A Gift for Fiona (The Love Letters Series Book 2)

by Rogers, Suzanne G.

  “Very funny.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Pretty Words

  WHEN MOORDALE FINALLY AWAKENED, he wished he hadn’t. His head ached, his face felt numb, and he couldn’t move without searing pain lancing his shoulder. Although his eyelids seemed glued shut, he forced them apart by sheer willpower. The vision of a plain white ceiling rewarded his efforts, but did nothing to inform him where he was or how he’d come to be there. He was definitely not at the Adelphi Hotel, where the decor had been far more pleasing to the eye. What had transpired to being him to this place and in such a pitiable condition?

  Then he recalled the calamitous events that had come before. His amiable new friend, Mr. Carney, had accompanied him out of the hotel. When they reached the dark alley, the man had punched him full in the face without so much as a word beforehand. After he fell to the ground in pain, Carney pulled out his pistol and fired. The next thing he remembered was the hotel clerk kneeling by his side just around dawn.

  By all rights, he should be dead. The tremendous amount of writhing he’d done after the blow to his face had probably prevented his assailant from getting off a clear shot. The murderous scoundrel deserved to be drawn and quartered, but he’d been an utter imbecile for trusting the man! Lured by the promise of easy, big money, he’d exercised the poorest judgment imaginable. How could he have been so gullible?

  In a burst of panic, Moordale suddenly remembered Iris. The young woman was alone and defenseless in a strange city and probably didn’t even know what had happened to him! Despite his pain, he had to find her and make sure she was safe—if only he could move. His legs seemed uninjured, but his torso seemed to be stuck to the sheets and he couldn’t even lift his head. He’d seen a snapping turtle on its back with more mobility than he had at present.

  His call for help sounded more like a croak. With some effort, he managed to produce a load moan. A woman came into the room—a nurse, by the look of her uniform.

  “You’re awake, milord? You ought not move about or you’ll start bleeding again.”

  She helped him take a sip of water, after which he found his tongue.

  “I must find Miss Braithwaite.”

  The sentence sounded as if he had a tremendous head cold. What was wrong with his nose? Despite his mumbling, the nurse seemed to understand him.

  “Don’t you fret. She’s gone back to London.” The woman patted his arm. “You’ve very good friends, Your Lordship. Mr. Rory Braithwaite has paid for everything.”

  “What? Where am I?”

  “You’re in the Liverpool Royal Infirmary.”

  The information came as a surprise. How had Rory found him so quickly, and why would he have paid his bills? Iris may have convinced her brother to cover his medical treatment, but considering the somewhat offhanded way Moordale had treated her, that explanation seemed farfetched. Perhaps Rory Braithwaite was just a decent chap. Moordale felt humbled.

  The nurse checked underneath the bandage on his shoulder. “I’ll summon the surgeon to have a look at you, but I don’t see any sign of ward fever so far. You’re lucky, milord.”

  “Am I?” He reached up a hand to his face, and was shocked to discover it was a swollen, painful mess. “What’s wrong with my nose?”

  The nurse gave him a sympathetic smile. “It was broken during the robbery, I’m afraid, and you won’t look the same once it heals.” She straightened his blankets and fluffed his pillow. “Best thing you can do is sleep and try not to touch your face.”

  As if the woman had commanded his eyelids to close, they slid shut.

  After Lady Quarterbury’s gown had been sponged and pressed, Iris sent it back to the countess with a note of thanks. To her surprise, the woman paid her a visit within the hour. Her father would have been justified in taking Lady Quarterbury to task for her part in facilitating the elopement, but he merely greeted her politely and allowed Iris to speak with her alone in the drawing room. Although Iris had repeatedly expressed her sincere and heartfelt remorse since she arrived home, her father’s forbearance earned her additional gratitude.

  Lady Quarterbury’s aquamarine eyes peered at her. “Now please tell me why you’ve returned to London? I’ve not heard from Lord Moordale at all.”

  Iris began to confide the details of her journey, but when she reached the part about Moordale’s gunshot wound, the countess went so pale that Iris was obliged to ring for smelling salts. After the woman was set to rights, Iris directed a maid to bring her a cup of strong tea. Lady Quarterbury gulped down the hot beverage and thereafter seemed somewhat restored.

