“If you wish.”
“I do.” So simple after all, and a stiffness he hadn’t noticed drained away. She sat on a chair beside the bed and fed him, speaking quietly of everyday things, and for once, he managed not to act like a bore. Enjoy it now, Westcott. You’ll be putting up that barricade again, keeping her from getting too close. He had to—didn’t he?
Chapter Twenty-two
“My dear Anne! What a frightful experience for you!” Juliette St. Clair swept into the parlour with her usual disregard for formalities, tossed her wide-brimmed hat and leather gloves onto a chair and sat on the settee beside Anne. “I admire you tremendously! I am sure I’d not have had your presence of mind if it had been Devlin.” She took Anne’s hands in hers and studied her face with a critical eye. “You look tired. Have you been up at all hours with Westcott? How is he? I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. St. Clair has been too occupied in making inquiries to bring me, and you know how he is about my going anywhere without him.”
Her friend’s concern was her undoing and Anne blinked back sudden tears—tears which she had not shed in the past two days. She clung to Juliette’s fingers for a moment and then groped in her pocket for a handkerchief. “I don’t know why I am crying now that the worst is over.” Anne wiped her eyes and managed a wobbly smile. “Westcott is doing well and needs no one but Harman at night now, but I have not been sleeping well.” She looked soberly at Juliette. “I thought he was...there was so much blood. I was never more frightened in my life.” The admission burst out of her along with the sobs she could no longer suppress. Juliette said nothing, simply folded Anne into her arms and held her until the emotional outburst was spent.
“I am so sorry.” Anne straightened, wiped her eyes again, and blew her nose. “Weeping over you like a watering pot.”
“Nonsense! You have every reason for a good cry, and I daresay it’s just what you needed,” Juliette said bracingly. “Now I want to hear the entire story before I go up to visit Westcott. I don’t doubt St. Clair left out all the best details.”
The airy declaration produced a watery chuckle and a real smile. For the first time since the shooting, Anne felt the underlying fear that had kept the tension thrumming through her subside. “I don’t know if that is the case, but I am more than willing to tell you what happened. We had gone out for a ride, a habit we have fallen into most days, and had just gotten to the copse where Westhorp land joins yours, when….” In a steady voice, Anne related everything to her apparently enthralled guest, who never once interrupted with the questions Anne saw in her eyes as the tale unfolded.
Juliette let out a gusty huff and went right to the heart of the matter. “St. Clair believes it was deliberate, you know, which means someone was watching for you. Were you going out at the same time every day? Who would know where you planned to ride?”
Anne furrowed her brow, trying to remember if there had been any talk of their destination before they set out. “We do ride almost every afternoon, but in no particular direction that I am aware of. Westcott, of course, usually has a reason for going one way or another, but how would anyone know of his plans? That is one reason this is so puzzling. Unless it was a matter of conjecture. I’m told the road through the wood is often used for traffic between Westhorp and Lynton Hall. But we could have ridden any number of ways,” she protested. “No one would just choose a spot and wait for us to show up.”
“And why not?” Juliette waved her hands dismissively. “Anyone determined to shoot at Westcott must be a madman, and they are often quite cunning, I understand.” She tapped her finger against her lips. “It’s who would want to go to such lengths that we need to discover. You don’t think it might be that Frenchman, Meraux, trying to get to Danielle? St. Clair said neither you nor Westcott believed it so, but….”
“He is too much the coward,” Anne said scornfully, shaking her head. “Besides, he would stand out like fox amongst the chickens, even in Winchester.”
Juliette hesitated, looked thoughtfully at Anne for a moment, and then asked the question Anne had been expecting, and dreading, these past few days.
“Please don’t take this amiss, but might there be someone from your past who resents your marriage to Westcott?”
A reasonable question, so she could hardly take umbrage. Not a question Anne was willing to answer, however. Not when she had yet to tell Nicholas that it was a very real possibility. Something you must do, and soon. Before he is up and about, exposed to harm—if it is the Major—which is probably no more than a wild guess.
