by Regina Scott
He forced himself to calm, to slow, to reach out with his senses. The moon hadn’t risen yet. He could just make out the tops of the grasses. No sound of pursuit. No whisper of friends or enemies around him.
But if he stayed here, they’d track him by the blood.
He removed his hand from the wound long enough to set down the lantern and pull off his cravat. His man Cuddlestone always urged him to try a more elegant fold. Harry’s method of folding was easier off; he quickly accomplished it and managed to wrap the cravat around his arm one-handed. Retrieving the lantern once more, he edged through the marsh toward higher ground, which led to the manor.
Lights from the withdrawing room warned him Gussie was home and entertaining the Villers. He hadn’t been completely surprised when the pair had shown up. It seemed they believed the door to the manor perpetually open. Gussie’s enthusiasm had that effect on people.
Fortunately, he had been able to slip away from the house without greeting them. He’d planned to head straight to London with any news Yvette sent, avoiding the house entirely. Only there was no news, and he needed somewhere to tend to his wound.
No use trying the front door and meeting cries of alarm. Likewise, the kitchen was out of reach. The fewer staff who suspected the true nature of his nighttime activities the better. He would have to slip in his bedroom window and pretend he had come in too late to be noticed. It wouldn’t be the first time.
The trellis was sturdily built—Gussie had made sure of it.
“Sooner or later you’ll climb down or up it,” she’d told him before he headed to Eton as a lad. “Might as well be prepared.”
Now he hid the lantern among the shrubs at the base of the manor and positioned his feet carefully, relying on one hand for balance. His arm was throbbing, demanding that he see to it. He’d have to prevent Gussie from trying one of her concoctions on him. He was never sure what was in them.
He heaved himself up to the chamber story and onto the balcony, then fumbled with the latch. The glass-paned door opened silently. He drew in a breath as he slipped into the room. But once past the thick curtains, he realized he must have been expected. A lamp glowed beside the bed, and a fire warmed the hearth. Count on Gussie to think of everything.
Even a welcoming committee.
The young lady stood beside the hearth. Hair flowed like honey about her slender shoulders. The loose nightgown whispered of curves beneath the creamy flannel. She’d picked up the empty coal shuttle and held it ready. Despite her willowy frame, he thought she was fully capable of swinging the thing at his head.
He spread his hands. “Forgive the intrusion. But may I point out that you are in my room?”
Chapter Two
Patience gripped the shuttle. She couldn’t doubt the intruder’s words. Even in the dim light, she could make out the features of Sir Harold Orwell. His hair was even more mussed than in the portrait, and that square chin was more solid. He wore no cravat and seemed to be holding one arm slightly behind him. Still, to blunder in through the window? Surely even in this unusual household that should be considered odd.
Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour or the ruse she had agreed to perpetrate against her better judgment, but she had no trouble stating her opinion this time.
“Your aunt assigned me to this room,” she informed her visitor. “Had you consulted her first, you might have saved yourself the trouble of climbing in the window.”
“Ah, but I chose to climb through the window to prevent having that discussion with my aunt.” He had the audacity to wink at her. “A gentleman never kisses and tells, you know.”
So, that was it. He’d been out cavorting and didn’t want Gussie to learn the truth. Disappointment bit sharply.
“Be that as it may,” she told him, “I’m certain since you were raised in this house you could find another suitable bedchamber far sooner than I could. See yourself out, sir.”
“Happy to oblige, madam,” he said with a lopsided bow that likely spoke of the state of his sobriety. “Once I locate a change of clothes.”
He started for the wardrobe on the far wall, and Patience took a step closer, shuttle up against her shoulder.
“You’ll find no suitable clothes in here,” she informed him. “Mr. Cuddlestone moved your things elsewhere.”
He jerked to a stop, and she clutched the shuttle tighter. How was she to know whether he was the sort to accost the servants, or a lady he probably thought was one of his aunt’s guests? She had never met anyone who took liberties while inebriated, but her friend Jane had been discharged from her previous post because of a master who had lost his head.
