A Dangerous Man

by Janmarie Anello

  "We have come to take you home," Alison said, framing Leah's cheeks between her chubby palms.

  Home. Never had a word sounded so sweet.

  "Oh, I have missed you," Leah said, pressing her lips to the child's cheek, breathing the scent of her baby-soft skin.

  Richard's smile held a tenderness Leah had never seen before, and the emotion blazing in his eyes was blinding, like staring into the summer sun. With Alison clutched tightly against his chest, he helped Leah down the stairs.

  Once they were settled into the open carriage, he instructed the driver to take a turn through the park.

  The sun was warm and pleasant on Leah's face. The breeze redolent of freshly cut grass and grazing sheep.

  As the child nestling against her side drifted off to sleep, Leah slipped her hand into Richard's. His warm fingers closed around hers, his grip firm and tight. He sent her a smile, but the hard set of his jaw, the shadows haunting his eyes, sent a shiver of foreboding over her skin.

  Chapter Sixteen

  "Where is the duchess?" Richard demanded as he stomped into the butler's pantry, his voice bouncing off the oakpaneled walls.

  Harris dropped a rag smeared with an ammonia-scented paste next to the candlesticks lined up on the table before him. He rose from his chair, his features schooled into impassivity, as if Richard's presence in the pantry were an everyday occurrence. "I do not know, Your Grace. Perhaps she went out?"

  "I know she is out," Richard said, his jaw clenched, his voice tightly controlled to keep from bellowing at the man, who was not the object of his wrath. "I went to her room, only to find an empty bed when I should have found her resting. I have searched the house and the gardens, and there is no sign of her. So, I know she is out. What I want to know is, where is she?"

  The butler winced. "As to that, I'm afraid I couldn't say."

  "Pray, tell me please, is there anyone in this house who might know where she is?"

  "Perhaps her maid," Harris offered. "Or the coachman"

  Muttering a vicious stream of oaths, Richard strode from the room and marched to the stables. His breath hissed through his teeth as he breathed deeply to control his escalating tension.

  There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for her disappearance, or so he told himself, even though he had tucked her into her bed and given her strict orders not to move until he returned from his meeting with his solicitors. A mere twenty-four hours since he had brought her home and already she was defying him. He would be damned if he let her sicken again.

  Didn't she still suffer from spells of dizziness? Wasn't that proof she hadn't fully recovered from her ordeal?

  She seemed to have no memory of the event that had precipitated her mad dash into the storm, and for that Richard was beyond grateful. How would she ever believe he was an unwilling participant in a seemingly passionate kiss with another woman when the evidence of her own eyes would say otherwise?

  Hands planted on his hips, he strode into the stables and glared at the men mucking out the stalls. "Where is Her Grace?"

  Four blank faces stared back at him.

  "The Duchess?" he said, his temper flaring hotter with each passing moment. "Does anyone know where she is?"

  One of the stable hands shuffled forward, his face the same pasty hue as the straw sticking out of his cap. "She went to Mrs. Bristoll's, Your Grace. I usually goes with her, but I hurt m'leg yesterday, so's Jack went with her today."

  "Who is this Mrs. Bristoll and where does she live?"

  "She's the one what runs that foundling home," the groom said, twisting his hands together. "The one o'er in St. Giles-"

  "What?" he said, his voice soft, filled with chilling fury. "Who went with her? Never mind that. Saddle my horse. Immediately!"

  What the bloody hell was she doing in St. Giles! It was the worst rookery in the city, the streets crawling with vermin who would slit her throat for less than a farthing.

  Heedless of the dust spewing into his eyes, Richard paced the stable yard. Sweat dripped down his back and soaked his shirt, even as an icy shiver numbed his skin.

  God help him, when he got his hands on her, he was going to throttle her for the scare she was putting him through ... that is, if she wasn't already dead.

  One of the grooms led Kaddar from the stables.

