Lucien Gordon Thomas Wyman was the newest addition to the family. At thirteen months, he was already favoring his formidable father physically and in temperament.
“Oh, the poor darling. Is he cutting more teeth?”
Some of the severity in his expression softened with the discussion of his beloved son. “Yes.”
He bent down and reached deep into his medical case. Gripping a small bottle, he removed the stopper and poured a liberal amount of the dark-green oil into the basin. He swirled a small towel in the warm water and squeezed out the excess.
“Now, we could continue and talk about the trials of changing my son’s napkins, but I would rather talk about you.”
She tilted her face, allowing him to inspect the bruise on her cheek. “Why, Tipton, that is what all the gentlemen say to me,” Wynne murmured huskily. She ruined her nonchalant pose when he pressed the cloth to her sore cheek. “Ow, that stings! Beast. What did you add to the water?”
“Wormwood. It should lessen the coloring.”
“Any chance I will be able to fool Papa into thinking I just scrubbed my face too roughly this morning?”
Tipton smiled. “Never. Hold this while I look at the scratches on your arms and legs.” He laughed at her expression. “I swear you can trust me. I am qualified.”
“You are a surgeon,” she corrected, feeling flustered. “And I can see to my own legs, thank you.”
“Wynne, all my unchaste thoughts are directed toward my wife.” He pulled up her feet into his lap. Gently but efficiently he removed her soiled shoes. When his hand touched her calf, she jerked her feet out of his lap.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She jumped up and walked so that the chair was positioned between them. “It is not that I do not trust you, Tipton. I do. But I would never allow one of my brothers to remove my stockings. If you insist on making me miserable, the least you can do is turn your back.”
Amused, he complied. “This is the first time anyone has ever complained that my touch makes them miserable. I might have taken the comment to heart if I did not have a loving wife who generously feeds my self-love.”
Wynne also turned her back and began working her skirt up to the garter. “Something tells me your self-love has never been in jeopardy.” With a mild oath, she worked one torn stocking down her leg, then the other. She scrutinized her legs. “I will have a bruise on my ankle where Mr. Egger…” She let the words fade off. She did not intend to give Tipton any details if she could avoid it.
“Ah, yes, that would be the Mr. Egger who attacks unknown females for no reason.” He sighed at her silence. “Come here and permit me to examine you.”
Wynne dropped her skirt and returned to the chair. “Anything higher than my knee, and I plan on slapping you,” she warned, placing her bare feet back in his lap.
* * *
In the late afternoon, no one walking along the bustling street of Upper Seymour paid more than cursory attention to the man sitting on the steps of one of the fashionable town houses. His head bowed, he leisurely peeled the skin from an apple, using a sharp knife. The sun, now eclipsed by clouds, had darkened the sky to an unfriendly gray. The threat of rain was not foremost in Keanan Milroy’s mind. Severing a section of apple peel with the edge of the blade, he popped the sweet treat into his mouth. Frowning at the town house across the street and two doors to the right, he chewed thoughtfully.
He did not have much use for the fancy. Nor, he thought ruefully, did they have much use for him. Oh, there were the high-nosed lords who risked dirtying their fine coats by mingling and wagering with the lower classes. Keanan did not count them. They were a necessary evil to tolerate, like rats picking over the better parts of the garbage strewn onto the streets.
It was the magnificently trussed and perfumed ladies he had managed to avoid. At a distance, he had made several observations about these vain creatures. Dressed in ridiculously inappropriate confections that would be better served in a storefront window, they preened and posed in carriages and sedans, begging for the adoration of every male. Of course, these would-be sirens were horrified when a man decided to accept their silent invitation.
His friend Dutch once told him that it was the lady schooling that ruined them. No proper lady dared to enjoy a kiss, and she would certainly freeze at the notion of having a man between her legs for more reason than planting an heir in her belly.