But as he stopped and turned to face her, the arm he had tried so hard to hide came into view, wrapped in a cloth stained red.
With blood.
Patience gasped, and the shuttle slipped from her fingers to clang against the floor. “Your arm. You’ve been injured.”
He glanced down at the makeshift bandage as if surprised to find it affixed to him. “Yes, it appears so. Hence the need for a change of clothes.”
Patience shook her head. “That requires tending. It will turn septic if you don’t take a care.”
He eyed her a moment. “Who are you, exactly?”
She bobbed a curtsey, feeling her cheeks heat. “Patience Ramsey, your aunt’s new assistant.”
He reared back. “I will not allow Gussie’s preparations on my person.”
Patience raised her brows. “Are they so horrid?”
“You’ll have to ask the previous assistant. I believe she finally regained the use of her fingers, but I expect that rash will last for some time.”
Patience swallowed, then noticed the gleam in those blue eyes. “You’re making fun of me.”
“Never, madam,” he assured her. “But I can tend to my own wounds.”
“One-handed? Or have you a manservant you can enlist?”
That seemed to stop him. She could almost see the thoughts flying behind his eyes. If he didn’t want his aunt to know of his midnight prowl, perhaps he didn’t want the servants to know either. But, of course, someone would notice the ruined coat. Just like the master not to think of that.
“Very well,” he allowed, going to perch on the chair near the fire. “I would appreciate your assistance, Miss Ramsey. Thank you.”
So meek. She didn’t trust him for an instant. But she’d never been able to turn away someone hurting, whether illness, injury, or heartache. She went to the tall dresser, where she’d arranged the rosewater and ointment her mother had taught her to make. Funny how setting them in place had made the room feel more like home, for all she’d never had such a lovely space before. The room’s pale green walls, deep green carpet, and warm wood furnishings made her feel as if she wandered into a forest on a summer’s day.
She nearly hadn’t reached the beauty and solitude of the room. When Gussie had uttered that ridiculous statement about Patience being Sir Harold’s betrothed, Patience had been tempted to run back to the coach then and there. What sort of place was this where guests appeared without invitation? Where the mistress betrothed people without so much as an introduction? Had her eagerness to sever ties with Lady Carrolton’s stern household led her to something far worse?
But Miss Villers had stared at her dumbstruck, and Miss Thorn had demanded a moment of Gussie’s time. Before she knew it, Patience was sitting in a pretty withdrawing room done in shades of blue while Gussie paced about the thick carpet wringing her long-fingered hands.
“It’s all my fault. I had hopes of Harry settling down, so I took to inviting young ladies to visit. He never showed the least interest, but Miss Villers and her brother simply do not know when to call for the coach. I don’t remember inviting them for Easter, but either Harry or I must have done so because here they are.” She had stopped to gaze imploringly at Patience. “You understand, don’t you, Miss Ramsey?”
Not in the slightest, but that was nothing new. She’d never figured out why s
omething would set off Lady Carrolton, resulting in a whooping cough, explosive sneezes, or worse. She had done her best to smile encouragement to her new employer. “I could see why you might feel uncomfortable evicting them, your ladyship, but why introduce me as your nephew’s bride-to-be?”
Gussie had grown positively teary-eyed. “For Harry’s sake. He’s trying so hard to be the gentleman his father and grandfather could never be. He is determined to earn a spotless reputation. Miss Villers is equally determined to have him, no matter his reputation. If you pretend to be his betrothed, surely she’ll give it up and go. Harry should be away for several days. He won’t even know of our little deception.”
So much for that plan. Not only would Sir Harold hear of it, but he was clearly not the gentleman his aunt thought him to be.
Pulling a wool shawl off the bed, she carried the rosewater and ointment to his side. She’d never particularly liked the shawl, a hand-me-down from Lady Lilith, but it had been warm those days when the fire in Lady Carrolton’s hearth didn’t quite reach the dressing room cot, where Patience was supposed to be forever on duty even at night. It would keep away the chill now.