  Before he could jump on the horse, a landaulet pulled into the carriage drive. Dirt-streaked windows reflected the waning sun and obscured the occupant's features, but Richard could discern a mass of golden curls that could only belong to Leah.

  He tossed the horse's reins to a stable boy, then stormed toward the vehicle and yanked open the door.

  Her cheeks were sallow, her eyes red-rimmed from pain and lack of sleep, vivid proof that she still suffered from her injury. She opened her mouth, but he glared her into silence as he swung her into his arms and stalked toward the house. "If you value your life, madam, you will not say a word"

  "But-"

  "Not one word!"

  His jaw tightened. His teeth scraped together. Her wideeyed gaze held a hint of fear, which made him want to shove his fist into the wall. She should be afraid, but not of him.

  Her reckless disregard for her safety could have cost them both her life and his sanity.

  Once in the library, he lowered her onto a chair. She wore her hair down around her oval face, as if to hide the angry, red gash across her temple, a grim reminder of all she had suffered.

  He leaned against his ebony desk, crossed his arms over his chest, and fixed her with his cold, dark stare. "Would you mind very much telling me why you aren't abed?"

  She peered up at him from beneath her golden brows, the setting sun catching the amber in her eyes. Tiny lines around her lips revealed her confusion. "Why should I be abed?"

  His brows slashed up. He breathed deeply, a poor attempt to modulate the fear and fury shaking his voice. "Am I mistaken, or did you not suffer a serious head injury less than a week ago?"

  She lifted her hands. "But I feel perfectly fine and the doctor said-"

  "I do not care what the doctor said," Richard bit out through tightly clenched teeth. "I said I wanted you to rest"

  He ran his hands through his hair and over his face. She looked lovely and innocent, dressed in a fetching sprigged muslin frock, a deep burgandy color that brought out the highlights in her hair. A perfect temptation to every randy buck and rotter prowling the filthy, over-crowded, crimeinfested streets. "You went to St. Giles? I do not care what you were doing or why you were there. I forbid you to ever go there again."

  "What did you say?" Her voice was low, quivering with an aching betrayal or perhaps it was rage.

  He paced before the windows, aware with every step he took that panic had control of his tongue, but he could not stop his words. "I said, I forbid you to go there again!"

  "You have no right," she said, jumping to her feet.

  "I have every right," he said. "Before both God and the law." He leaned toward her until they stood nose to nose. Her enticing scent of rosewater wrapped around him, seemed to cloud his senses and burn away whatever rational thought he might still retain. He was worried for her life and she was looking at him as if he were Satan himself, come to steal her soul. "If you dare defy me in this, I will take whatever measures necessary, even if I have to tie you to your bed to force you to rest"

  "The truth always comes out in the end, doesn't it?" she said, her voice low, trembling with icy indignation. Her hands balled into fists. Her cheeks flushed the same fiery red as the setting sun. "I have a sister, did you know that? No, I'm sure you didn't, because you know nothing about me"

  Her bitter laugh rumbled through the room. "You are just like my father. To him, I was nothing more than a brood mare for sale to the highest title. To you, I am no more valuable than that chair over there. Well, let me tell you something-"

  She jabbed her forefinger into his chest. "You can forbid me all you want, but you cannot stop me from doing as I see fit. Because no ma
tter what you think, Your Grace, you do not own me"

  Without another word, she turned and flounced from the room.

  Leah rummaged through her correspondence, a small mountain of invitations and calling cards that had arrived during the week she'd spent at Abby Cunningham's. It was laughable, as not one of these women cared if she lived or died, but they dared not ignore her completely and risk the wrath of the mighty Duke of St. Austin. The arrogant, selfpossessed, pompous blowfish!

  Who did he think he was, to order her about like that?

  His pretentious edict taunted her with its double-edged thrust. With one breath, he cried concern for her safety. With the next, he declared ownership of her body as if she were no more than a piece of furniture. He was just like Papa!