Keanan pinched off another piece of peel and slipped it between his straight teeth. It was a shame these fancy ladies were nothing more than pretty shells for admiring. Otherwise, he deliberated darkly, his father, Wesley Fawks, Duke of Reckester, might never have sought out the beautiful Irish actress, Aideen Milroy. He claimed her body and heart, only to abandon her when his wife gave birth to his heir three months after Aideen gave him a bastard first son.
Anger, liquid and white-hot, coursed through him as it always did when he thought of the man who sired him. The hilt of the knife pressed deeply into his thigh. He softly muttered an oath. Relaxing slightly his grip, he continued peeling the apple. He was not particularly hungry. The action gave him an excuse not to rise and seek out his father. He was certain if he confronted him now, he would slit the man’s throat.
Too irritated to carry on his pretense, Keanan swiped each side of the blade against his trousers and then sheathed it. A passing child caught his attention.
“You. Lad.”
A boy, on the lesser side of ten, turned at the sound of his voice. Revealing the half-peeled apple between two fingers, he tossed it to him. The child caught the offering with both hands.
He sniffed the apple first, and then took a generous bite. “My thanks, gov!” he said, his mouth full of apple. With a jaunty wave, he pivoted and continued down the street.
The child already forgotten, Keanan stood. Stretching his arms above his head, he released the bowlike tension and absently scratched his stomach. His gaze lingered on the town house. He had followed the woman to this residence.
The corner of his mouth tugged into an unwilling grin. This was a first for him. He had never pursued a woman in his life. His fair features, along with a steadfast rule of keeping to women who shared his interest, had removed the zeal of the hunt from his liaisons. It also minimized the inevitable tears and recriminations for broken promises of love.
Head down, he started walking. He did not understand the whim that had brought him there. Nothing was going to change. The woman was tucked away safely in her town house, and he had no intention of doing anything about it.
Or did he?
He had not known what to expect when the dark-haired maid practically collapsed into his arms, begging for his assistance. Her lady was held captive by three brutes, she had explained. How could he refuse?
The scene he had come upon had not been unexpected. He had spent most of his life living in the poorest districts. A man lifting his hand to his wife or shoving her about was not uncommon. Or so it had seemed, until the small details of the desperate drama revealed and portrayed a different tale.
The man was already dragging her across the road as he had approached. Keanan’s attention had been immediately drawn to the woman. Her long blond hair had come undone in the struggle and trailed in the dirt like an artist’s hair pencil. Despite her vulnerable position, even from a distance, he could feel her determination to trounce her larger adversary. Before he could call attention to his presence, the woman, like a true fighter, had sized up her opponent and attacked. If she had had a bit more weight to her, she might have finished him off with that blow to the nob.
Keanan crossed the street. He retraced his steps, bringing him closer to the town house. What was it about the woman that drew him this day? Under all that grime, there was an undeniable perfection to her face. Pleasurable bait, certainly, but it was not enough for him to risk his neck for a beautiful stranger. Perhaps it was her helplessness. He did not know her reasons for being at the canal. However, her looks and clothes revealed she had been completely
out of her ambit.
Still, she was as game as any drunken moll in a bawdy house fighting for every penny due her. He never had seen such pluck in the refined. She intrigued him.
“Hey, ol’ man,” Keanan greeted a man sitting on his haunches, painting a decorative javelin-headed railing in front of one of the residences. “Who owns the house over there?”
The man cast a glance at the town house Keanan was pointing out. “That be Lord Tipton’s dwelling.”
An unanticipated shaft of pain splintered his chest. “He has a wife, I expect.”
“A brave one too, for marrying a man most think is the devil’s companion.” Uninterested in Tipton’s town house, his attention returned to his work.
Keanan stared at the house. So the woman was taken. The half-baked fantasy congealing in his mind faded at the disappointment. “Has the mark of the beast, you say?”
“No, the mark of a surgeon. Ye have to guard your dead loved ones around the likes of him.”
Undisguised hope flashed in Keanan’s eyes. If Dutch had witnessed the emotion, he would have most likely cuffed his foolish friend on the side of his head. “I think I was introduced to Lady Tipton once.” He ignored the older man’s snort of disbelief. Dressed in the manner he was, Keanan concurred silently that he did not appear to be the type of gentleman a lady would willingly associate with. “A pretty lass. Blond.”
