“Mumunh?”
“Brandy? Of course, my lord. Nothing but the best for you.”
Mr. Barstow left, and Melody checked to make sure Nanny was still sleeping. Then she tiptoed to the bedroom door and ever so quietly opened it a crack to peep out. Mr. Corey—Lord Corey, it seemed, which she should have guessed—was sprawled out on the sofa, what was left of him anyway. He had survived, but barely, from the looks of it. His blond hair was plastered to his forehead in damp curls, blood was dribbling down one brow into an eye already swelling shut, and he held a length of cloth, likely his neckpiece, over his nose. That was why she could not hear his words to the inn keeper, Melody realized, her eyes traveling lower. Lord Corey’s shirt was draped over his broad shoulders, trailing in streams of blood, some dried, some not, which ran between huge red welts on his chest and down his sides. His buckskin breeches were blood spattered and torn, one knee shredded.
Melody shuddered and closed the door. Then he moaned, and she peeked out again.
Lord Corey took the cloth away from his nose—it was soaked through anyway—and muttered. “Hell and damnation,” Melody could hear quite distinctly. “No reason to get blood all over the woman’s couch.” He levered himself up and took one cautious step toward the wooden chair before his foot skidded on something. Lord Corey fell, hitting his head soundly on the pine end table.
“Blast!” he swore, rubbing the back of his head and then grabbing for the sodden linen when his nose started gushing again. Still on the floor, Corey reached behind him for what had tripped him: Melody’s slipper. “What the bloody hell—”
Melody just had to go to him. He obviously needed help, but not as much as he would need if Nanny woke up and found a half-naked man spouting blasphemy in the sitting room. Another round with Albert would be a waltz by comparison.
She only stopped to snatch up her reticule with the extra handkerchiefs and the vinaigrette Miss Meadow insisted the girls carry, before softly pulling the door shut behind her. “Ssh,” Melody whispered.
“Who the—?” Only one blue eye opened, but what a sight it beheld! Corey, better known as Cordell Inscoe, Viscount Coe, looked up to see a shapely young woman in a high-waisted sprigged muslin gown, with dark hair that curled in red and gold flickers around soft, peach-tinged cheeks, and eyes so green they should belong to a mermaid or a forest dryad or… He held up the slipper in his hand and noted her stockinged feet. “Cinderella. Ah, and I am not dressed for the ball.” To use boxing cant, Lord Coe had been tipped another settler.
He tried to rise, to gather his shirt closed, to dab at the warm blood on his upper lip. With Melody’s help, he made it to the chair, but he had to sit still a moment, gasping and clutching his ribs, and her hand. Melody stared around desperately. She couldn’t just leave an injured man, could she? Even Nanny must see that.
Mr. Barstow saw it when he brought a loaded tray into the room. “Lawkes, where’d she come from?”
“Heaven, my good man, heaven. Where else would an angel come from?”
“Well, there’ll be hell to pay, an’ my wife catches you at it.”
Melody resented that. “I’ll have you know, sir, that Mrs. Barstow herself was kind enough to permit me and my companion the use of these rooms.” She nodded her head toward the adjoining room, as if another closed door would prove her respectability when a bare-chested man held her hand in his.
Barstow scratched his head. “I don’t know. She said somethin’, but with all the commotion in the kitchen…”
Corey took over. “Come now, man. I’m in no shape for anything your wife would disapprove. I only ravish maidens on Fridays. Wednesdays are my days for being beaten to a pulp. And you can see that Miss—ah, the young lady is properly reared and properly chaperoned.” He, too, nodded to the other door, having no idea whatsoever who or what was behind it. “So why don’t you pour me a glass of that fine brandy I see there, and then go on back to tend to all of the pub business before your clientele decides to reenact that last round in your common room?”
“But you need doctorin’. Our local sawbones might take a while to get here, it seems. Martin Reilly’s wife, you know. Jake the ostler’s a dab hand with injuries, howsomever. He’ll be glad to strap them ribs up for you.”
Corey tossed back the glass and held it out for more. “Thank you, friend, but I’ll wait for the doctor.”
