Not an Ordinary Baronet

by G. G. Vandagriff

  Her eyes flew open, and she knocked the foul thing away. “Oh, those horrible men!”

  “You are safe at home,” he said.

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Angels,” he said with a smile. “Plucked me right up and delivered me to your side.”

  “Good angels,” she murmured. “I like your dimples.” She closed her eyes again.

  “Come now. Shall I send for the sawbones?”

  “I just need to sleep a bit,” she said.

  “Most likely you have a concussion. Let me look at your pupils.”

  Opening her eyes again, she looked at him steadily. Her pupils were of different sizes. He knew from his experience with boxing that this meant concussion. If only she didn’t develop bleeding on the brain!

  “Any ice in the cellar?” he asked the maid.

  “No,” she said.

  “Someone must go for some.”

  “I will,” she said.

  “Send someone else. You go for Miss Braithwaite at Blossom House. She will know better than any physician what to do for this.”

  “I will go immediately, sir. Thank you so much for rescuing us, sir.”

  When the maid had left, he fisted his hands in frustration, stroking Lady Catherine’s sleeping face with his knuckles, feeling the silken softness of her skin. A wave of longing washed over him.

  Bertie was not going to retire from the lists.

  “Going to fight for you, my lady,” he whispered. “I will not let Lord William Cumberwell or Lord Robert Redmayne stand in my way.”

  Moving one of the wingback chairs so it sat next to the sofa, he arranged things so he could sit and hold the lady’s hand. He did not know precisely how he was going to win her, but he was through standing on the sidelines.

  * * *

  Bertie had gone to look for Lord Redmayne. He was told by Stebbins that the man had gone to Newmarket for a couple of days. He did not know whether to be glad or sorry.

  Miss Braithwaite’s arrival relieved him tremendously.

  “For the first day and night, she cannot be allowed to sleep longer than a couple of hours at a time. Someone must get her up and walk her about. Otherwise she may slip into a coma. I will stay with her, if that pleases Lord Redmayne.”

  She woke Lady Catherine gently.

  “Miss B. . . . ,” the lady said. “Where is Sir Bertie?”

  “Here,” said Bertie. “Your brother has gone to Newmarket. I have called Miss Braithwaite in to help you.”

  “I will stay with you,” said Miss Braithwaite.

  Bertie interjected, “I can stay with her during the days. Wouldn’t want you to wear yourself to a thread.”

  Lady Catherine gave a little smile. “Don’t let the gossips know,” she said. “You had better come in by the servants’ entrance.”

  “Capital idea,” said Miss Braithwaite.

  Was she worried Cumberwell would hear of it and dislike Bertie’s being here?

  “Someone has gone for ice,” said Bertie. “Professional boxers use it when they get head injuries.”

  “Another good idea,” said the little lady. “Are you comfortable on this sofa?” she asked the patient.

  “Yes,” said Lady Catherine. “I do not want to move.” She angled her head so she could see him. “There is something I wanted to tell you, but I cannot think what it was.”

  “Easy,” he said. “Plenty of time for that.”

  Parker entered at last with the ice wrapped in toweling. There were two pieces about the size of small melons. Miss Braithwaite instructed her to take them to the kitchen and have them broken up into pieces the size of a teacup.

  After this had been done and the ice was applied, Lady Catherine slipped back into slumber.

  “Is this normal?” he asked.

  “Yes. I belong to a charity that sponsors the Royal Society of Medicine. I go to their lectures and read their publications whenever I can and have kept up my knowledge of the latest practices. You never know when it will come in handy. Recently, there was a lecture on head injuries. Lady Catherine has suffered a traumatic injury. But she must be wakened every two hours, as I said. Can you tell me what happened?”

  “I don’t know the whole story. For some reason, she wasn’t escorted to the East End today. She and her maid were set upon by thugs. I don’t know what they had planned. More than robbery. They knocked her out.”

