“Actually, he was relieved. He, too, had concerns about the match.”
A long period of silence ensued, broken only by the rattle of a teacup in a saucer and the clink of a knife against a plate.
Finally, Lara cleared her throat. “I’ve been thinking, perhaps Papa doesn’t derive the majority of his income from the glassworks factory. Despite what Sir Harry said, he couldn’t possibly know about all Papa’s investments.”
Miles and Rory exchanged an apprehensive glance.
“The night when Sir Harry came to dinner, he showed a keen interest in Mr. Robinson’s business affairs,” Miles said.
Mrs. Robinson was puzzled. “I don’t remember any such conversation.”
“It took place after the ladies had gone through to the drawing room,” Miles replied. “Mr. Robinson’s investments were discussed rather thoroughly.”
“And in excruciating detail,” Rory added. “At the time, I put Sir Harry’s interest down to nosiness, but now I realize he was planning to hedge his bet where Fiona was concerned.”
Lara’s smile was half-hearted. “Perhaps Sir Harry is only bluffing. Surely Mrs. Wren wouldn’t allow her son to do anything unneighborly.”
“That’s assuming she knows what he’s up to,” Fiona said. “She stays awfully busy with her own activities.”
Toward the end of tea, Mr. Robinson arrived. Everyone in the dining room jumped up and talked over one another as they tried to tell him what had happened. After a few moments, he held up his hands for silence.
“All is well, I assure you.”
Fiona’s countenance was a study in worry. “How can you say that, Papa? Everything’s a mess!”
“I received a letter from my attorney this morning, informing me that Sir Harry had acquired a controlling interest in the glassworks factory. So I went to the attorney’s office in London and directed him to sell my shares in the factory as expeditiously as possible.”
Mrs. Robinson beamed. “I knew you would handle it!”
“Oh, Papa, that’s splendid!” Lara exclaimed.
“I’m so relieved, but how did your attorney know to contact you about Sir Harry’s purchase?” Fiona asked. “It doesn’t seem like the usual course of action.”
“I may rattle on after I’ve had several glasses of brandy, as Miles and Mr. Braithwaite will attest, but I’m not a complete fool. It occurred to me the morning after our dinner with Sir Harry that he’d asked too many probing questions about my finances. I then instructed my attorney to keep an eye on the glassworks factory and to alert me about any unusual activity in its shares. It seems I was right to do so.”
Fiona’s eyes welled up with tears. “So this means Sir Harry holds no Sword of Damocles over our heads, and I’m really and truly free?”
Mr. Robinson’s smile was warm. “Yes, my dear. You’re free to marry whomever you please.”
She gave her father a hug, and then threw herself into Rory’s arms. As Mr. Robinson sat down to tea, he chuckled.
“What is it, dearest?” Mrs. Robinson asked.
“Well, because of Sir Harry’s reputation as an astute businessman, his investment in the factory increased its worth immensely. My shares fetched a far higher price than they would have otherwise. I doubt that was his aim, but there you have it.” A broad smile wreathed his face. “Thanks to him, I’m now an incredibly wealthy fellow.”
Chapter Seventeen
Past is Prologue
WHEN HARRY RETURNED to Sheepfold Abbey, he summoned Jack. After the man confirmed Fiona had taken the set of books he’d been instructed to burn, Harry fired him summarily. Thereafter, he sought out his mother, who was in her sitting room.
“I’ve discharged Jack, and I don’t want to hear another word about it. Tomorrow, I’ll be away on business, and I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”
Mrs. Wren blinked. “You’re going away again? But your wedding is just around the corner!”
“There isn’t going to be a wedding.”
“What?” His mother wilted. “Oh, Harry, I’d begun to care for Fiona a great deal. What happened?”
“I should have known better than to cultivate a silly young girl like her. She doesn’t know what’s best for her or her family, I’m afraid.”
“Harry, I urge you to look for a woman closer to your own age!”
“Unfortunately, a woman my age can’t produce an heir.”
