Candice Hern

by The Regency Rakes Trilogy

  "Oh, I keep up on such things, you know," Gram replied with a fluttery wave of her hand.

  Meg and Terrence shared a look of amusement before Terrence returned his attention to the tiny diary in his hand. A folded letter fell out and Terrence bent to retrieve it. "Well, Meggie, not that I doubted you, but he indeed appears to be Lord Sedgewick." He passed the letter to Meg.

  She glanced at the direction, penned in a spidery, feminine hand.

  To the Rt. Hon. Lord Viscount Sedgewick

  Mount Street, London

  The slightest hint of lavender wafted upward from the folded vellum. Wrinkling her nose, Meg handed the letter back to Terrence.

  "At least now we know his direction," Terrence said. "I will send a note round to Mount Street." Tucking the letter in the back of the diary, he began flipping pages, finally stopping at one. His brow furrowed as he peered down at the page. "Gad, but the fellow has ghastly handwriting. There is a note scribbled on today's page. 'Travel Bids.' Travel Bids? What on earth could that mean?"

  "Give me that," Meg said, reaching out for the diary.

  Terrence shrugged and passed it to her. She looked at the page for a moment, and then laughed. "Not 'travel bids,' you idiot. It says 'Trevelian' and then 'Birds.' I do not know what—"

  "Trevelian?" Terrence interrupted. "That must be Lord Cosmo Trevelian. We were at Oxford together, though we were never very close. I know that he does have an estate in Norfolk. That must be where Lord Sedgewick was heading."

  "And 'birds'?" Meg asked.

  "Well, that should be clear enough. Pheasant and partridge are not quite out of season, after all. It must be a hunting party."

  "Then, perhaps you should send a message to Lord Trevelian in Norfolk," Meg said, handing the Peacock's back to her brother.

  "Yes, I shall do that. Still," Terrence added as he accepted the diary back from Meg, "I wish we might contact his family. That head injury worries me." He glanced over at the bed. "If only we knew how to reach them."

  "That is easy enough," Gram said as she rose from her chair. She walked briskly from the room without another word, her muslin dress billowing behind her like a sail. Terrence cast a quizzical glance at Meg. She shrugged, and they both chuckled. Since Gram had come to live with them after their mother's death some dozen years ago, they had both become accustomed to her quixotic bursts of energy and enthusiasm. Like the indomitable Mrs. Dillard, age had done little to slow Gram down.

  Terrence completed his search of Lord Sedgewick's greatcoat, which yielded a card case, a sovereign purse, a small penknife, and a short length of string, but nothing more that would help him to locate the gentleman's family. Terrence returned the greatcoat to the clothespress while Meg eased back into her chair, stretched her long legs out in front of her once again, and enjoyed her cup of tea. Within moments, Gram burst back into the room with an armload of books. Meg moved aside the tea things to make room for the unwieldy volumes, and Gram deposited them on the table with a look of triumph.

  "These should tell us what we need to know," she said, tossing an enigmatic glance at Meg. "Here, my dear, you start with this one." She tapped a finger against the topmost book.

  Meg picked it up, noted the title, and gave a soft groan. Collins Peerage of England. Gram had even located the correct volume of the set, the one including titles beginning with "S." Good heavens, thought Meg, there will be no stopping the old girl now.

  Gram took the next volume, one from the set of Goddard's Biographical Index to the Present House of Lords, and Meg let out another groan. If he knew what was good for him, poor Lord Sedgewick would remain unconscious for a long, long time.

  Gram began rifling through pages and soon gave a triumphant "Ha!" She stabbed at the page with a plump finger. "Here it is," she said as she read the page before her. "Our guest is no less than the sixth Viscount Sedgewick. The title has been in the Herriot family since Charles II bestowed the patent on Sir Oliver Herriot in 1653. There are—Oh, my goodness, Meg!—three, no four estates in entailment. His primary seat is in Lincolnshire. That's it, Terrence," she said, her voice almost squeaking with excitement. "That's where his family must be. Yes," she said, reading on, "unless his mother has died very recently, she is still in residence in Lincolnshire. At Witham Abbey. He has no wife, you see." This last was said with raised brows and wide eyes directed at Meg, who rolled her own eyes heavenward and tossed the Collins back on the table.