“I got some salve for them cuts, my lord. I’ll just—”
“From Jake the stableman?”
Melody was already dipping one of the towels into the can of hot water and gingerly dabbing at his forehead. “My angel’s ministrations will be a lot more tender than yours, Barstow. Go feed the masses, fill the coffers.” Glass broke somewhere down the hall. “Save the good bottles.”
Barstow backed out of the room quickly, and Melody continued with the towels and water and salve. “I am, you know,” she said quietly, pushing his head back and laying a dampened cloth across the bridge of his nose, which was still bleeding slightly.
“You are what, mon ange?”
“Properly reared and properly chaperoned.”
“I never doubted it for a moment. Of course, I have never known a chaperone to be so accommodatingly invisible, or a debutante to go barefoot at her come-out ball—Ouch!”
“I’m sorry, my lord. Did I hurt you? I think this should be stitched. Perhaps Jake…?”
“You’ve made your point, Miss—Ah, our host seems to have failed to make the formal introduction. No, don’t say anything; it’s all to the good. You may find the need someday to deny the association. This way I can swear I never met any Miss So and So, only a kind-hearted seraph.”
“Silly, I know you are Lord Corey.”
Few people had ever called the viscount silly. Fewer had fussed over him with such sweet, selfless concern. “My friends call me Corey.”
“You seemed to have a great many out there shouting for you.”
“I just had better odds. The underdog, you know.” She was concentrating on getting a sticking plaster to his forehead, her tongue between her teeth. He never felt the pain. She did, and her eyes grew moist.
“What’s this, Angel, tears? Don’t worry, head wounds just bleed a lot.”
“That’s not it. All those people were cheering while you were getting hurt.”
He touched her cheek with a bruised knuckle. “An angel, indeed.”
“No, I’m not,” she said angrily, trying to get the dried blood off his chin, which she could see was very strong and square. “It’s just that you were so…so…handsome is not the right word. A lot of men are handsome. You were perfect, like some kind of hero. Now look at you!”
Melody felt herself blushing. However could she have said that to him, a total stranger?
Corey had forgotten such innocence still existed. His heart thumped—or was that just a twinge from a cracked rib? He smiled as best he could with a swollen lip. “Well, I’ll admit I am not a pretty sight right now, sweetheart, but I doubt any of the mess is permanent. The ribs are the worst of it, and they’ll heal. I still have all my teeth, and if that doctor does a halfway decent job of stitching, there won’t be much of a scar on my brow. It wouldn’t be the first anyway, after the cavalry.” He moved the cloth and carefully touched his nose. “Luckiest of all, my nose isn’t even broken.”
“As if that makes it right!”
His nose had finally stopped bleeding; his eye needed a slab of liver or something. Her inspection continued down—No, mopping at a man’s chest was still beyond her daring. She’d never even seen one before today! For goodness’ sake, she’d never been alone in a room with a man before today. Melody dragged her eyes back to Corey’s, and caught an amused, knowing smile. She took his hand and poured brandy over the torn knuckles.
“The deuce!”
“Sorry, my lord, but spirits are the best thing to keep a wound from infection.”
“And a waste of fine liquor. I can see by that martial look in your eye that you dis
agree and are about to do your worst to my other poor hand. Do you think I might have another glass while there is a drop left?”
Her hand shook slightly when she poured, he noticed, along with noticing the graceful tilt of her neck, the soft curve of her gown’s bodice. His own hand shook slightly. “Perhaps you should have a sip also. This cannot be pleasant for you.”
“Thank you, my lord, but I am not used to spirits.”
“I’ll warrant you aren’t used to nursing fallen gladiators, either. You have my gratitude, of course, and also my respect. Every other young lady I know would have fainted long ago, and some gentlemen, too.”
“Paltry fellows,” she said, to cover her embarrassment at his praise. She certainly could not admit to the queasy feeling in her stomach. “And Monday is my day to be a vaporish female, not Wednesday.”
His hands were dried and loosely wrapped in torn strips of linen. That left his chest to be tended, his taut-skinned, well-muscled chest. Melody took a deep breath.
Corey chuckled. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink? Dutch courage, don’t you know.”