  Miss Braithwaite’s mouth tightened. “Lord Redmayne,” she said as though his name were a bad taste on her tongue. “He insisted on escorting her today. Then he goes to Newmarket without arranging for a replacement.”

  Bertie’s temper rose. “What was he thinking to let her go off with only her maid?”

  “Thank Providence Clarice sent you and you were nearby.”

  Bertie didn’t remember the last time he had prayed, but now he offered up thanks for what could only have been divine intervention.

  * * *

  That evening when Bertie was back at the Wellinghams, he told his sister, Beau, and Penelope what had befallen Lady Catherine.

  “A concussion!” said Marianne. “That is quite serious, is it not?”

  Bertie could scarcely contain his anxiety. “She is still in danger. Miss Braithwaite says she can slip into a coma any time in the next twenty-four hours.” He told them what the woman had told him.

  “She is my Aunt Clarice’s companion,” Penelope told Marianne. “She is a jolly useful person to know.”

  “She is staying with Lady Catherine tonight. She plans on awakening her every two hours,” said Bertie. “I shouldn’t have left, but she insisted.”

  “This is disturbing,” said Beau. “I would that her brother were in town.”

  Bertie didn’t want to admit the relief he felt at the fact that the man was gone. “Miss Braithwaite will see her through.”

  Marianne put a hand on his arm. “It is a good thing you came to London, Bertie. I think you were meant to be in the East End today.”

  He had to agree.

  * * *

  Bertie had no success in getting to sleep. He kept envisioning Lady Catherine’s still, white face as she lay in the dirt street. What if he had clung to his accustomed habits of mind and not come to London?

  He wondered once again if Marianne was right. Had his reticent constitution been formed because of his dislike of his mother’s intemperate behavior? Had he been holding his future hostage to his past?

  Never before had he questioned his nature. But surely it made sense. He associated strong emotion with women. Strong emotion in others set off some kind of spring inside him that distanced him emotionally from the person feeling it—not only women but men as well. There were no two men more temperate in their behavior than Beau and Tony. He had steered clear of women as though they were fireworks ready to go off.

  Then his friends had married. He had to admit that their wives had proved to be reasonable, and even enjoyable, women.

  What was different about Lady Catherine? She had been in the grip of strong emotion when he met her, and his instinct had not been to flee, but rather to protect her. He had even witnessed her crying into her handkerchief when he passed by her property on Hermes.

  The next time he saw her, she had been shot at, and instead of flying into hysterics, she had exhibited a cool, strong hand as she controlled her frightened horse. This was followed by her arrival at the Oaks, where she, believing him to have shot at her, confronted him boldly with the accusation.

  She was brave, but she was also vulnerable. It was the vulnerability that had caught him at the very beginning. Her beautiful, tragic face had bewitched him—causing him to behave in a manner as foreign to him as flying.

  He had tried for months to purge her from his mind and heart, but it had not worked. Bertie was caught like a butterfly in a net.

  Chapter Twenty

  Why does Miss B. keep waking me up? Why can she not let me sleep? I am so tired, and my head hurts like I put it through a brick wall.


  Then it was morning. The light hurt her eyes, so the drapes were drawn.

  Why am I in the red sitting room? I hate this room. Why am I not in bed? And why am I still dressed?

  Miss B. was getting her to sit up and take some beef broth. Surely that was a strange morning drink. But her stomach was queasy, so that was just as well. Parker was arranging her hair and offering her a steamy towel to cleanse her face and hands.

  How did they get so dirty?

  “Would you like to change your frock? Sir Bertie will be coming to sit with you today.”

  “Sir Bertie? Whatever is he coming for?”

  “You were attacked in the East End yesterday, my dear,” Miss B. said. “Sir Bertie fought off the ruffians and rescued you. You had been knocked unconscious and sustained a concussion. We are watching you carefully lest you slip into a coma.” She smoothed Catherine’s hair gently. “That is why we are not letting you sleep as much as you would like.” Catherine watched as a sudden gleam animated her eyes. “Sir Bertie insists on watching you today. It was only with the greatest of difficulty that I was able to send him home last night.”