  "Oh, and his mother was a Howard," Gram continued, undaunted. "And his grandmother a Cavendish. Good heavens, he is related to all the best families!" She turned a beaming smile toward the bed in the corner and heaved a contented sigh. "Take this, my dear," Gram said as she handed the open volume to Terrence. "This will tell you where to write to Lord Sedgewick's mother. Unless you would prefer that I write to her?"

  "No, no, Gram," Terrence said as he retrieved the volume, keeping his finger between the appropriate pages. "I must write her myself. I shall do so at once, along with a note to Mount Street, in case someone is there. And one to Trevelian as well."

  Gram nodded and turned her attention to Meg. "Oh, Meg, is this not wonderful? A fine old title, excellent connections, several estates ... and no wife!"

  "Indeed," Terrence said as he retrieved the stack of books from the tea table and headed toward the bedchamber door. "We must take especial care of such a paragon," he said, grinning over his shoulder at Meg and ducking just in time to miss the spoon she flung at his head.

  * * *

  Terrence chuckled to himself as he entered the library to return the books. Poor Meg. Gram was likely to be relentless in her pursuit of a match with Lord Sedgewick. And poor Lord Sedgewick, he thought as he reshelved the books. If only he knew what awaited him whenever he regained consciousness.

  Terrence thought he ought to have a word with Gram.

  He sank into the armchair behind his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out several sheets of pressed paper. He retrieved a quill from its stand and considered their unconscious noble guest while he absently trimmed the point with a penknife. Terrence almost wished the man was conscious so that might frank the three letters he was about to write. Ha! He was as bad as Gram dreaming up plans to take advantage of the viscount. But at least his own plans, such as they were, could hardly be considered as other than harmless—a bit of franking, a word or two about Thornhill hunters spread amongst the viscount's friends, that sort of thing. But Terrence would be damned if he would get himself tangled up with any scheme of Gram's to encourage a match between Meg and Lord Sedgewick. Besides placing the viscount in an awkward situation, it would no doubt cause great embarrassment to Meg. Terrence was quite fond of his hoydenish sister, and knew she would not appreciate Gram's interference.

  He did not think Gram ever really understood Meg's aversion to being trotted out like a young filly at the Marriage Mart. Terrence remembered rather clearly Meg's one and only Season six years before. He had gone up to Town to lend his support, but at the age of three-and-twenty had been distracted by other sorts of amusements, and had spent more time with his cronies from Oxford than he had squiring around his sister.

  He began penning an introduction to Lady Sedgewick at Witham Abbey, but his mind wandered before he got much further than "My dear madam." Tapping the quill feather against his cheek, he chuckled as he recalled the ungainly eighteen-year-old Meg, all arms and legs towering over most everyone except her own tall family. Gram, who'd acted as her chaperone, had somehow managed to dress Meg in the most inappropriate styles imaginable—fussy, lacy things, overflowing with ruffles and bows. Poor Meg had looked like a scarecrow. Her bony shoulders had been all turned in and her elbows turned out as she had tried to slouch in hopes of appearing less tall. And her long, almost masculine stride had been completely at odds with the frilly dresses Gram had ordered. He could laugh in retrospect at what a sight she had made, but he knew at the time it had been difficult for Meg. She had been painfully shy and terribly self-conscious about her height. H
is own friends had teased him, calling him Long Meg's brother. At an age when a young man's friends and their opinions are everything, Terrence had avoided their jibes by accompanying Meg as little as possible.

  He knew he should have shown more support, spent more time with her. He ought to have helped ease her into Society more gently. He ought to have tried to bolster her self-confidence somehow. But he had been young and selfish and unconcerned with his sister's plight.

  When she had returned to Thornhill and announced to their father that she did not want a second Season, Terrence had not missed the relief in her eyes when their father had agreed. It was clear that she was much more comfortable in familiar surroundings, with familiar people. From that day on, Meg had never expressed the slightest interest in men or marriage, even though gentlemen paraded in and out of Thornhill with some regularity, on the lookout for prime horseflesh. She seemed to be completely at ease with herself and her situation, and Terrence could not imagine that even so fine a catch as Lord Sedgewick would tempt her to change her mind.