  No, he was worse than Papa, who, at least, was honest in his vile intentions. Richard hid behind a mask of caring and concern. Throughout her illness, he had hovered by her side, refusing to allow anyone but himself to care for her. She had dared to hope that he had come to love her, if only a little.

  Today, he had shattered those hopes with his callous commands and heartless words. Not that it mattered.

  Nothing mattered at the moment but finding a competent physician. Since her last visit to the foundling home before her injury, Tommy's condition had deteriorated so drastically, he appeared little more than a bundle of bones wrapped in his quilted counterpane. The shocking change heightened the pain still throbbing through Leah's head.

  Unable to find the one card she needed, she shoved the papers aside. How could she send a footman to fetch the doctor who had treated her when she could not even remember the man's name, much less his direction? What was wrong with her?

  Why could she not remember anything about her accident, either the moments before or the moments after? It was maddening.

  She grabbed her cloak and headed for the door.

  As much as it would embarrass her to admit her shocking lack of memory, Abby Cunningham would be able to give her the information she needed.

  Richard threw his napkin on the table and picked up his brandy while Rachel kept up a constant stream of chatter, as if her escapades amongst the shops of Bond Street held even the slightest interest. He scowled at Leah's empty chair.

  That she had failed to appear for their evening meal did not surprise him, given the force of her righteous fury. Richard had thought to join her in her rooms, but he had not wished to provoke another scene, which would hardly allow her to obtain the rest she needed. Self-disgust burned through him, more potent than the fiery brandy spreading heat through his veins.

  How could he explain the throat-clenching panic that had caused him to behave so abominably this afternoon? Or the fear that had blurred his senses during the days she'd hovered between life and death? She was his wife. Of course he was concerned for her safety. Of course, he wanted her to rest and regain her health. Why couldn't she understand that? And what did that cryptic remark about her sister have to do with anything?

  He stared into his brandy as if the answers to his questions lay hidden in its murky depths. He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and hold her through the night, but he refused to be accused of using her.

  Didn't she know how much she meant to him?

  How much he cared?

  The door crashed open and a stable boy burst into the room.

  Rachel's shocked gasp and muttered protest followed Richard as he lunged to his feet. Heart pounding with sudden, awful premonition, he strode toward the lad. "What is it, boy?"

  "Your Grace. The coachman sent me to fetch you. Quick."

  Chapter Seventeen

  "Thank you for coming so swiftly, Dr. Ashcroft," Leah said, barely able to restrain her growing agitation. Tommy was so weak, he couldn't open his eyes for more than a few seconds at a time. She didn't think he would survive one more bout of fever.

  "Your Grace," the doctor said, giving a stiff bow. "I trust you suffer no ill effects from your injury?"

  "I am well." She nodded toward the trestle bed nestled amongst the pots and pans and preserves in the pantry. "It is this young man who needs your attention. You are the third medical man we have consulted since his illness began. As the last suggested spider webs and amulets, you find us rather desperate."

  "I see" The doctor pulled his spectacles down to the tip of his nose, then looked up at her over the rims. "Would you please describe his symptoms?"

  Mrs. Bristoll could not speak past her tears. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief clutched in her fist.

  Using the back of her hand, Leah brushed the damp hair off her brow. "His first attack occurred four weeks ago" On the day she first met Richard and learned of her father's perfidy.

  Good heavens, how much her life had changed in these few short weeks. "At first, it seemed a bout of influenza with accompanying aches and pains, followed by many days of perfect health. Over the last week, Mrs. Bristoll said the fevers have come with increasing frequency. I, myself, was too ill to attend him in his duress"

  "He shivers with cold," Mrs. Bristoll finally managed, her voice hoarse from smothering her sobs. "Then he burns, for long hours. Finally, he sweats through his bedding. Then he wakes, cool as can be. Next day, it all starts again."

