Ambersley (Lords of London)

by Amy Atwell

  “Harry and Aunt Bess went to Tunbridge Wells, but I’m the guest of Lord and Lady Brindle.”

  “How lovely. If only I’d known, you could have stayed with family.”

  Johanna’s skin prickled as if a spider walked across it. “Perhaps some other time, my lady.”

  “Yes,” Lady Vaughan agreed. Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve had word from Ambersley that Derek is suffering from an odd fever.”

  Johanna stiffened. “How—?”

  “Cushing sent a groom to seek out Mr. Coatsworth.” She waved a gloved hand at the triviality of the situation as she spoke. “But when the man found the house on Portman Square empty, he sought us out. Don’t worry yourself, I’ve sent my own physician to see to him.”

  Instead of soothing Johanna, this only made her more anxious. “Has someone sent word to Harry?” she asked.

  “No need for that,” Curtis said. “Mother sent the physician. I instructed him myself to give Derek special care.”

  Concerned by the dark tone of his words, her teeth tugged on her bottom lip, but she held her silence as the orchestra launched into a familiar waltz.

  “Lady Johanna, might I beg this dance?” Lord Worthing asked with a bow.

  She gratefully accepted and allowed him to whisk her away from Lady Vaughan’s palpable displeasure. But Johanna was too concerned by other things to give much thought to displeasing her distant aunt as she followed her partner’s lead.

  Lord Worthing chuckled softly. “It’s quite humbling. I finally get you to myself with no fear of Derek tearing us apart, yet he still monopolizes your thoughts.”

  Her gaze swept up to meet his.

  “It’s written plainly on your face.” He spun her in a tight, fast turn. “Why do you worry so? He’s young and hale. The fever shan’t trouble him long.”

  “He took a fever in India, and sometimes it recurs.” Memories plagued her. “One time, a few years ago, Derek returned from London all pale and thin and drawn. Cushing told me his Master had suffered for over a week and nearly died.”

  “Cushing?”

  “His valet.”

  He watched her, his brow knit, and one corner of his mouth pulled back. “You’ve known Derek a long time.”

  Belatedly, she cursed her slip. She waited, but he didn’t press her with questions. Finally, she gave her thoughts words. “You asked me to count you as a friend. I’m in a need of a friend now.”

  “I’m at your service, my lady.” He tilted his head to better hear her request.

  “I must go to Ambersley at once,” she whispered.

  He drew back, though his steps never faltered. “Is that all?”

  She waited for him to laugh at her—Derek would have. But he only studied her in that disconcerting way of his. “The fever might endanger him, and I don’t—” She drew a breath and plunged into a confession. “I don’t trust his stepmother.”

  This sharpened his attention. “Have you cause to distrust her?”

  She allowed a tiny nod. “Please, Lord Worthing, if I try to explain, Lady Brindle will apply to Lady Vaughan for permission, and she won’t want me to go. But I know about nursing, and I can be of help to Derek. He has no one else.”

  The silver flecks in his eyes glittered, and the hand resting at her waist tightened. “Then he’s lucky to have you. What do you propose?”

  She thought for a few moments. “We could step out to the balcony, then slip away and you could drive me to Ambersley in your coach.”

  “Without a word to anyone?” This time, his lips definitely twitched.

  “You won’t help me,” she said, feeling foolish.

  “My dear, I’d like to, but while Derek may be too sick to shoot me, Harry is not.”

  Johanna nodded with a blink, and they continued the waltz in silence.

  Worthing sighed. “A woman’s unshed tears will most definitely prove the death of me. Don’t despair, my sweet Johanna. I shall call upon you tomorrow morning, and if you’re still determined to leave for Ambersley, I shall find a way to convey you there.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. But even as she said it, she was considering a more immediate—and daring—plan.

  ~

  Within an hour, Johanna pleaded a headache, and the Brindle party returned home.

  “What you need is a good night’s sleep,” Lady Brindle said as she climbed the creaking staircase with a candelabra flickering light onto the walls. “You girls have been staying up too late talking every night.”

  “I am rather tired,” Johanna said quietly. She placed a hand to her head.

  “I’ll bring you a cool compress,” Emily offered.

  “No. I’m sure once I lay my head on the pillow, I’ll fall right to sleep.”

  “Leave your friend be, Emily.” Lady Brindle opened Johanna’s door and handed her a candle. “We’ll see you at breakfast, my dear.”

  “Thank you.” Johanna stepped inside and closed the door. Quietly, she lit the candles by her bed and started to undress. Her stays gave her some trouble, but she’d rarely used Nancy’s assistance at night. Stripped to her chemise, she opened the trunk at the foot of her bed and dug beneath the folded fabrics to withdraw a bundle wrapped in white paper and tied with cord.