“Not her ladyship,” the man disagreed. “I’ve done odd jobs for them. Lady Tipton’s looks are agreeable enough, but she has a tangle of fiery curls tucked under her lace cap.” He gave Keanan a speculative glance. “Must be someone else you met.”
“Must be,” he mused. Decidedly more cheerful, he walked away in the opposite direction from the town house. Whoever the blond woman was, she was not Tipton’s wife. He refused to dwell on the fierce satisfaction he felt about that revelation.
Perhaps she had suffered more at the hands of that scoundrel than he had guessed. Had she sought out a surgeon to set a broken bone? The thought made him want to seek out the man who had attacked her and use him as a sparring partner.
Lucky for Egger, he was safe from Keanan’s lawless justice. After Keanan had tied up Egger, he had hauled him off to place him in the hands of the nearest authority. By the time he had returned to the canal, his mystery lady and her entourage were gone. Very inconsiderate, considering the risks he had taken to rescue her. The woman owed him. Keanan intended to collect on her debt.
* * *
A sudden movement near the door caused Wynne to fling her injured foot from Tipton’s lap to the floor.
“Good God, woman, are you trying to unman me? You are as dangerous as your sister,” Tipton accused, glowering.
Before Wynne could apologize, the door swung open and Devona bounded through the doorway. “Tipton, I was thinking—” She paused, spying her sister sitting suspiciously close to her husband and high color suffusing her cheeks. “Wynne, no one told me you came calling.”
Against her wishes, her color only heightened. She tucked her bare feet under her skirts. “Tipton said you were napping and should not be disturbed.” Wynne’s gaze alighted upon her stockings thrown over the arm of her chair in the same instant Devona’s did.
Slightly puzzled, her sister strolled to the side of the chair and lifted the embroidered white cotton by one finger.
“’Tis not what you think,” Wynne began, silently beseeching her brother-in-law with her eyes to straighten this awkward matter out with his wife.
“Really? And what should I be thinking, dear sister?”
“Enough, minx. Wynne is too muddled to recognize your brand of naughtiness.”
Without invitation, he reached under Wynne’s skirt and retrieved her injured leg. “As I was saying, nothing is broken, and the damage is minor. I will wrap the ankle for support to get you home, but I want you to soak it in cool salt water before you retire. Do you want some laudanum for the discomfort?”
“You are considerate, but the ankle is hardly worth all this fuss. All I need is a cup of chamomile, and I shall be fine in a day or two,” Wynne assured him. Shaking out the wet cloth she had balled up in her fist, she daintily touched it to her sore cheek.
Devona latched on to Wynne’s wrist and pulled the cloth away. She audibly gasped. “Your face! Tipton, what is going on here?” She gently took the cloth from her sister’s limp grasp and dabbed at the slight swelling.
Tipton’s penetrating gaze centered on Wynne. “I despise stating the obvious, love. Your sister needed my medical expertise.”
“Obviously,” she muttered. “Well?” She glared at her sister.
Wynne mutinously sank deeper into the chair, feeling irritated and cornered. This was what she had wanted to avoid. She felt ill-disposed to explain the situation to either of them. “It was rather embarrassing. I was enjoying a picnic near the canal. You know the one, Devona. The one close to Papa’s warehouses.”
A concurring sound emanated from Devona.
Wynne retrieved the cloth from her sister and applied it to her cheek. “Well, I twisted my ankle on some gravel and fell.”
Empathy showed plainly on Devona’s expressive face. She put her arm around her for comfort. “Oh, darling, how awful. What of the bruise on your cheek?”
“Yes, Wynne,” Tipton mockingly urged, “what of the bruise?”
She did not bother glancing in her brother-in-law’s direction. Clearly, the man did not believe a word she was uttering. “I landed ignobly on my face. I must have struck another rock. Speck came across us—”
“Speck? Speck was there?”