  "He has been purged from top to bottom," Leah added, "as per the first doctor's direction, but that treatment has had no effect, save to leave the boy weaker than the fever it was meant to fight."

  The doctor nodded. "Tertian fever, from the sounds. It is often thought a common grippe, even by the most experienced of physicians, as the patient seems fine in between recurrences"

  Leah wrapped her arm around Mrs. Bristoll's shoulders and gave her a reassuring squeeze. She hoped the woman took some comfort from the doctor's words, as Mrs. Bristoll was nearly overcome, blaming herself for failing to recognize the seriousness of the situation sooner than she had.

  "Until the intermissions become more perfect," the doctor said, "more predictable, one can never be quite certain. Even then, only time and his response to treatment will tell the tale. Would you be so kind as to show me to my patient?"

  "Certainly." Leah gestured toward the pantry.

  The house was eerily silent, save for the squeaking floorboards above them as Mrs. Bristoll climbed the stairs and tucked the other children into their beds.

  While the doctor pushed his fingers into Tommy's stomach, Leah stroked her hand over the boy's brow. It was cool and soft, no sign of the fever that was eating away his will to survive. In a few hours, did he not gain relief, he would be soaked with sweat and shivering as if he slept atop a bed of snow.

  "I will need warm water," the doctor finally said.

  Leah retrieved a bowl from the shelf, then shuffled into the kitchen to fill it from the kettle hanging over the hearth. She added enough cold water from the ewer on the wooden table to cool the liquid to a tepid base.

  The doctor took off his spectacles, rubbed them with the ends of his cravat, before putting them back on. "He needs bleeding for the excess fluids in his lungs."

  "Bleeding?" Leah clutched her hand to her throat. "But he is so weak"

  Dr. Ashcroft offered her a gentle smile. "I would treat him no differently, were he your own child, Your Grace. As you can see, he is laboring to breathe. Bleeding will balance the humors and ease his distress. The cinchona bark will treat the fever. He will need several doses over the next few days. Though I must inform you, this substance brings no guarantees, save the cost. It is very dear"

  "You need not worry about your fee," Leah said, sitting on a stool beside the bed.

  The doctor pulled three phials from his valise. He spooned a powder into a cup, then added two different liquids. Slipping his arm beneath Tommy's shoulders, he dripped the decoction into the boy's mouth. "Now, I do not want you to worry when he does not awaken. Cinchona bark is quite bitter, so I have mixed in several drops of laudanum to keep his stomach from convulsing."

  She closed her eyes. "How will we k
now if it is working?"

  "If he remains cool when the time comes round for his next fever, then we will know." The doctor made a tiny nick between the first two knuckles of the boy's left hand, then submerged his fingers into the bowl to let the warm water draw off the blood.

  Leah took Tommy's right hand in hers. It felt so small, so lifeless, her vision blurred beneath her tears. She had told herself not to get too attached. The chances that any of these children would live a year, two at the most, were never very good, better now that they dwelled under Mrs. Bristoll's roof, but still not good. When they arrived, they were under-fed. Under-grown. Under-loved. Withered stalks, never likely to bloom.

  Of course, it was easier to tell oneself not to care, than it was to turn off one's heart. She tried not to think of her sister's child, but once unleashed, the thoughts made a never-ending circle through her mind. Was he fed? Was he clothed?

  Did someone hold his hand as his blood filled a bowl?

  Pile blankets atop him? Soothe his brow?

  She closed her eyes as the room swirled around her. Someone called her name. It sounded like Richard, but that couldn't be. He belonged in another world, another place, where life was clean and tidy, and little children didn't die from hunger and neglect.

  Through the buzzing in her ears, she heard the distant sound of boot heels scraping over the wooden floorboards in the kitchen. She turned her gaze to the door. It was Richard.

  He pulled up another stool. His dark eyes held no hint of his earlier wrath, nor condemnation or disgust for the wretched soul huddling in the tiny bed. He did not speak. He simply stroked her hand as he sat beside her.