  “Merci, mon cher.” She closed her eyes, as if bracing herself for horrible news. “Tell me quickly, does Lord Moordale live?”

  “Yes.”

  The countess opened her eyes and sighed with relief. “Forgive me, but his mother and I were great friends and I’ve grown very fond of Iggy over the years. Please continue.”

  Iris finished her story, although she had the impression the countess was distracted.

  “Obviously, my engagement to Lord Moordale is off.” Iris frowned. “But I’m very puzzled why he asked me to come away with him when it was clear he had no real affection for me.”

  “I do hope your feelings aren’t injured too much?”

  “A little, but it’s no more than I deserve. It’s because of my selfishness that my brother may lose the woman he loves.”

  “Really?”

  “Miss Fiona accepted Sir Harry Wren’s proposal right after Rory came to my rescue. He feels it wouldn’t have happened if he’d stayed.”

  The countess stared. “Sir Harry is getting married?”

  “Rory has gone to Blythe Village to see if there is anything to be done, but the wedding is only days away.”

  “I sympathize with your brother completely, particularly if he’s heartbroken. I myself have always been a fool for amour.” The woman stood. “I’m off to Liverpool tomorrow morning to offer my assistance to Lord Moordale.”

  “Godspeed.” Iris paused. “I hope he makes a full recovery, for his sake as well as mine. I would like to know the reason behind his actions, if I could. Rory thinks somebody paid him to elope with me, but we don’t know who.”

  Lady Quarterbury’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll get to the bottom of it, forthwith.” She paused. “Before I leave, will you summon your father? I wish to speak with him a moment.”

  “Certainly. Excuse me.”

  Iris found Peyton in his study, and persuaded him to accompany her to the drawing room, where Lady Quarterbury was waiting near the door. She gave him a gracious smile when he appeared.

  “I owe you my most sincere apology, Mr. Braithwaite, for the part I played in facilitating the elopement. Now that your daughter has related her harrowing adventure, I realize how close to disaster it came. Although I’d believed at the time my heart was in the right place, I shouldn’t have interfered. I hope someday you’ll forgive me.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Why, I…”

  Instead of waiting for his response, however, the countess sailed from the drawing room and out the front door.

  Peyton gave Iris a pained glance. “I’m glad she apologized, but she really is the most peculiar woman.”

  “Yes, but you’ll notice her apology didn’t contain a word of French.”

  “That’s something, I suppose.”

  Glade entered the drawing room. “Excuse me, sir, but a telegram has come for Master Rory.”

  “I’ll take it.” Peyton examined the envelope. “It’s from the Liverpool Royal Infirmary.”

  “Open it, Papa,”

  “It’s addressed to Rory.”

  “Yes, but if it’s bad news about Iggy, Rory would want me to know. I still care about him, even if we aren’t to marry.”

  “You’re right.” Peyton opened the telegram and scanned the message. “Lord Moordale is awake and expected to recover.”

  “Oh, thank heavens. The countess is going to Liverpool. Perhaps she can bring him bac
k to London when he can be moved.”

  “I’ll write a letter to Rory with the news.” Peyton hastened toward his study. “If I hurry, I can get it into the last post tonight.”

  His nurse propped Moordale up on pillows so he could speak with the police detective without straining his neck.

  “While you’re sitting up, milord, I’m going to get you a nice, hot bowl of soup for your supper.” The nurse beamed. “I’ll be back soon.”

  The woman bustled out, and Moordale gave O’Hara a bleak smile. “I’d rather have roast beef and brandy, but I suppose beggars mustn’t be choosers.”

  “Indeed, you’re lucky to be alive, milord. Another few inches to the left, and the bullet would have pierced your heart or lungs.”

  The policeman cocked a thumb toward a small trunk against the wall. “I brought your belongings to you. We’d been holding your bag at the bridewell since your attack, but there’s no reason you can’t have it back.”

  “I’m relieved to have it, actually. Otherwise, I’d have to walk out of here in a hospital gown.”

  O’Hara flipped open a notebook. “Can you give me a description of your assailant?”