His mother was blotting tears from her eyes as he turned to leave, but there was little he could say to console her—or himself. He strode into his study to write the letter which would close the glassworks factory, ostensibly for re-tooling. Before he put pen to paper, however, he decided his revenge should wait until he had a clearer head. He was furious at losing Fiona, but there was a more pressing matter—Moordale’s potential betrayal. Harry could always procure another wife, but it would be impossible to repair his standing in society if he should be unmasked as a scoundrel. Although Moordale was a somewhat frivolous gentleman, he was a peer, and his title carried weight. Rory might be overstating the viscount’s shift of loyalties, but Harry couldn’t be completely certain. The only way to ensure Moordale’s silence would be to buy him off.
He would depart for Liverpool first thing in the morning.
As the hansom cab drove up the long, curving driveway, Lady Quarterbury was afforded a view of the house. Grand and stately it was, in the neoclassical style of architecture prominent in the prior century. It was not so magnificent as her own country estate, but the three-story edifice was indeed very handsome. Harry had done well for himself over the years.
The driver brought the cab to a halt and helped her step down. Long afternoon shadows sharpened the corners of the building and cast the carriage into darkness.
“What’s the house called?” she asked the driver.
“Sheepfold Abbey, milady.”
Lady Quarterbury glanced at her maid, who sat in the facing seat. “Wait in the carriage, Margaret. I’ll be back shortly and then we can resume our journey.”
“Yes, milady.”
A few minutes later, the butler showed the countess into the drawing room. When Harry appeared, he had a somewhat bewildered expression on his face.
“Forgive me, but I never expected to see you here. I could scarcely believe my ears when my butler told me Lady Quarterbury had come to call.”
She nodded toward a portrait hanging over the fireplace. “That’s a wonderful likeness of Gwyneth. She was a pretty girl, but I never saw her as your type.”
“Don’t taunt me, Delly.”
“Miss Fiona is more your type, isn’t she? I understand you paid Iggy to lure your competition away.”
Harry sat down. “Did he tell you that?”
“Call it intuition, but I figured it out for myself.”
“Ah, your famous intuition. I should have known I couldn’t fool you.”
She cocked her head. “What do you mean by involving me in your little intrigue?”
“I apologize. Would you have helped me if I’d asked you directly?”
“You already know the answer to that.”
“I suppose I do.”
“I wish you hadn’t involved Iggy, either. The lad has enough troubles on his plate what with losing Bramble Hall.”
“I needed him to perform a service and I paid him handsomely for it. Come now, Delly. Being married to the Earl of Quarterbury all those years should have taught you a thing or two about fair exchanges.”
“You’ve a point. Because of your scheme, however, Iggy’s lying in a hospital suffering from a bullet wound.”
“I had nothing to do with that. As a matter of fact, it grieved me to hear he was injured. I’m planning to visit him tomorrow.”
“How will you explain that to Miss Fiona?”
“I don’t have to.” A muscle in his jaw quivered. “She’s thrown me over for Rory Braithwaite.”
Lady Quarterbury bit her lip to keep from laughing. “I’m not surprised. She’
s too young for you.”
“Yes, but I must have an heir.” He gave her an intense look. “Otherwise this would be a different conversation entirely.”
A smile. “We had that conversation once before, remember?”
“You were married then.”
“True. If only you’d asked me earlier.”
“I was a penniless soldier.”
“We could have been happy, even so.”
“You say that now, but I suspect financial deprivation would have soon killed any feeling you had for me.”
“We’ll never know.” She shrugged. “At any rate, it’s all worked out for the best. My husband and Iggy’s father could conduct themselves publicly as friends and privately as lovers without a hint of scandal, and in return I was elevated to the nobility.”
“Yes, but Moordale’s mother at least managed to have one child. You, on the other hand, sacrificed the chance to have any.”
“Iggy is my godson. After his mother died, he was as good as my son.” She laughed. “Did you know his father wrote him a letter full of the most outrageous falsehoods? He said I’d been his mistress as well as Frederick’s.”
“I suppose he never wanted Moordale to know the truth.”
