a bullet!
“You must take care,” he said, his tone urgent. “The attacks are becoming much more dangerous, and I do not know what may happen next.”
Marianne nodded. “She has promised to stay inside until I agree that she may go out. But she cannot live her life cowering indoors. We must discover who is behind these murderous attempts.”
“About Mr. Alton Crookshank—”
Marianne nodded. “Your agent and my footman are now taking turns watching his rooms, at my instructions. My footman says that Mr. Crookshank’s landlady tells us he was out most of the day yesterday. But where he was, we have no way of knowing. It means he would have had the opportunity to fire the weapon which wounded you. Yet he seems to lead a quiet life, going to his lectures and his studies, and shows no outward signs of murderous intent.”
“He would hardly trumpet it to the world. As soon as I am out of bed, perhaps tomorrow, I will escort you down to Kent, and we shall have some breathing space to consider what should be done next.”
“Poor Louisa.” Marianne sighed. “She was so happy to be free to taste the delights of London Society, at last, and now she is a virtual prisoner. At least this visit to your estate will give her something else to think about.”
John gazed at her. Would Marianne ever forgive him if he jilted her niece? She seemed most devoted to the younger woman. Yet how could he marry one woman, lovely and sweet-natured as she might be, when he yearned for—when he adored—another? He shut his eyes for a moment, then was frustrated to hear his visitor say, “I will leave you to rest, my lord. I do not wish to stay too long and tire you.”
“No,” he said quickly, but when he looked toward the doorway again, she was giving way to the doctor.
“I shall call again very soon,” she promised, and John had to be content with that.
Her absence was more painful than even the doctor’s probing. The man changed the bandages on John’s upper arm and announced the wound was showing no signs of infection.
“I wish to leave for my estate,” John told him. “Soon. Tomorrow.”
Washing his hands in the china basin and drying them on a clean linen towel, the physician looked thoughtful. “Some fresh country air would no doubt be good for you, my lord, instead of London’s dusty heat. But not tomorrow, perhaps in a couple of weeks or so.”
“No,” John argued, unable to explain how intensely he wanted to be free of his brother’s house. “This week!”
They compromised on the end of the week, if John continued to heal without complications. The doctor repacked his bag, and a footman took away the soiled bandages and blood-tinged water.
“And how is Lady Gabriel?” John inquired, aware he should have asked that question earlier.
Sir William, who had turned, paused to answer. “She is very weak—she lost a great deal of blood when she lost the child. But she is also showing no indication of infection, my lord, an excellent omen. If she can get through the week without a fever, we may hope that she will in time regain her usual good health.”
“I am most glad to hear it,” John said, and meant it.
The doctor bade him good day, leaving John to his thoughts. He must send a note to his housekeeper to prepare the house for company; God knew what the state of the guest wing was; he hardly dared to imagine. He had never had visitors before, and if his father had ever entertained, John could not recall it. So this should at least give his servants a new challenge. He hoped they would not disgrace him.
“I need writing paper and pen and ink,” he commanded when a male form entered the edge of his vision.
“I see you are making yourself at home,” came the dry reply. Instead of the footman returning, it was his brother who came into the room.
Leery of any more unprovoked attacks, John watched him approach.
However, raising his brows, Gabriel merely regarded his sibling with a critical gaze. “I think you need a shave and a wash, first. Unless you enjoy such a state of dishabille?”
“Of course not!” His shoulders tense and his wound still aching, John tried to fold his arms and found, with one arm in a sling, it was not possible. He saw that his good hand was clenched and tried to relax it.
“Then why did you send my valet away this morning, when he has been so kind as to offer his services in nursing you?”
John frowned. He had no idea the manservant had volunteered for such a sorry task; why would he do that for a stranger when one of the underservants could have been directed to carry the slop jar and bring up his trays?
Gabriel see
med to read his thoughts. “He is very loyal to me—I think he did it for my sake. But you have given him little thanks. I wonder, if you treat your own servants so, that you are able to keep any. Our father had similar troubles, as I recall.”
“I do not throw empty wine bottles at their heads!” John snapped. Why was Gabriel so determined to compare him to their late father at every turn?