“I doubt anyone from my past even knows of my marriage,” she said lightly. “Except my father’s man of business, who was delighted to learn I had the good fortune of marrying so well.” Her face schooled into a calm she did not feel, and anxious to forestall further discussion, Anne stood. “I was about to call for tea, which I usually have with the children. Would you care to join us?”
For a moment, Juliette seemed reluctant to drop the subject, but other than a moue that expressed her disappointment, said only, “A flight of fancy! My imagination runs wild at times.” She got to her feet somewhat awkwardly, laid a hand on the almost unnoticeable bulge in her stomach, and laughed. “I have not become entirely accustomed to this extra weight but suspect I will look back on this little bump with fondness in a few months.” Her eyes bright with amusement, Juliette walked over to collect her hat and gloves. “I would love to join you for tea, once I’ve looked in on the patient, and told St. Clair he is not allowed to hurry me home. He can keep Westcott company, although I’d wager he would rather have tea with us. I’m sure it will be far more entertaining.”
“Entertaining is not exactly how I would describe it,” Anne said, picturing the often noisy gathering of three children, their governess, and Anne. She chuckled. “But I can guarantee you won’t be bored.”
~* * *~
Much to the viscount’s bemusement, they all gathered in his bedchamber for their refreshment, St. Clair being as unwilling to forego time with the children as his wife predicted. Using his condition as an excuse to remain somewhat apart, Westcott listened to the lively discourse with interest. The upcoming performance was discussed at length, and he realized how little attention he had paid lately to his daughter’s current pursuits. The music lessons he was aware of, certainly, not being able to avoid the continuous practice sessions of one girl or the other—Guy having given it up to devote all his spare time to his pony. Wisely, in Westcott’s opinion, since the boy’s lack of talent became more evident every day. His sister, on the other hand, progressed more rapidly than he’d believed was possible. Sarah, too, was showing an almost equal talent.
Westcott studied the two girls, dark-haired Danielle as animated as he had ever seen her, explaining some musical technique to St. Clair—who, to give him credit, appeared engrossed, and Sarah interjected a sentence now and again, her blond curls bouncing in her enthusiasm.
Juliette was deep in a spirited discussion of the merits of ponies with Guy, while Anne looked on the group with fond amusement, speaking at times to Mary Caxton, who seemed more a guest than a paid employee. Even Thomas Atkinson, whose presence was completely unexpected, entered into the conversation occasionally. Westcott had no idea his secretary was in the habit of visiting the schoolroom. To see so self-effacing a man to step out of character was not just startling, it made him speculate about what else he was missing in his household.
“What do you think, Papa?”
Think about what? Loath to admit he had not been paying attention, Westcott put on a bland expression and hedged. “Hmmm, I’m not sure. How do you feel about it?”
“We want to do it,” Sarah said, giving him an odd look, “but it is not up to us.”
“You will say truthfully if next week is too soon for you? I felt certain you would be, but Sarah was concerned that you might pretend you were well enough,” Anne said before he could answer.
Judging from the glint in her eyes, Anne knew he’
d had no idea it was the show that concerned Sarah, but he was too grateful for the clue to mind. “I expect to be much better by then, Sarah, and promise to tell you if I don’t feel up to snuff.” He pushed his face into a funny grimace and peered intently at her. “You are not expecting me to perform, are you? I hope not, or you are doomed to disappointment.”
“Of course not.” Sarah put her fingers over her mouth to hide her grin. “You are much too big for our puppet theater.”
“Why so I am. What a relief!” He brushed the back of his hand against his brow in an exaggerated manner, and the grin turned to a storm of giggles that set them all laughing.
“You must feel better if you can play the fool,” St. Clair said as he stood and held out a hand to his wife. His smile took any sting from the comment, and indeed, if the look of relief on his face was any indication, the earl was nothing but pleased at Westcott’s playacting.
“I’ve had a lot of practice in the role,” Westcott said, but there was no bite in his voice, and more than a hint of humour.
St. Clair’s mouth twitched, but he chose not to answer, instead turning to Juliette. “It’s more than time we allowed the invalid some peace and quiet. Anne, a delightful repast, thank you.”
“Yes, thank you.” Juliette leaned over to whisper in Anne’s ear. “Come and visit me soon.” She stepped back, kissed Sarah and Danielle on the cheek and gave Guy a cheery wave. “We will be back next week for the show,” she promised and they departed, accompanied by a flurry of good-byes.