“He’ll never hear it from me, nor you either. You owe me that much.”
“Of course. Frederick and Wallace were the best friends I ever had, and you…well, some things are best left unsaid.”
“Indeed.”
When she rose, Harry stood. “You’re not going so soon?”
“I’m afraid I must. I’m on my way to the Liverpool Royal Infirmary, and my maid is waiting for me in the cab. For some reason, I feel a pressing need to see Iggy as soon as possible.”
“I hope your intuition isn’t telling you something’s wrong?”
A slight shrug. “I’m probably being foolish.” She reached up to stroke his cheek. “Au revoir.”
Despite Lady Quarterbury’s attempt to downplay her intuition, a creeping sense of dread accompanied her on her journey north. She reached her destination very late and slept only a few hours before rising for an early breakfast. Thereafter, she took a cab to the hospital and asked to see the viscount. As she followed a nurse to his room, she tried to brush off her premonitions as silliness.
Moordale was sleeping when she arrived. Lady Quarterbury was grateful he didn’t see her recoil from the extent of the injuries to his formerly handsome face. Tears stung her eyes at the sight of the butterfly-shaped bruising spreading out from his swollen nose. Where his skin wasn’t discolored, however, she noticed it was unusually pale. After reining in her emotions, she removed her gloves and rested the palm of her hand on his forehead.
She gave the attending nurse a sharp glance. “How long has His Lordship’s temperature been elevated?”
“It hasn’t been.” When the nurse checked for herself, her eyebrows drew together. She unfastened the bandage over his shoulder, and clucked her tongue at the festering wound underneath. “Oh, dear. Ward fever may be setting in.”
Fear clutched Lady Quarterbury by the throat. “Please get me a washcloth and a basin of cool water.”
She removed her hat and jacket. When the nurse brought her the basin, she moistened a washcloth and draped it over Moordale’s forehead. His eyelids fluttered open.
“Countess, what are you doing here?” His voice was weak.
“I’ve come to take care of you, dear boy.”
“I got myself in a spot of trouble, I’m afraid.”
“Trouble finds all of us, sooner or later. Rest now.”
Although she kept calm for his benefit, she was horribly worried. If Moordale’s body couldn’t fight off the fever, her help would be limited to cool compresses and prayers for a miracle.
Harry embarked on his journey to Liverpool early the next morning in an ambivalent mood. He was unused to being thwarted and was beginning to nurse quite a grudge against Rory Braithwaite for interfering with his plans. On the other hand, Delly’s visit had stirred some thoughts and feelings he hadn’t allowed himself to reexamine in a long time. Even though the countess was firmly in middle-age, she was still ravissant, as she would say. Perhaps he should have married her years ago after her husband had died, but he’d chosen to build his fortune instead. As he stared out the train window, he shook off the unwanted memories. No good ever came from lingering over regrets.
Once he arrived in Liverpool, he checked into the Adelphi Hotel and ate lunch in the dining room. After he signed for his bill, he noticed Lady Quarterbury’s maid sitting by herself at a corner table and crossed over to speak with her.
“Forgive me for the intrusion, but is the countess in her room?”
Margaret was surprised to see him. “Oh, good afternoon, Sir Harry. You just missed her. Her ladyship came back here about an hour ago for lunch, but she returned to the hospital directly afterward. Lord Moordale is in a bad way, she said.”
Harry was unnerved. “I was given to understand he was improving.”
“Ward fever has set in, I’m afraid.” The maid shook her head. “Lady Quarterbury is beside herself.”
“Quite understandable. Thank you.”
As Harry hailed a cab in front of the hotel, he was filled with consternation. He knew the viscount fairly well, and even though they’d argued upon occasion, Harry was fond of him. Furthermore, he couldn’t help feel responsible for the young man’s injuries. Moordale had placed himself in harm’s way during the commission of Harry’s nefarious plan, after all. Should he ultimately perish, his death would be on Harry’s conscience as surely as if he’d pulled the trigger himself. For the first time in his life, he felt helpless and didn’t know what to do.