“That is a start,” his brother agreed, his eyes glinting with humor, which John could not help but regard as mocking. “And where is your own man? The innkeeper said you brought no personal servants with you.”
John felt trapped. “I don’t care for valets,” he muttered, looking away from the cynical gleam in his brother’s deep blue eyes.
“So one might judge from the usual state of your apparel. Although you do seem to have spruced up a bit for the city. Do I detect a civilizing feminine influence, Miss Crookshank’s, perhaps?”
John opened his mouth to deny it, then remembered Mrs. Hughes’s advice on a new tailor. Unwilling to be lectured on fashion by his always elegant brother, he changed the subject abruptly. “What about my groom and coachman and my own carriage?”
“They are still at the inn—I had no room for another vehicle in my carriage house. The barouche I have sent back, thinking you would not wish to pay for its daily hire while it sat unused.”
John nodded. “Thank you,” he said, although it took some effort to utter the words, adding more easily, “I am happy to hear that Lady Gabriel is recovering.”
Gabriel’s expression softened. “Yes, thank God! And I have been informed—lectured most severely by more than one female, in fact—that I misunderstood the incident in the park. But you realize that I was told—”
“And you had no trouble jumping to the wrong conclusion,” John finished for him, happy to have the upper hand for an instant. “I do appreciate your faith in me, that you would believe that I could be capable of assaulting an innocent woman, much less my own sister-in-law.”
“I remember your bullying when we were children. And I am aware that you still hate me,” Gabriel said, his tone flat.
“I don’t hate you,” John said before he thought.
Gabriel looked unconvinced. And indeed, John was not sure why he had bothered to deny the statement. It was all too close to the truth. He went on to safer topics.
“If your valet still has any interest in attending me, you may tell him that I shall be appreciative of his efforts,” John said. “A wash and a shave would indeed be welcome. If he does not wish to do it himself, send up one of the footmen, if you will. My shaving kit should be in my trunk, if you have brought over my effects from the inn. Plus, if the footman does it, you can always hope that an unpracticed hand will be more likely to cut my throat.”
Gabriel’s lips lifted, and again, he looked even more dangerous when he smiled. “Oh, no, brother,” he contradicted, his tone soft. “If anyone does that, it will be me.”
Thirteen
John slept off and on through most of the day. After his brother left, the valet had reappeared, armed with John’s set of ivory-handled razors, all carefully whetted—John noted with only the slightest whisper of unease—to their sharpest edge. If his brother wanted to rid himself of his hated sibling by staging an accident—
No, nonsense. Gabriel would never delegate a task he would so much enjoy performing himself, John told himself grimly. So he allowed the man to shave him, trying to keep his face impassive—and very still—and the valet performed his task expertly, without inflicting so much as a nick. And if, somewhere behind that mask of impersonal efficiency, there still glimmered a flicker of amusement, John did his best to ignore it.
A sponge bath followed, then a clean nightshirt, his own, this time, and he was at last allowed to lie back against the pillows and shut his eyes. Even without the cloying medicine, sleep came quickly.
Later, John managed a little soup for his dinner, then had a restless night. When he opened his eyes as the first faint signs of dawn lightened the darkness, he looked about him at the dim outlines of the chamber, frowning as he remembered where he was.
Runt lifted her head from where she lay at the side of his bed. Jumping up, she ran to him and whined.
“You shall go outside presently,” he told her. “I cannot take you myself, just yet, and no one regrets that more than I.”
Her dark eyes doleful, the dog sat down again. John wondered if he looked as woebegone himself as he contemplated his present lack of freedom. He wanted out of this house, he wanted an end to these unpleasant dangers at every turn, he wanted to be free of his nuptial entanglements.
He missed Marianne Hughes.
He missed her mellow voice, he missed the light scent of her rose perfume, he missed the pleasing aspect of her serene expression and her expressive eyes with their smoky blue-gray hue. He missed the chance to covertly observe the womanly curves that so inflamed his senses and the occasional opportunity to touch her hand as he helped her into a carriage or down a set of steps. He wanted her here, and he wanted to be free to court her openly.