  Images of the day before began to materialize in her mind. Horrid, horrid men. Then an image of Bertie, bending over her here on this sofa, stroking her cheek, applying ice to her head.

  Turning her head away, she winced. “Do not send for my brother, please. He will only strive to complicate everything, and I cannot deal with Robert right now.” A picture came into her mind of Sir Bertie dancing with the lady with the long neck. “And I am afraid Sir Bertie must take me as he finds me. I have no inclination to change my frock. It would take energy I am afraid I do not possess.”

  Her head pounded like a drum, and it was difficult for her to think.

  “He is going to come in through the servants’ entrance so as not to cause gossip,” Miss B. assured her.

  Lady Clarice came into the room. “I am afraid the damage is already done, Sukey. Someone saw Sir Bertie carry her into the house yesterday. It’s in the Post.” She handed the newspaper to her friend.

  Catherine moaned. “That’s torn it. My brother will be on his way home from Newmarket. Were you here all night as well, Lady Clarice?”

  “No, I just arrived. I had to see for myself how you did. You look far better than I expected, but what a near thing it was!”

  At that moment, Sir Bertie walked into the room, his brow puckered, his eyes narrowed in concern. “You are awake. Thanks be to Providence,” he said.

  “And you,” said Catherine softly. “You are my rescuer. Do you think it might have been white slavers? Or is that something out of The Mysteries of Udolpho?”

  “I know little about that sort of thing, but I have never known them to prey on women of quality. Too many repercussions if they go missing. Were the men waiting for you as you came out of the church?”

  “They were surrounding my carriage. They attacked my coachman.” She turned to Miss B. “I haven’t even asked. How does he?”

  “He is being watched over for concussion as well,” said Miss B. “It took him a bit to come around.”

  “I think this was more than an opportunistic attack if the men were waiting for you,” said Sir Bertie. “How would they know it was a woman and not a man who had come in the coach? I think this involved some planning, some foreknowledge of your routine.”

  “That does not augur well,” said Lady Clarice. “I feel responsible. I should have better calculated the risks in sending you there.”

  Catherine objected. “It was my own fault. I was the one who went unescorted. It was foolish and wrongheaded of me.”

  “Your brother did not turn up?” Miss B. asked.

  “He must have taken it into his head to go to Newmarket and completely forgotten. He probably has a horse running,” Catherine said.

  She looked at Sir Bertie. Was he here out of true concern, or was it only gentlemanly obligation? She did not want to impose on him. In the past, she would have been only too willing to have him here, but after the scene at the ball, she wondered. She desperately wanted him to stay. His very presence calmed her.

  “Come, Sukey,” said Lady Clarice. “Now that Sir Bertie is here, we will get you home for some rest.”

  “Could you call Lady Catherine’s maid before you go?” asked Sir Bertie. “We must observe the proprieties.”

  “Of course,” said Lady Clarice, pulling the bell. “Even though they are ridiculous.”

  “What did the newspaper say?” asked Catherine.

  “The newspaper?” echoed Bertie.

  “Apparently, you were observed carrying Lady Catherine into the house,” said Lady Clarice.

  Catherine brought the back of her wrist to her forehead. “Lady Clarice, will you kindly tell Stebbins to deny me to callers? Tell him to be firm.”

  The ladies both stood. “I will do so on the way out, my dear. Ah, here is Parker, so we will take our leave. Try to sleep, Catherine. Sir Bertie will wake you every two hours until this evening. By then, Sukey says you will be out of danger.”

  “Miss B., thank you ever so much for staying with me last night,” Catherine said.

  “You are welcome, dear.” She turned to the maid. “Bring some more ice for her head, if you please. She should have it now and this afternoon, as well.”

  When everyone else had departed, Sir Bertie took a chair by the fire opposite the sofa. However, even the best effort could not keep her from sliding back into sleep. She was vaguely aware of ice being applied, but she did not open her eyes.