  “He was an American who said his name was Carney. He was about your height, of slender build, and wore his clothes well. He had a full ginger beard, ginger hair, and brown eyes.”

  “Anything else?”

  Moordale furrowed his brow. “He wore a Freemason ring, and spoke in an educated manner. He was so amiable, I was truly caught off guard when he hit me.”

  O’Hara closed his notebook. “Many cardsharps lurk in Liverpool while waiting for steamers to and from America. I suspect you fell victim to what the Americans call a ‘confidence’ man. His name probably isn’t Carney, and the Freemason ring was undoubtedly stolen from one of his marks.”

  “Bloody scoundrel! We’ve enough criminals here in England without importing them from other countries.”

  “True enough. I’d lay odds the fellow is on his way to New York by now. Should you ever happen to see him again, contact the authorities.”

  O’Hara dropped his card on the bedside table and left, taking Moordale’s optimism along with him. Despite his initial burst of blessed relief at emerging from the attack alive, reality had begun to sink in. Carney would never be brought to justice, and all the cash Moordale possessed had been stolen. In addition, although he hadn’t yet had the chance to look in a mirror, his fingertips seemed to suggest his formerly well-shaped nose was now a lump. With no estate, no money, and no looks, he’d never be able to attract an heiress bride. A deep sense of sadness and regret settled onto his shoulders like a mantle. Yes, he was alive, but what was he going to do now?

  To his dismay, Rory seemed unable to catch Fiona alone. At tea, conversation revolved around the latest social functions in London. At dinner, much of the discussion was of the upcoming Harvest Festival and church bazaar. After the meal, he and Miles enjoyed a brandy with Mr. Robinson while the ladies went through to the drawing room. When the time came to join them, Rory was disappointed to discover Fiona had turned in early with a headache. Since she’d been in perfect health twenty minutes earlier, he could only conclude she was avoiding his company. Although she’d seemingly forgiven him, he suspected there was some lingering resentment on her part. How could he reestablish their relationship if she refused to cooperate?

  Lara noticed Rory’s frown. “My sister is planning to ride before breakfast tomorrow morning. Should you happen to show up at the stables, it would be unpardonably rude if she didn’t accept your request to ride along with her.”

  A spark of hope flamed within Rory’s chest. “An early morning ride will suit me very well. You have my undying gratitude, Miss Lara.”

  “Just don’t mention you heard it from me.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Miles cocked a thumb toward the chess set nearby. “Are you up for a challenge?”

  Rory laughed. “Why not?”

  The following morning, Rory rose early, donned his riding clothes, and headed for the stables. When Fiona arrived a few minutes later, she was clad in a form-fitting riding habit which made the most of her curvaceous figure.

  Her eyes widened when she noticed him. “Good morning, Mr. Braithwaite.”

  “Good morning. I see I’m not the only one who likes to ride early. Perhaps we can ride together?”

  “Oh, I planned a sedate ride. I’m sure it would bore you.”

  “Nonsense. A sedate ride suits me just fine. Your company is exciting enough.”

  A flicker of some emotion crossed Fiona’s countenance. “In that case, I accept.”

  The stablehands saddled their horses, and shortly thereafter Rory and Fiona were riding across the countryside. True to her plan, Fiona kept her horse to a fast walk.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you about the portrait I drew of you when I was here last,” Rory said. “I came away so quickly, I left it in the drawing room.”

  “Er…yes. I had a maid put it away.”

  “I’m very relieved you didn’t toss it out. You wouldn’t mind awfully if I took it with me, do you?”

  The briefest of smiles lit her face. “It’s yours to do with what you please.”

  “Excellent. I wouldn’t mind sketching you again. I find your features endlessly fascinating.”

  She gave him a sharp look. “Mr. Braithwaite, I’m soon to be married. I doubt if my fiancé would approve of your conversation.”

  “I’m not especially interested in pleasing your fiancé, Miss Fiona. In fact, I have reason to believe he was responsible for my sister’s elopement.”

  Fiona was clearly incredulous. “Come now, Mr. Braithwaite, Harry can’t have had anything to do with it! That was all Lord Moordale’s doing.”