And he could not attempt that until he identified and stopped the would-be assassin. Frustrated, he tried to push himself up in the bed and winced when he put too much strain on the wound in his arm.
If he could not find out the answer to the attacks, none of his other desires would be fulfilled. He lay back against the pillows and tried to think.
Presently, earlier than he had expected it, a light knock sounded on his door.
“You may enter,” he called.
The door swung open, and Circe Hill peeked around its edge. “I’ve come to take Runt out,” she explained.
“You’re up very early,” he said. Her hair had been hastily pulled back, but a few brown strands strayed from beneath the ribbon; he suspected she had done it herself.
“The morning light is the best,” she explained. “For an artist.”
She was indeed the strangest child he had ever encountered.
“I have no experience with such things,” he told her politely. “But I shall not contradict you.”
“It would be foolish to do so,” she agreed, her matter-of-factness robbing the statement of much of its rudeness. “Since you acknowledge you know nothing about art.”
“And you do?” he asked, his tone dry.
“Oh, yes, though I am only a student, of course. I should like to apprentice formally, but females are not generally accepted. But when I am older, I shall find a way around that.” Her tone was confident, and her statement sounded somehow not as ridiculous as it should have, coming from such a slip of a girl.
“I rather think you will,” he agreed, then shook his head a little that he should be speaking to her as if she were an adult. She had that effect on a person, John realized; it was hardly worth fighting.
“Come along, Runt,” Circe said.
The dog had jumped up when she had appeared, and now the little spaniel hurried across to follow her outside.
“You are not going out alone?” he demanded, recalling the dangers he had just been mulling over.
“No, Gabriel has forbidden it. Just now, I shall take her only into the back courtyard,” she assured him. “And the grooms are at work in the stable, and the maids are carrying up water and laying the fires. Later, when Telly is up, we shall go across the street into the park.”
He nodded and watched them go. But then he felt more alone than ever. Why was he being such a baby? John thought, annoyed at himself. It was bad enough his body should betray him with its weakness, but if he could not even control his own thoughts—he missed Marianne. God, how he longed for her presence!
To distract himself, he sat up further and tried to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. They obeyed him, although they were a bit wobbly when he put his weight on them. But, with one hand on the bed, he was able to walk up and down the room until some of his strength returned, to take himself to the chamber pot tucked discreetly into the wooden commo
de, and to reassure himself that he was slowly coming back to his usual state of energy and command.
When the valet appeared with warm water, he stared to see his patient up on two, albeit shaky, legs.
“Do not overexert yourself, my lord.”
John nodded, but he added. “I shall wish for some clothing today.”
He half expected an argument, but the servant bowed. “Yes, my lord. Let us check the bandage for any bleeding—Sir William Reynolds will be back later in the day—and then we shall see about your attire and your breakfast.”
Since the valet insisted that he must return to bed, and indeed, John was ready to rest, they compromised on a shirt and trousers, without the tight-fitting coat and neck cloth that would have made lying back on the pillows awkward.
John realized he was as hollow as an empty shell washed up on the seashore, and his stomach rumbled at the promise—he hoped it was a promise—of real food.
And indeed, when the tray arrived, he found ham and eggs and bread and pudding, a substantial spread after more than a day of fare limited to watery broths and thin soups. He enjoyed each bite. When a footman arrived to tell him he had a visitor, he allowed the servant to take away the tray while John looked eagerly toward the doorway.
He could barely hide his disappointment when it was Louisa Crookshank who swept into his room, her pale jonquil muslin gown the perfect showcase for her fair good looks.
“My dear Lord Gillingham, how are you feeling?” she demanded, her eyes wide with sympathy.
He found himself wanting to snap at her and controlled his irritability with some effort. “Quite well, thank you.”
“When I think that you may have taken a bullet meant for me, oh, my lord. Such devotion—I really do not deserve it!” She clasped her hands together and gazed at him soulfully.
He could not think of any tactful way to remind her that his sacrifice had been totally accidental; he’d hardly seen the bullet coming and stepped into its path. “It was nothing,” he said, hoping she was not going to burst into tears; she seemed nearly overcome with the force of her gratitude. “I am mending rapidly.”