  As she unfolded the paper and withdrew the worn pair of breeches, voluminous white shirt, and embroidered waistcoat, doubts hammered her. But Derek’s words from long ago soothed her. Once you decide on a course of action, you must see it through. You can make a wrong decision and still come out of it in one piece. But when you begin to have doubts, when you don’t take any action because you can’t decide what to do, that’s when you get your men killed.

  Quickly she donned the garments she had worn in another life. She rummaged in the bottom of the trunk until her hands fell upon her riding boots. The leather felt snug and stiff with inaction as she tugged them on. Thank heavens she’d decided to wear her hair up—all she needed was a hat. There, the battered tricorne was a little old-fashioned, but no one would question it on a servant.

  Johanna checked her shadowy image in the tall looking glass and smiled at the reflected countenance of a tall boy who would never be mistaken for Lady Johanna Vaughan. Whether or not she could carry off this masquerade in the bright light of day she wasn’t sure, but by dawn she’d be safe at Ambersley. She grabbed a sprigged muslin gown and a wool blanket. Looking at the myriad underclothes, she knew she’d never fit them in a saddle roll. With a philosophic shrug, she rolled up the dress, a chemise, a pair of stockings and shoes. She’d just make do until Harry and Aunt Bess came.

  Like a mouse she descended the stairs and tiptoed into Lady Brindle’s drawing room. By the light of her single candle, she found paper and ink and dashed off a quick note. I’ve gone to Ambersley. Please, don’t worry. It dismayed her to think how she would anger Bess and Harry and frighten Emily and her mother. But she dared not risk time to write more.

  She left the note on a table and snuffed the candle before sneaking through the empty kitchen and out to the Brindle’s tiny mews. Saddling her horse in the dark was a chore, and she had to remind herself to move about slowly and quietly. As she led her mount from the stable, its clopping hoof beats thundered loud as cannon in the silent night. But her luck held, and no one stirred in the house.

  She heard the watch cry out half past eleven o’clock as she reached the dark street. Only now did the enormity of her plan strike her. She wanted to ride to Ambersley by dawn. She needed to take the Bath road but had no idea how to find her way. At the street corner, she stopped to consider her next move.

  A rustling in the moonlight provoked a nicker from her horse. She stepped closer to the animal’s shoulder as another horse and rider materialized from the nearly black shadows. When the man dismounted, his lithe movements were unmistakable.

  “Lord Worthing?”

  “Damn,” he muttered as he led his horse over. “What is that getup you’re in?”

  She pressed her lips together, though it wa
s a little late to try to hide her plan. Finally, she stepped forward into the moonlight. “Why are you here?”

  “Because, like you, I must be fit for Bedlam.” He motioned for her to turn around, which she did. “You’ve masqueraded like this before. Can you ride astride?”

  “Yes.” The beginning of a smile dawned. “You’ll help me?”

  “How else am I to sleep, knowing you’re traipsing about like a lamb in the dark?”

  “I thought you’d send me back to the Brindles’.”

  “As if you’d stay.” He shook his head. “I knew from the moment I first saw you, you’d be trouble. Do you need a leg up?”

  She wanted to hug him, but settled for a happy leap onto her horse’s back.

  “You have done this before.” He mounted his horse. “Someone should put you over his knee and beat you soundly.”

  “Try it,” she challenged in a jaunty tone. When he looked at her, she cocked an eyebrow at him.

  Lord Worthing barely checked his laughter. “I’ll leave that for Derek. He may not be at all happy to see you, you know.”

  Her throat tightened as she recalled their fight. “I know.”

  “And you have no concern about riding off in the middle of the night with no protection but mine and, I might add, no protection from me?”

  Her horse sidled up next to his. “Do I need protection from you?”

  He raised his forefinger as if to lecture her, then his shoulders slumped. “No, I suppose not. Come, and while we ride, please apply your mind to how you’ll explain away this fit of madness once we arrive at Ambersley.”

  “Is that all, my lord?”

  “One thing more—remove your ear bobs.”

  Chagrined, she quickly pocketed the jewels, and with a nod of thanks to him, they set forward at a smart trot. The full moon bathed the two dark riders in its silvery light as they cleared the city gates and whipped their mounts into a ground-eating gallop.

  Chapter 17

  Cushing gritted his teeth as Dr. Wardlaw placed the leeches, one by one, on the duke’s prone form. Cushing wasn’t sure which he hated more, the leeches or the physician himself, but as the barber—who’d cupped the duke thrice in as many days—had already shaken his head in defeat over the duke’s illness, Cushing didn’t dare turn this man away.

  Derek hovered between a feverish state of consciousness and oblivion. The fever had run its course for four days now, and its toll was pronounced. He lay inert, an unhealthy pallor to his normally rugged skin. The dozens of leeches left tiny trickles of blood as Dr. Wardlaw moved them. It gave Cushing the chills, but he felt powerless to defend his master.

  The physician stopped his ministrations long enough to pour himself a glass of brandy from the crystal decanter. Cushing stoically didn’t react to this open thievery even when the man turned and saluted him before downing the liquid in a gulp.