  He returned his attention to the letter to Lady Sedgewick, but before long his thoughts drifted once again to Gram's notion that the viscount might actually show an interest in Meg. He supposed it was not such a far-fetched idea. It was true, Meg was no longer the skinny, awkward young girl she had once been. Terrence was not blind to his sister's beauty, though he suspected she was. Meg appeared to be completely indifferent to, or perhaps even unaware of, the admiring looks she received from the grooms and stable boys—especially when she was wearing a pair of his breeches. Meg had grown into a beautiful woman. He was not sure when it had happened, or when he had first noticed it. Somewhere along the way she had grown from gangly to statuesque. She also seemed to have become more complacent about her height, for she never slouched anymore. Rather, she walked straight and proud, just as she sat on a horse, displaying her full height for all the world to see.

  All six feet of her.

  Despite her regal beauty, however, she was still more at home in the stables than the drawing room, more comfortable in breeches than a ball gown, and he had difficulty imagining his sister involved in even so much as a light flirtation.

  A knock on the library door jerked Terrence from his reverie. He returned the quill to its stand. "Come in."

  Gittings, the butler, entered and announced that Mr. Coogan would like a word with him. At Terrence's nod, Seamus Coogan, Thornhill's head groom, was shown into the library.

  "What is it, Seamus?" he asked. The fellow seldom stepped foot inside the house, unless it was something urgent. "Is that new foal in trouble?"

  "No, sir." Seamus shuffled his feet and looked thoroughly uneasy. "T'ain't the young'un. He be just fine, he is. But somethin' else mighty queer I thought you should know about"

  "Go on, Seamus. What is it, then?"

  "Well, that gen'lman's curricle ..."

  "Lord Sedgewick's, you mean?"

  "Ah, so he's a lord, is he?" Seamus's black brows disappeared behind the unruly salt-and-pepper curls that hung over his forehead. "Well, it looks like his lordship's got hisself in a bit of trouble, you might say. I had the boys bring in the pieces of the curricle. Oh, and a beautiful thing it is, too, sir. A terrible shame it got so cracked up. Can be fixed, though. It needs only—" he stopped as Terrence glared at him through narrowed eyes. "Yes, well, the thing of it is, the axle was split. Clean in two."

  "So, that's what caused the accident?"

  "Well," Seamus hesitated, twisting his hat in his hands, "not to put too fine a point on it, sir, but it weren't no accident."

  Terrence leaned forward on his elbows. "What do you mean, no accident?"

  "I mean the axle was cut, sawed almost clear through, it was. Deliberate, like. That rig was bound to break apart at the first deep pothole. 'Twas meant to break apart, if you git my meanin', sir."

  Terrence blew out a breath through puffed cheeks. "Good Lord.

  Chapter 3

  "Wake up, you ungrateful cur. After such tender ministrations, the least you can do is crack open an eye."

  Meg mopped Lord Sedgewick's face and neck with a cool, damp cloth. She had been performing this ritual with increasing frequency for two days. She and Gram and even Terrence had taken their turns in watching over the sick man. His continued unconsciousness, not to mention the dangerously high fever that had begun the day before, frightened her more than she could say. To combat her own fear and frustration, she had begun to talk to him, to cajole him, to admonish him, to berate him. It made her feel better somehow to blame him, for she could not bear to think that his life might be in her hands. Perhaps she could shame him into consciousness, if any of her reproachful words actually penetrated his brain.

  More likely her chatter would bore him into a sounder sleep.

  Meg dipped the cloth into the basin of cold water, wrung it out, and proceeded to bathe his hands. "Here you are, almost a perfect stranger," she muttered, taking his left hand and covering it with the damp cloth, "and yet we have all sat with you round the clock, helping you to fight this wretched fever." She stroked the cool cloth over his warm hand, very slowly, from wrist to fingertips. She then began to gently massage each long finger from base to tip as she continued to scold.