He was altogether too knowing.
“I’m, ah, afraid of hurting you further. Shouldn’t you do this?”
He held up his bandaged hands and just smiled. The dratted man was enjoying her discomfort. “Ow!”
“Sorry.”
“Like hell you are.”
Maybe if she distracted him, and herself, she could consider this just another job, like polishing silver or rinsing a fragile teapot. Of course no tea pot of her experience had soft golden hairs or firm— “Why did you do it? I mean the, ah, fight. It could not have been for the money, I know.” At his raised eyebrow, the good one, she admitted to spying out the window and seeing his expensive equipage. Then there were his clothes, and the deference of Mr. Barstow.
“Have you never heard of punting on tick, little one? No, I can see from your face you haven’t. No matter, I am well enough to pass that I need not hire myself out for a sparring partner. And no, I am not so noble a character to sacrifice myself to save Mr. Barstow’s inn from an ugly melee. It was the challenge of the thing. The locals were boasting that Irish Red had gone fainthearted, and no one could best Albert. I took the dare.”
“You did this for a dare?” She rubbed more vigorously; the viscount clenched his teeth. “Of all the irresponsible, reckless, cork-brained notions. Isn’t that just like a man.”
“How much could you know about men, from your great age? What are you anyway, eighteen, nineteen?”
Melody chose not to answer that. “I know that my father was just such a one, gambling on duck races, taking every madcap challenge, thinking no farther than the excitement of the moment! Why, you could have been killed!”
“So little faith, my angel. But I did weigh my chances, you know. After all, there is science involved. Albert is the product of barroom brawls, while I have studied with Gentleman Jackson. Albert had strength, I knew, but I had speed. He may have the brawn, but I have the brains.”
“And the conceit! I should have thought the brains of a flea would tell you not to get in the ring with a man twice your size. Just look at you!”
“Ah, but you haven’t seen Albert.”
“You mean you won?”
Her look of incredulity struck a blow to his pride, possibly the only part of the viscount not yet injured. Then she smiled, with dimples and sparkling eyes, and it was almost worth it, even the aching ribs. Gads, what a little beauty! Young and unsophisticated, she was unaware of her effect on a man, if Corey knew women at all—and he knew women as well as he knew the art of boxing. She wasn’t in his line, of course. Unless a man was on the Marriage Mart, schoolroom misses, debutantes, and such were like playing with fire. Corey much preferred to dally with women who already smoldered. But if, say, a man was thirty-five or so—the viscount was only twenty-eight—and he was looking to get legshackled, a fellow could do a lot worse.
As it was, sea-green eyes, adorable dimples, and petal-soft skin were exactly why chaperones were created. Which reminded him that his angel’s was not doing a very good job of it. “I’ll, ah, take over from here,” he said, chivalrously relieving her of the towel, himself of dangerous thoughts as she wiped at the red streaks lower down his chest.
“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful or anything, but isn’t your companion being a trifle lax?”
“Nanny’s nerves were overset so she took a sleeping draught, thank goodness. I mean, she needs her rest. There was a mishap with the carriage, and we had to walk a considerable distance this morning.”
“Never tell me you are the Incognita in the ancient coach the fellows were snickering about before? They were calling you the Damsel, the Dragon, and Dobbin. That was you?” He laughed out loud, then clutched his side. “Dash it, I shouldn’t have laughed.”
Melody’s chin was raised. Her tone was grim. “No, sir, you shouldn’t have.”
“Now you are angry. I’m truly sorry, Angel, really I am. Tell me what I can do to make things right.”
How could she not forgive a silver-tongued devil with a ready smile and a black eye? She tugged his shirt around him better. “So you won’t take a chill. And thank you, but unless you can play Cinderella’s fairy godmother, wave your wand, and get my carriage fixed in a hurry, I don’t think there is much you can do for me.”
He laughed again, but much more cautiously. “I’m afraid I’ll stay in your black books then, my dear, for your carriage won’t be repaired anytime soon. Albert is the blacksmith!”
Chapter Five
The doctor came. Melody vanished into the bedroom.