  * * *

  Someone was clasping her hand. “Wake up, Lady Catherine.”

  She struggled out of a deep sleep. Sir Bertie was bent over her. “Why are you still here?” she asked, confused.

  “I need to be,” he said. “You are not out of danger yet.”

  “My maid can take care of me.”

  “I would be fretting if I were not here,” he said. “I keep reliving the moment I saw you lying there in the street.”

  His concern warmed her. With her defenses down, she allowed herself to feel cared for.

  He called for the ice again, and she watched him pace the room.

  “I think it is a good sign that you are still conscious,” he said. “The longer you stay that way, the less likely you will drift into a coma.”

  “You must not fret,” she said softly. “I am going to be up and about in no time. But right now, I’m just so sleepy.” She yawned.

  “Cumberwell was here,” he said. “He was not too happy to be turned away. I could not think that your instructions to Stebbins included him, but you were resting so well, I did not like him to disturb you,” he said. “We talked over the matter. I have been thinking, and I believe your attack may be tied to the Gentleman Smuggler. He could have paid those ruffians.”

  “But he has let me alone ever since I have returned to London! Why would he attack now?”

  “Perhaps you saw him and did not realize it.”

  A hazy memory rose in her mind. Could that be it?

  “The Fotheringills’ ball,” she said. “I overheard someone talking. His words could have referred to the smuggling operation.” She told Bertie about going out for a breath of air during the ball. “I must have made a sound, because he and his associate started after me. It was very dark, but there was a bit of light showing through the kitchen window. Perhaps he recognized me before I went inside.”

  Sir Bertie said, “There you have it. Were you able to see him at all?”

  “No. And he was not the one speaking. But it sounded like the one man was talking to our Gentleman Smuggler—all about his men being in jail and their not being able to put their hands on Saint Barnabas brandy though it was the middle of the Season.”

  “Don’t force the memory now. It will only make your headache worse.”

  She shifted a bit on the couch. It suddenly felt full of lumps.

  “Are you uncomfortable?” he asked. “I can easily carry you up
to your bed, if you like.”

  “Maybe that would be best—if you do not mind.”

  “I can manage,” he said.

  Bending over her, he moved the blankets and, putting one arm behind her neck and the other under her knees, lifted her easily. She did not know what to do with her arms, so she put them around his neck. “I’m afraid my bedroom is on the second floor,” she said.

  “You are as light as down. Don’t worry.”

  She directed him up the two flights of stairs and into her wing of the house. It was lovely being held so close to him. Closing her eyes for a brief moment, she savored the feeling. Then her head recalled her attention with its pounding.

  Her maid scurried ahead of them. Catherine knew she would turn back the bed and ready the fire. For May, it was still chilly in the big stone house.

  She was cheered by the sight of her bedroom. It was the only room in the house in which she felt at home. Catherine had seen to its decoration herself, choosing apple-green walls with white trim and upholstery in yellow, green, and white. As Sir Bertie put her down, she relished the comfort of her bed.

  “I am going to sleep now,” she said.

  Sir Bertie smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “I will leave you to your maid and come back to wake you in a couple of hours,” he said.

  Catherine wished she could tell him she did not need him, but she was far too desirous of his presence. He was both soothing and solid. And she loved the touch of his hand, no matter how brief. She went off to sleep feeling comforted, a steady warmth in her breast.

  Two hours later, Sir Bertie woke her gently. “Time for another bit of ice. How are you feeling?”

  Catherine struggled to wake up. “The pain is lessening, I think. I should like to try to sit up.”

  As he helped her into a sitting position, they heard a thundering voice in the doorway. “Backman! Get away from my sister or I’ll have you horsewhipped!”

  “Robert!” she exclaimed. “Do not be so rude! Sir Bertie saved my life!”

  Her brother strode until he was next to her bed. He pulled the ice bundle off her head. “What is this tomfoolery?”