  "We even put you in the best bedchamber, for heaven's sake," she said as she absently surveyed the large, comfortable room. The dark wood-paneled walls, highly polished and gleaming in the candlelight, were hung with several old family portraits, and over the intricately carved fireplace hung a large painting of Blue Blazes, the Arabian stallion who had been the pride of Thornhill's stables for some years. "And with the most comfortable bed," she added as she eyed the beautifully carved bedposts of the Portuguese bed purchased only a few years ago by her father. He had discovered that ships used to transport troops to the Peninsula often returned loaded with items of furniture as ballast. He had traded a prime hunter for many pieces, including this bed, which was the newest and most elegant in the house.

  "And what thanks do we get?" Meg turned his hand over and gently stroked the palm with the cool cloth. "You just lie there," she said, massaging the soft mound at the base of his thumb. "Like a pile of dirty linen. Hmph! Not even the tiniest sign that you know we are here." She drew the damp cloth slowly between each of his long fingers. "That we care." She laid his hand carefully at his side, covered it with the counterpane, and picked up the right hand. "That I care. That I don't want you to die."

  She cradled his hand in her own, gently bathing and massaging it ever so slowly, as though memorizing every part of it: the long, tapering fingers, the nails neatly trimmed, the square palm with its clearly marked lines, the fine, soft texture of the skin. An aristocrat's hands, no doubt about it. Not the blunt, broad, rough hands of a laborer. These hands had seen little labor. A sprinkling of coarse blond hair over the tops of his hands and the base of his fingers saved them from appearing effeminate. That, and their size. Hands that large could hardly be mistaken for a woman's

  Except, perhaps, for her own. Pressing her left hand against his right, Meg stretched out his limp fingers to their full length against her own. His fingertips reached fully half an inch or more above hers. How extraordinary. "Your hands are even bigger than mine, Lord Sedgewick." She smiled, finding an odd source of pleasure at this small discovery. "Imagine that," she said as she studied their hands, noting that his was slightly broader than hers as well. Good heavens, she felt almost dainty! Slowly, she curled her fingers between his, gently wrapping them around his hand. His fingers naturally bent so that they were entwined with hers. Meg stared at their joined hands for a moment. She chewed on her lower lip as a tight knot formed in her chest.

  Finally, she dropped his hand and quickly turned to rinse the cloth in the basin once again. "That bit about being a perfect stranger," she said, "well... that's not true, of course. Gram and I remembered you." After wringing the cloth out, she folded it and draped it over the matching ewer. "Yes, I remembered you."

 
; Meg glanced at the mantel clock and saw that it was not yet time for another dose of laudanum, so she dropped into a chair pulled close to the bed. She gazed over at her patient. Dr. Garthwaite had instructed that his head be kept raised, so Lord Sedgewick was propped on a large stack of pillows, his head tilted to one side against the linen pillow slip. His blond hair above the bandage was rumpled from sleep, lending him an endearing boyish quality which brought to mind the times Meg had seen him in the past, always so cheerful and charming. His face, though, sporting several days' growth of dark blond beard, did not appear boyish at the moment as he scowled in his sleep. Meg studied his high cheekbones and long, straight nose, and the series of parallel lines at the corners of his mouth—lines that hinted at the huge, wonderfully attractive smile he so often wore.

  "Yes, I remember you," she whispered. Having once had that famous smile turned upon her, how could any woman forget it?

  Meg reached across the bed and laid the back of her hand against his flushed cheek. My God, his skin was blazing hot! She wondered for a moment if she would ever see that smile again.

  "If you dare to die on me, my lord," she scolded, "I swear I will wring your neck."

  * * *

  "Try to keep his arms down!" Dr. Garthwaite shouted. "I don't want to have to reset this leg."

  Terrence and Meg were struggling to hold the delirious Lord Sedgewick still while the doctor attempted to secure the leg splint. It was the third night of fever, and during that time the patient had alternated between total unconsciousness and feverish delirium. Just now, his violent thrashing had pulled some of the leather straps loose from the wooden splint, and the doctor's carefully woven bandage was also coming loose.

  "Blast!" Dr. Garthwaite exclaimed as he tried to save his meticulous handiwork from ruin. "Hold him, dammit! This bone might not be so easily reset. And watch his head, Meg! Don't let him flail so. It will only encourage further infection if those stitches come loose."