Quiet reigned for a moment, and Westcott leaned back against his pillows, appreciating the peace and silently acknowledging that his shoulder hurt like the devil. However enjoyable the past hour, hiding his discomfort took its toll, but he managed to keep his eyes open and his countenance placid, aware of Sarah’s watchful gaze. Anne’s as well, he realized, and hers the more discerning, as she once again came to his rescue.
“It is time you allowed your father to rest, Sarah. Guy, I believe Bonnie is expecting you to take her outside.”
Guy’s eyes widened and he stared at the clock on the mantel in dismay. “I am late again! Excuse moi, Mother Anne, sir.” He fled without waiting for permission, and Westcott hid a smile at the resigned expression on Anne’s face. They had all but given up on curbing the boy’s impetuous habit of dashing off.
“I will see Miss Blackwell back to the schoolroom, if she is agreeable,” Thomas Atkinson offered, stepping forward. He glanced at Westcott, saw his nod, and waited for Sarah’s approval.
“Will you take me to Papa first, so I can kiss him good-bye?”
Atkinson rolled the chair close to the bed and Westcott leaned over far enough for her to plant a noisy kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for coming to keep me company, muffin.”
“Thank you for having us. It was so much fun.” Sarah’s happy sigh was a strike to his conscience.
Some father you are, when your daughter counts so simple a gathering a highlight in her life. She needed this, and you never saw it. Pushing aside the guilt, he managed a faint smile. “We can do it again sometime soon. Perhaps you will invite me to join you in your rooms.”
“I will, I promise.” Beaming, she waved to him as her chair started moving, attention going at once to her companions, and he could hear her high voice, peppering Miss Caxton with suggestions about the puppet show they were planning.
Westcott shifted position in an attempt to ease the pain in his shoulder, and closed his eyes, lulled by the familiar clink of crockery and ting of flatware. He should be up—had planned to get out of this bed for longer than it took to tend to his personal needs and slip into a loose shirt. Simple tasks that had required Harman’s aid, blast it, since even the slightest effort left him weak as a kitten. He scowled, impatient with this inactivity. Not a morsel of information had turned up as to who was responsible for putting him here. Even knowing St. Clair was still making inquiries—and no one was more tenacious than Devlin—Westcott wanted to join the hunt personally.
“You are in pain, I see. I’m sorry we overtired you.” Anne’s soft voice interrupted his gloomy musings, and he opened his eyes, although he’d known she had lingered, familiar now with the womanly scent of her.
“A little, and no, I’m not particularly tired, but am more willing to lie on this bed than I care to admit. Come, sit with me for a time.” He looked closely at her. “You look weary, Anne. I hope it is not on my account. Harman is to hand at night, since he insists on sleeping in here on a trundle bed.”
Anne hesitated, and then pulled a chair closer to the bed. “Yes, I know. He is quite devoted to you, sir, and so concerned I didn’t even attempt to persuade him otherwise. So you see, I have stayed with you only during the day.”
“Good. I’ve troubled you enough lately and prefer not to cause you any more sleepless nights.”
“Not trouble,” she murmured, her gaze on the hands resting loosely in her lap.
“A great deal of trouble,” Westcott said, noting the graceful curve of her neck. Her skin was pale in the dim light. He imagined it, soft and smooth under his hand, her hair running like silk through his fingers. Stirring restlessly, the sudden stab of pain was a welcome interruption to the dangerous thoughts. “You saved my life, Anne, and don’t think I am not aware of it. I doubt there are many women, or men for that matter, who would have had such presence of mind. I am very grateful you did.”
A delicate flush climbed from neck to cheeks, and her hands fluttered in protest. “Anyone would have done the same,” she said in a low voice, still avoiding his gaze.
“That is questionable,” he said dryly, but seeing her distress, dropped it, instead asking an innocuous question about this proposed performance the children had in hand. “I’ve seldom seen Sarah so enthusiastic about anything. It was a good idea, Anne.”