Wynne nodded. How much more should she admit? she wondered. “At first, I thought Tipton had set the gargoyle on me.” She met his measured stare unblinkingly. “As if Gar was not an adequate protector for such an outing. Nevertheless, your man assured me that he was there to see the fight.”
Devona’s brows came together. “What fight?”
She waved her hand haphazardly in the air. “Reckless Milroy and Waver somebody. I really did not pay the battle much heed.”
Intrigued, she leaned forward. “You attended a prizefight?”
“No. The prizefight intruded on my picnic,” she countered. Wynne seized on the one subject guaranteed to distract her sister from her relentless questioning. “I should return home. You know how Papa worries. Do you think Lucien has awakened from his nap? I would love to see him before I depart.”
Devona stared down at her sister, as if attempting to see beyond her words and demeanor. She shrugged, apparently satisfied. “I will see to Lucien myself. He would be heartbroken if he missed a visit from his aunt.” She leaned down and kissed her lightly on her unblemished cheek. “I shall return shortly.”
When the door closed behind Devona, Wynne risked a wary glance at Tipton. Intent on his task of wrapping her ankle, she was relieved she did not have to endure his stare.
“You handled her quite well. One would think you have been perfecting your technique for … oh, let us say, for years.” He removed her foot from his lap. “You were correct. I was being a bit overprotective. Of course, how am I supposed to react when Speck comes charging in here, claiming you had been savaged by a madman?” He waited, giving her an opportunity to speak. She remained silent. Shaking his head, he picked up a pair of scissors, wiped them clean, and then placed them back into his medical case. “Can you bring it upon yourself to at least respect my medical opinion? If I were you, I’d avoid being pursued by overeager suitors for several days, and madmen for a sennight.”
The scoundrel was baiting her. She refused to engage him in this matter. “Tipton—”
He overrode her words. “Truly, I am grateful. Whatever scheme you have hatched, you have managed to keep my wife out of it. That alone proves what a cunning baggage you have become.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned back in his chair and studied her. “Or mayhap it is simply in the blood.”
“There is no need to be condescending, my lord.” Wynne arose
slowly; her inactivity had made her stiff. “Be a gentleman and turn around. I was not fibbing when I told Devona that I needed to return home.”
Tipton pivoted the chair to face the fireplace. “’Tis just the rest of your tale that deserves to be raked into the compost, eh?”
“Quite clever of you, twisting my words,” she said, pulling up her stocking then tying the tapes above her knee. “What I meant was that Speck misunderstood the situation. Nothing was as dire as it seemed.”
“Shall I summon Gar and prove you a liar, Wynne?”
She felt the rush of fear flood her senses. It quickly transformed to anger. “I cannot account for the reason why Devona has tolerated your high-handedness, Tipton.” She smoothed her skirts back into place. “Finished.”
Agile as any sleek beast, he got up from the chair and turned toward her. Although eccentric, Wynne had to admit her sister’s husband was an excellent representation of a man in his prime. He was not handsome in the classical sense. Rather, his proud, chiseled features gave testament to the harsh life he had endured and triumphed over. A long mane of mixed honey and chestnut hues softened the severity most found in his features.
He surprised her by playfully pinching her chin. “It is a measure of trust.”
She smiled. “So says the high-handed gentleman.”
He did not match her lightness with a grin of his own. “Ah, but Devona anticipates my overbearing tendencies, and I have been onto her schemes from the very beginning. We count on each other to make certain neither one of us oversteps ourselves. This is where the trust lies. You shall see it is thus when you find yourself a husband.”
Pondering that notion, she spied her bonnet on the table. Walking over, she retrieved it. It was hopelessly crushed. It would go perfectly with her mussed hair.
Wynne put on her bonnet. Staring into the mirror hanging over the chimneypiece, she tucked stray wisps of hair into place. “I may not be fated to marry, Tipton. I fear I am too picky.” She also preferred her own counsel. Seeking a husband’s approval would be tiresome, if not quite irritating.
The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy Page 4