Or perhaps Sir Harold’s look would do that.
He did have the loveliest blue eyes, wide and guileless, and a dimple had popped into view at the side of his mouth as she approached.
She held up the ointment. “My own preparation, made from my mother’s recipe. It has rosewater, lavender, and glycerin in it.”
His mouth quirked. “So, I’ll smell like a garden, but I won’t expire.”
She fought her own smile. “Exactly.”
He untied the makeshift bandage, which she realized was his cravat. “Help me with this coat.”
She set the rosewater and ointment on the table beside his chair and eased the sleeve off his shoulder. As the coat came free, she saw the swath of red spreading across the muslin of his shirt. Peering closer, she spotted the tear and the angry line of the wound.
“What happened?” she asked, plucking the fabric away from the cut.
“Caught myself on a briar on the way home,” he said, watching her.
“I would commend you on your ability to lie,” Patience said, “but it’s not a convincing lie. No briar, sir, cuts through a sturdy wool coat and muslin shirt. I cannot tend to the wound unless I can see all of it. Remove your shirt, please.”
It was likely the urgency that made her speak so boldly. It was likely his injury that made him obey. She went to fetch the washbasin and cloth that had been left for her. Turning toward him, she tried not to stare at the bands of muscle, the sprinkling of dark hair. Clearly, he did something other than gamble and drink the days away.
“If you must know,” he said, “I was shot at. One of the pitfalls of chasing a married lady.”
Oh, but he was wicked. “You are fortunate the husband was such a poor shot.” She wet the washcloth with the rosewater and dabbed at the wound. The blood was congealing now, oozing slowly from the gash.
“I only wish I’d run faster,” he replied. “Ouch!”
Patience glanced up with her sweetest smile. “Forgive me. It will be tender for some time. Unlike your feelings for the lady, I suspect.” She busied herself opening the jar and dipping up a fingerful of the ointment.
He flinched back. “You’re certain it’s safe?”
Patience raised her brow. “I’m hardly going to poison you, Sir Harold.”
“Why not? Gussie tries on a regular basis.”
“And why would your own aunt want to poison a gentleman of your standing?”
That grin popped into view, bringing out the dimple again. “As you can see, she has countless reasons. Very well, do your worst. I’ll endeavor to bear it like a man.”
Patience bit back a response but spread the ointment over the wound. “And when I’m finished, you must retire to another room.”
He inspected her handiwork, then refolded the cravat to tie it over the wound. “But you’ve made me so comfortable here.”
Patience handed him his shirt. “I’ve done all I can. If you refuse to leave, I’ll simply have to ask your aunt for other accommodations. Even if Miss Thorn, Miss Villers, and her brother are in residence, there must be somewhere I can sleep undisturbed.”
In the act of pulling on the shirt, he stiffened. “You can’t ask Gussie. Not in front of the Villers.”
Why did he look even paler than a moment ago? Well, she was about to make it worse yet again. He could not rise in the morning innocent to his aunt’s machinations.
“I must,” Patience told him. She drew herself up. “And you may as well know all. Your aunt asked me to pose as your betrothed. If you don’t leave this room immediately, you may have no other choice than to follow through and marry me.”
~~~
Harry shook his head. He was a bit weak from lack of blood, but he could not have heard her correctly. “Gussie asked you to pose as my bride-to-be?”
“Yes.” Color was climbing in her cheeks, so she must know how that sounded. “She explained that Miss Villers is determined to marry you, so she felt announcing a betrothal might cause the young lady to lose interest.”
It might at that. It might also allow him another way to hide his activities with Undene and the French. If he went missing for a time, his supposed beloved could make his excuses, especially since she was in Gussie’s pay. His aunt ever had his best interests at heart, even if she sometimes had odd notions of how to show it. Still, a false engagement?
“We’ll sort this out in the morning,” he promised, shrugging into his coat and trying not to wince. “I’ll go to Gussie’s chambers and wait for her. I assume she’s entertaining the Villers.”
She nodded. “And Miss Thorn, who accompanied me here. I retired early so I wouldn’t have to think of answers to their questions.”