When he finally entered Moordale’s hospital room, Lady Quarterbury was arranging a compress on the viscount’s forehead. When she glanced up, her eyes were rimmed with red and her face was etched with worry.
“Harry! I’m so glad you’ve come.”
As she straightened, Harry was afforded his first view of Moordale’s swollen, bruised face. He swallowed, convulsively. “What the devil happened to him?”
“His robber hit him in the face, but a broken nose is the least of his problems. His bullet wound has become infected, and the doctors here are useless.” She lifted the bandage over Moordale’s shoulder, revealing a red, puffy, and oozing wound. “The poor lad’s feverish and he’s been in and out of delirium all day.”
Instantly, Harry knew how to act. He summoned the nurse and scribbled instructions on a piece of paper. “Send a telegram from Sir Harry Wren to Joseph Lister, the Professor of Surgery at the University of Edinburgh, begging him to come right away. A man’s life is at stake and money is no object. Please hurry!”
“Yes, sir.” The nurse scurried off.
“Who is Joseph Lister?” Lady Quarterbury asked.
“He’s a pioneer in antiseptic surgical practices. His methods are controversial, but sound, I believe. If anyone can help Moordale, it would be him.” Harry’s gaze came to rest on the young man’s face. “I pray he’ll get here on time.”
As the afternoon turned into night, Harry removed his coat and joined Lady Quarterbury in her efforts to cool Moordale’s fever with cold compresses. Although the nurse had brought a return reply from Doctor Lister to say he was starting out immediately, there was no way for Harry to tell how long the journey would take. Whenever Moordale managed to wake, Harry coaxed a sip or two of water down his throat. After faint smiles of gratitude and murmured thanks, Moordale would drift off again.
While they waited for help to arrive, Harry tried to take Lady Quarterbury’s mind off the situation by reminiscing about happier times. Despite his best efforts, it seemed her spirits drifted lower and lower with every passing hour. Finally, in the middle of the night, a man with bushy side whiskers entered the room carrying an apothecary case. Harry almost melted with gratitude.
“Bless you for coming, Joseph! Lady Quarterbury, allow me to introduce Doctor Lister.”
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“Sir Harry. Lady Quarterbury.” Doctor Lister gave him a warm smile and bowed to the countess. Thereafter, he immediately turned his attention to Moordale. “What’s the p-problem with this young man?” His speech revealed a slight stammer.
The countess blotted her eyes with a handkerchief. “Iggy was shot in the shoulder and now ward fever has set in.”
Lister made a sound of frustration as he examined the wound. “I doubt if the surgeons here so much as washed their hands before removing the bullet.”
Harry’s voice was gravely. “Is there anything you can do?”
“I must cut out the infected tissue if he’s to have a chance. Fortunately, I brought surgical instruments with me and the means to sterilize them.”
He opened his case and retrieved a bottle marked carbolic acid.
“What can we do to help?” Harry asked.
The physician’s glance moved between him and the countess. “You both look as if you’re about to drop from exhaustion. Go get some rest and come back tomorrow morning. We’ll see where we stand then.”
Lady Quarterbury clutched his arm. “Please save his life, Doctor Lister. I beg you.”
“I can’t make any promises, but the sooner I get to work, the better off he’ll be.”
Harry took the countess by the hand. “Delly, let me take you back to the hotel. Moordale is in good hands now, I can assure you.”
Albeit reluctantly, Lady Quarterbury allowed Harry to escort her to the Adelphi. After they ate a late night supper, he walked her to her room. As she stood in the doorway, she gave him a wan smile. “Iggy looks up to you, did you know? He told me you’re quite informed and a decisive businessman.”
“Really? I thought he believed me to be deplorable.”
“Well you are, quite frequently.”
They shared a laugh.
“I’ll meet you in the dining room at seven o’clock tomorrow morning,” Harry said. “After breakfast, we’ll return to the hospital to see how Moordale is faring.”
A Gift for Fiona (The Love Letters Series Book 2) Page 19