  “I believe Sir Harry paid Moordale to take my sister away so I’d be forced to leave Blythe Manor and go after her.”

  She reined in her horse. “To what purpose?”

  Now that the moment had come to confess his feelings, Rory felt his mouth go dry.

  “Because Sir Harry saw how much I admired you and wished to clear the field for himself.”

  A blush spread across her cheekbones. “Your accusation is a very serious one, sir. Have you any proof?”

  “Until Moordale confirms my suspicions, I can’t give you absolute proof. However, I do have the book Moordale used to pass a letter to my sister. I’m certain the book belongs to Sir Harry.”

  Her expression reflected disbelief. “You wish me to believe a respectable man is capable of machinations based on a book that may or may not belong to him? Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds?”

  His palms were damp from nerves. “I’m not explaining myself very well, but all the facts fit my theory.”

  She looked at him askance. “If you’ve some secret resentment toward Sir Harry, I’m not sure any explanation of yours will suffice. What do you expect me to do, break off my engagement based on your outrageous allegation?”

  “Yes, exactly. Or at least postpone it until Moordale can corroborate what I’m telling you.”

  Her eyes flashed with anger. “Sir Harry has made me a legitimate offer of marriage, and all I’ve ever had from you are a few pretty words. You’ve said you admire me, Mr. Braithwaite, but I’m not certain your admiration extends to my intelligence.”

  Fiona urged her horse forward. Discouraged, Rory watched her increase the distance between them. Admittedly, his argument hadn’t been completely convincing, but he’d expected her to take him more seriously. Just as he decided to return to the stables, he remembered his sister’s advice: Prove you truly love her and she’ll break off her engagement. Obviously, Fiona needed more than a few pretty words from him.

  In his pursuit of Fiona, Rory urged his horse into a flat-out gallop. As he pulled level with her, she reined in her mount.

  “What now? Do you intend to warn me against Mrs. Wren too?”

  “No, I intend to say more than a few pretty wo
rds. Miss Fiona Robinson, I’m in love with you and I want you to marry me.”

  Stunned, Fiona couldn’t believe her ears. She stared at Rory’s earnest, handsome face, wondering what sort of universe would play such a horrible joke. Why couldn’t he have said something to her before he left, or at least sent a note filled with tender sentiments? As it was, she was already engaged. “You’re too late.”

  “No, I’m not. You’re not married yet.”

  “Don’t you understand I’ve given my word? Respectable ladies don’t break engagements with no provocation.”

  “Just put Sir Harry off until I can prove he’s not as admirable as you believe!”

  “I can’t do that.”

  Rory’s lips tightened. “Do you care for him?”

  “No, but my feelings aren’t relevant! He has no great affection for me, either, but he needs an heir, and I’ve agreed to marry him.”

  A flicker of revulsion crossed his face. “So essentially, he’s acquiring a brood mare?”

  She gasped. “There’s no need to be vulgar!”

  “I beg to differ. You and I could be happy together, and yet you insist on throwing your life away on that despicable man. Is it because he’s richer than I am?”

  “Don’t be absurd. His money only makes marriage to him more palatable.” She picked up her reins. “Please move from the path so I may continue my ride.”

  “Certainly.” His manner was cold as he reached into an inside pocket, produced a small leather bound volume, and gave it to her. “This is the book to which I was referring. Perhaps when you’re next in Sir Harry’s library, you can see if he has anything like it. I wish you every happiness, Miss Fiona.”

  He touched his hat and rode off. Gulping back tears of frustration, Fiona would have liked to hurl the book at his retreating back, but she was afraid she might hit the horse. How could Rory speak to her so, especially when he was the one who’d made her an offer too late for her to accept? Furthermore, what was she to do with the stupid book he’d pressed into her hand? Her riding habit was too tight to permit her to slip it into her jacket, but perhaps the book would slide into her boot. When she bent down to lift her hem, the attractive gold lettering on the green leather caught her attention—as well as the Roman numeral three on the book’s spine. Shocked, she recalled a set of similar books rescued from Sir Harry’s servant, just before they could be burned. In that set, volume three had been missing. The implication made her mind reel.