Rising, Harry frowned at her. “Questions? What sort of questions?”
She was turning pink again, the exact shade of the tulips his aunt had planted at the back of the garden. “About our engagement—how we met, when we plan to wed.”
And she did not like having to lie to them. Trust Gussie to pick a woman of integrity for her assistant. Yet if she was so intent on truth, why agree to the ruse?
His arm was starting to throb again, despite her excellent nursing. He needed somewhere to hole up. He moved toward the door but couldn’t help glancing back at her. “Thank you, Patience.”
She put her hands on her hips, pressing the flannel closer to her figure. He forced his gaze to her face, which had a decidedly determined cast. “I see no need for you to use my first name, sir.”
She was right. He’d indulged himself. Yet, after her help in such an intimate setting, it seemed impolite to call her Ramsey as if she was no different than any other member of the staff.
“We must be on a first-name basis with the engagement,” he pointed out. “But have no fear. I’m leaving.”
He cracked open the door, made sure no servants were about, then slipped down the corridor to Gussie’s rooms. As he started to open Gussie’s door, he glanced back to find Patience watching him. He winked at her. She snapped the door shut.
Interesting female. He could hardly wait to ask Gussie about her.
Unfortunately, he had to wait another hour before he heard his aunt approaching. Gussie was always moving and generally talking, as if the sound of her voice fueled her steps or vice versa. He pressed himself against the wall as she opened the door, heard her bid someone goodnight. As she shut the door, her gaze hit him, and her eyes brightened.
Harry put a finger to his lips and jerked his head toward the dressing room door, where, any moment, her maid Emma would appear. Gussie nodded and hurried in that direction.
“Go to bed, Emma,” she called through the dressing room door. “I’ll see to myself tonight.”
Emma was obviously so used to her mistress’ singularities that she did not argue.
“You’ll pay for that,” Harry predicted a
s Gussied hurried back to his side. “Don’t ask me to help you out of your corset.”
“I’ll just cut the string,” Gussie said. “It’s worked before. Oh, Harry!” She threw her arms around him, and despite his best efforts, he grunted at the pain.
She drew back, eyes wide. “What happened?”
“I wasn’t the only one meeting the boat,” he explained, motioning her to the two wingback chairs that faced the hearth. How many times had they sat here, sharing hopes, failures, dreams of something better? He didn’t remember his mother, refused to remember his father, but Gussie had been everything any boy could have wanted—half playmate, half provider, and all supporter.
“Revenue agents?” she asked as she took her accustomed spot.
“I don’t think so,” Harry said, taking the other chair. “I didn’t hear anyone claim to be under the King’s authority. I’m just glad the night was dark, and their aim was poor.” He turned to show her his torn and bloody sleeve.
“Oh, Harry!” She popped to her feet. “We must send for the physician at once.”
He held up his hand. “Peace. I don’t want the episode publicized. My informant in France has gone missing, and I’m not entirely sure of the bullet’s intended target.”
Gussie shivered. “I’m sorry to hear about Miss de Maupassant. But you must have treatment.” She perked up. “I have it! My newest preparation…”
“Will stay safely in your laboratory until we are certain it works,” Harry informed her. “And I already had treatment of a sort. From the woman who is to be my bride.”
He thought she might look guilty at the reminder, but she merely offered him a delighted grin. “Oh, good. You met Patience. Isn’t she a treasure?”
“Unusually levelheaded, given the circumstances,” he agreed. “Where did you find her, and what possessed you to ask her to pose as my bride-to-be?”
Gussie gripped the arms of the chair. “I was looking for an assistant in my work, and she had all the right skills. It wasn’t until I learned that Lydia Villers and her odious brother had invited themselves for Easter that I conceived of you and Patience being engaged.” She edged forward on the chair, firelight bronzing her high cheekbones. “It truly is the perfect solution, Harry. Patience can work with me as I had intended, but her presence will frighten off other young ladies like Miss Villers and leave you free to pursue more important matters.”