She looked up at that. “Oh no, it was Sarah’s idea entirely. I had nothing to do with it and, in fact, was not sure if it was too ambitious a project. They had planned it as a surprise for you, but under the circumstances….” She smiled. “Sarah can be very persuasive.”
“An understatement if ever I heard one.” The tart comment drew a laugh from her and they exchanged a look of complete understanding.
“I did want to speak to you about something, sir.” Anne looked searchingly at him, drew in a quick breath, and hurried on. “But you are exhausted and in need of a nap. We can talk about this another time.”
“I think I have the strength to converse a bit longer.” Stung by the implied weakness, his answer was sharper than he’d intended and she drew back. Feeling like a bad-natured brute, he softened his tone and smiled. “Go on, Anne. I promise to send you away when I’m tired.”
Her returning smile was tenuous, but she raised her head to look at him. “I want to purchase a piano for Sarah’s birthday. I know it is some weeks away, but I believe it takes a goodly amount of time to have an order fulfilled.”
Westcott frowned, not certain he understood her diffidence. “Anne, you must be aware you are free to purchase just about anything you wish. I know Mr. Atkinson set up a personal account for you.”
“Yes, and you have been more than generous. I did not intend this to be a charge upon you, however. I do have some funds of my own, now that my father’s estate has been settled. Not a large amount,” she said, looking amused, “but more than enough to purchase a piano, although they are shockingly expensive.”
“You will charge it to the estate,” he said in a tone any member of his household knew not to question.
Any member but Anne, who stiffened, a mutinous expression on her face. She was prepared to argue with him, judging from that look. He had yet to intimidate her. Why expect it now? But he’d be damned if he allowed her to spend all her inheritance on something benefiting the entire family. He had no idea how much a piano cost but suspected it was more than Anne imagined.
“You can buy something else for Sarah. Get her a flute. I know she is using one of yours.” He scowled
at her. “Why a piano? We have a harpsichord and Sarah has never shown the slightest interest in it. Besides, she wouldn’t be able to play a piano.”
Anne huffed and narrowed her eyes. “She will once I teach her. There is no reason the child cannot play. Besides, your instrument is in such terrible condition I doubt it can be repaired.”
Anne threw out the last comment with the utter conviction that her stance was unarguable, and Westcott bit back the impulse to laugh. She was so earnest, but he had no intention of allowing her to use her funds. “It does appear repairing the harpsichord is not sensible, and if you say Sarah will like it, I have no objection. Go ahead and have Mr. Atkinson order your piano, and you will not pay for it.” Shamelessly using his injury to forestall any further argument, he touched a hand to his shoulder and grimaced.
“You are in pain, and I’ve kept you from resting.” Anne stood and looked down at him with a worried expression. “Did I upset you terribly with all this? I never meant to.”
Westcott lowered his eyelids to a slit and sighed loudly. “You did not upset me, Anne, but I soon will be if you continue this foolish insistence. Westhorp will stand the cost, or there will be no piano.”
Anne stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “Very well, sir. I won’t trouble you any further. Thank you. Get some rest. I will send Harman in to you.”
So slight he barely felt it, the touch of her fingers against his cheek, and she was gone, the sound of her steps fading as he rubbed at the spot on his face, dispelling the unexpected sense of warmth on his skin. Don’t be a fool, Westcott. Feeling like something the cat dragged in is no excuse to keep someone around for company—especially your wife!
Chapter Twenty-Three
After two hours of tossing and turning in her bed, Anne conceded. Yesterday’s disagreement with Westcott—not an argument since her every objection was instantly overruled—still annoyed her. But how can one persist when one’s opponent is ill? He was far too accustomed to issuing decrees and expecting everyone to follow along, no matter how they felt about it. Westcott is not an adversary, Anne, and he was being kind in offering—insisting!—to pay for the piano. “And cows can jump over the moon,” Anne muttered as she shoved back the covers, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and felt around for her slippers. The fire was no more than embers, but it provided enough light for her to find her robe and a taper to light a candle. In a smaller establishment, she would heat some milk, but even her imagination did not stretch to seeing herself invading Westhorp’s enormous kitchen. Not to mention the servants’ disapproval of such impropriety.
An Inconvenient Wife Page 20