It was a good thing Nanny had a heavy hand with the laudanum. And a good thing the doctor had some experience with ex-soldiers and dockworkers, or other patients with colorful vocabularies. And it was an especially good thing that Melody, behind the bedroom door, did not understand half of what she heard. No maiden’s education need be that complete.
The doctor left, and Barstow and one of his stable lads helped Lord Corey down the hall, out of Melody Ashton’s life. She wished she’d said good-bye.
Back in the sitting room she found no trace of the whole episode, no gory water or stained towels, no decanter, no battered but unbroken nobleman. There was just the faintest scent of brandy and male body—and Mrs. Barstow, clucking like a chicken that’s spotted a fox near the henhouse.
“I just brought some fresh hot water, miss, in case you want to freshen up before tea.”
Both sounded heavenly, but Melody thought of her dwindling supply of coins. “Thank you, ma’am, but I didn’t order tea, and we agreed not to be a further burden to you. Your giving up your rooms is far more than money alone can repay.”
“Nicely spoken, miss. I told that clunch Barstow you were quality. But never you mind. It’s all been taken care of by a gentleman whose name I don’t recall so don’t ask me.”
Melody smiled. “You mean the one who wasn’t here before?”
“Right. The one I’m to swear on my life you never spent the afternoon with.”
“In that case, thank you, tea would be delightful. And please thank the gentleman for me.”
“What gentleman might that be?”
“He’ll be all right, won’t he?”
“No one’s ever cocked his toes up in my inn, miss. ’Specially not any handsome rogue what’s too slippery for the devil to catch.”
*
Nanny woke to the smell of fresh-brewed tea, lemon wafers, and buttered toast fingers with jam. “You been behaving yourself, missy?”
“I haven’t been out of these two rooms, Nanny.” Mrs. Barstow spilled the cream and had to go fetch more.
*
One night she was dreaming of balls and beaux; the next, fretting over her family’s uncertain future. This evening, Melody dreaded blowing out the candle, for fear she would have nightmares of blows landing, bones breaking, blood and bruises and horrid yellow-purple, swollen skin. She didn’t. She fell
asleep with a smile, and a mind picture of a crooked grin and laughing blue eyes. She hugged the image to herself and never stirred till morning.
*
Mrs. Barstow brought morning chocolate, hot rolls, and the news that the coach would be out front in an hour. Albert’s nephew and two of the grooms had been working on it since sunup, long before the bucks were up requiring their services. Melody was pleased to accept Mrs. Barstow’s offer to help her get ready, saving her scalp from Nanny’s ruthless touch. In forty minutes she was washed, dressed in a fresh gown, her hair pulled back in a neatly braided coil, her cape newly sponged and pressed.
When Melody reached for the reticule hanging off her wrist, Mrs. Barstow was having none of it. “Reckoning’s been paid,” she whispered for Melody’s ears only. “Nothing improper in that, I made sure. Just his nibs’s way of saying thank you.” Melody waited until Nanny went back to the bedroom to check that they hadn’t left anything behind, for the third time. “You’ve seen him, then? He’s better?”
“Cranky as a crab and uglier nor a pickled pig. He’s down the hall in one of the private parlors where we moved a cot in to save him the stairs. It can’t be what I’m liking, but he asks if you could stop in for a minute on your way out.”
“It would only be proper to thank him for his generosity,” Melody rationalized. Then Nanny clomped to her side in heavy boots. “But I don’t think I can.”
“That’s been taken care of, too, miss.” Mrs. Barstow turned to Nanny. “You know, I’ve been thinking of that mishap of yourn yesterday. A terrible thing, these ruffians on the road. Anywise, my sister used to be a prodigious needlewoman afore she moved away. Now her threads and such are in the attic, likely going to moths, for I never have time for it, more’s the pity. I’d be pleased if you’d come choose what you could make use of, to make up for the delay and all.”
Mrs. Barstow started Nanny up the stairs, nodding back at Melody toward the first door on the right. “Ten minutes, miss,” she murmured. “And it’s against my better judgment. But he’s looking as harmless as a babe, so I suppose that’s fair.”
Minor Indiscretions Page 3