  “Ahhh, if one has to sit up all night with a patient only to lose him, the least one should get is a good brandy.”

  With a start, Cushing approached the bedside and saw his master’s labored breathing.

  The physician nodded. “His lungs are getting worse, and I can’t remove blood from him fast enough. You may be seeking a new job before the day’s over.”

  Cushing soothed his outrage with the promise that if the duke died, he would seek out and pay a visit to the good physician.

  Outside, Johanna jumped from her lathered horse and ran up the wide steps to the front door before Worthing could dismount. She slid into the front hall and called up the stairs. “Paget?”

  Paget peered over the railing. “Johnny!” His eyes widened as Worthing entered behind her.

  She spared no breath on explanations. “How is the duke?”

  “Very ill. Cushing is upstairs with him and Lady Vaughan’s physician.”

  Johanna didn’t like the dark emphasis the butler placed on the last word. Taking the stairs two at a time, she ran unerringly to the master bedchamber door and burst through it like a whirlwind. She quickly surveyed the candlelit scene then raised her eyes to a surprised Cushing. “How is he?” she entreated.

  The burly valet shook his head grimly. “It’s not good.”

  “Cushing, who is this?” Dr. Wardlaw demanded. “How dare he barge in here and interrupt? You—what are you doing? Stop that! Stay away from him.”

  Johanna leaned over the duke and tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Derek was far more ill than she’d imagined. She turned to Cushing. “How long has he been like this?”

  Dr. Wardlaw spun her by the shoulder. “The duke has been ill for nearly a week. Now you must leave at once,” he said forcefully.

  Nonplused, Johanna cast her eyes over the physician’s pudgy face, badly tailored coat and worn shoes. “Pack your things, and I’ll have the coach deliver you to Ambersham. Your services are no longer required here.”

  The physician gave a blustery laugh. “Young man, I’m here at Lady Vaughan’s own direction. Who do you think you are to order me around?”

  “I’m the duke’s ward.”

  “You look no better than a servant. You’ve no authority here.”

  “Then you may leave on my authority,” came a voice from the door. “Tell her ladyship the Marquess of Worthing discharged you.”

  Dr. Wardlaw sputtered and turned crimson. “This is an outrage!”

  “I agree,” Worthing said, his bored tone barely concealing contempt. “The whole night’s been outrageous, so don’t try my patience further. Now leave.”

  Cushing blew out a breath and turned on the good doctor with a predatory smile.

  The physician grabbed his bag and fled the chamber.

  “Thank you,” Johanna said.

  Worthing stepped closer to look over her shoulder and shuddered at the sight of the many leeches. “You were right to come. I’m not sure the bloodletting is helping.”

  “He continues to grow worse,” Cushing murmured. Fatigue etched the giant’s face.

  Johanna touched his arm. “I wager you haven’t left his side since he fell ill.”

  He grunted a non-committal reply.

  “You’re not alone anymore, Cushing. I’m here, and I won’t let anything happen to him.”

  “Admirable, my dear,” Worthing said behind her. “But don’t you think we should remove those…those…” He didn’t seem to be able to name them.

  Johanna peered over her shoulder to find their long ride had left him rumpled and wind-blown. “Would you fetch Cushing a brandy, my lord, and perhaps one for yourself?”

  That slow smile of his appeared. “An excellent notion.” He went unerringly to the table holding the decanter and glasses.

  Cushing stayed with her. “I don’t need spirits, my lady. What may I do to help?”

  “For now, I want you to sit. You look dead on your feet.” Before she could ask, Worthing corralled the servant and drew him to a chair where Cushing’s knees all but collapsed as he dropped into it.

  Johanna drew a ragged breath, but with firm resolve began to pluck the leeches from Derek’s body. “I need something for these.”

  Cushing tried to rise. “There’s a bowl—”

  “I’ll get it,” Worthing said as he pushed the bigger man back into the chair. “Your mistress said sit—I expect you to comply.”

  Cushing blinked, but didn’t question the voice of authority.

  Worthing brought the bowl and held it for her to dispose of the slimy creatures. “Those things don’t make you squeamish?” He winced as one of the creatures fell onto his hand.

  “They’re not so different from slugs or snails,” she said. She lifted a wet sponge from the bucket near the bed and wiped Derek’s chest as she cleared away the leeches, erasing the tiny trails of blood they left behind.

  Derek twitched under her ministrations, but his sounds and actions were unintelligible.

  As she dropped more leeches in the bowl, she glanced up to find Worthing contemplating her.

  “Is t
here anything you cannot do?” he asked. His normal sarcasm was conspicuously absent.

  So many things. “Needlework,” Johanna replied, holding her fears at bay. She paused to smooth Derek’s brow, hot and dry beneath her hand. “I dislike it so, I have no heart to apply myself to it.”

  Worthing touched her shoulder. “Apply your heart to the important things.”

  She closed her eyes at his words. “I would have come sooner had I known.”