by Martha Keyes
“You are bleeding again.” He looked at her with a worried brow.
“Only slightly,” she said. “I will have Lucy put on new bandages before we leave.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You aren’t going anywhere.” He put a hand to her brow, and her eyes flew to his. “You are warm.”
“It is only these blankets.” She turned her head away, forcing him to drop his hand. She was certainly stubborn.
“Give me your hand. I want to check your pulse.”
She cocked a brow at him. “Are you a doctor now too, then? A fourth accomplishment to add to the triad?”
He tried to suppress a smile and took the wrist she reluctantly offered. Her reference to their ongoing joke acted strangely on him, as if reforging a bond. A bond he wasn’t sure he wanted anymore.
He could feel a faint pulse in her soft, white wrist, and he frowned as he concentrated on its rhythm.
It quickened suddenly and strengthened, and he raised his eyes to hers. Her cheeks were flushed, but after meeting his gaze for a moment, she averted her eyes.
He let her wrist down gently, clearing his throat. “You were right. I am no doctor.” He watched as the color in her cheeks abated and wondered if her pulse was slowing again.
She was genuine in her apology, and the guilt she felt was obvious. He didn’t doubt that. And if he put himself in her place, he couldn’t say with any degree of certainty that he would have acted differently. If Anne and Mary’s health or safety relied upon such a ruse, would he not have entered into it willingly?
But that knowledge didn’t rid him of the hurt or of the injury to his pride, silly though both might be.
He had the power to ruin her. He knew that. But to ruin her would be to bring his own actions under scrutiny and condemnation. And he could not afford that.
Perhaps he was a fool. But, woman or no, he still felt the bond of friendship connecting him to her. And even though it might seem justified to most, he couldn’t bring himself to consign Miss Hawthorn and her brother to the devil.
Her health required her to stay put, no matter Philip’s feelings. But even if she had not been injured or at risk of infection, he had questions for her—questions that he couldn’t ask today. She needed rest.
And he wasn’t so certain that he didn’t need her, too. She was still the Swan. Things were looking more promising with Miss Devenish, to be sure. But they might shift as suddenly for the worse as they had for the better, and Philip wasn’t blind enough to think that Miss Hawthorn wasn’t responsible for any headway he had made.
“I want you to stay.”
Her gaze flew to his, and she paused for a moment before shaking her head.
“We had an agreement,” he said. “And I expect you to fulfill your end of it.”
Her brow wrinkled. “You entered into that agreement without a full knowledge of the facts—you believed you were hiring a man to help you.”
“And you are a woman.”
She nodded, and her hand stole to her hair. It was a subtle movement, but there was uncertainty in it, and it endeared her to Philip in spite of himself. It wasn’t the gesture of someone who engaged in deceit regularly. It was the gesture of a woman who was unused to her hair—perhaps not confident in it.
“I hired the Swan,” he said. “You are the Swan. You told me so yourself. And I fully expect you to keep your end of our agreement. I do not claim to understand or condone what you have done. Nor will I pretend that I am pleased. I am angry with you. Furious, really. If it weren’t for your injury, I would be tempted to call you out myself.”
“And I wouldn’t blame you in the least,” she said softly.
He frowned. “Curse your humility. Why can you not be defensive? Or impenitent? It makes it very difficult indeed to be angry with you.”
“I can try if you would like,” she said with an attempt at a smile. “But the fact is, you no longer stand in any need of my help, my lord.”
“Oh, you would risk having me revert to spitting lemon tart on Miss Devenish?”
A small but sad smile appeared on her lips. “I have no fear of that happening. You are well able to handle things from here.”
“You have more confidence in me than I have in myself. Regardless, I insist that you keep your end of the agreement, Miss Hawthorn.” The name felt strange on his lips after calling her Ruth for so long.
A tear slipped from her eye, and she brushed impatiently at it before it had time to trail down her cheek.
He smiled wryly. “You are a woman.”
She gave a chuckle. “After weeks of wearing cravats and pantaloons, I have my own doubts on the subject.” She looked at him, and her smile faded, replaced by a serious expression. “Do you really wish for my help?”
He gave a nod. “Just until the Walthams’ masquerade. As we had agreed upon.”
She held his gaze for a moment, and he saw the cogs turning in her head. “Very well.”
On the walk back to Brook Street, fatigue began to overtake Philip, and with it, a sliver of doubt. When he had returned to his uncle’s with the spectacles, it had not been with the intention of allowing his pride to be overtaken by sympathy. But that is what had happened. His anger had collapsed as he had spoken with Miss Hawthorn.
He sighed. He might well live to regret his good deed. But he contented himself with the knowledge that his suit with Miss Devenish was much more likely to prosper with the continued help of the Swan.
He waved off the servants upon his arrival home, pulling his top boots from his feet, stripping off his coat, cravat, and waistcoat, and dropping upon his four-poster bed, where he was quickly overtaken by sleep.
He woke two hours later with a grumbling stomach and wondered if Ruth—or Miss Hawthorn, rather—had eaten yet. Their plan for a large breakfast and a nap had been ruined. The thought of them both stretched out on the drawing room sofas, as he had imagined them doing, brought a frown to his face and a little flicker of revived annoyance—as much at himself as at Ruth. How in the world had he let himself be bamboozled for so long?
He had assured her that he would come to check in on her that afternoon and, while he was regretting the offer now, he was a man of his word. After dressing and ordering a belated breakfast be served in the breakfast parlor, he made his way back to Upper Brook Street.
Miss Hawthorn was sitting up in bed, partaking of bread and broth, and looking much better than earlier. The pink in her cheeks was a healthy one rather than the flush of fever, and the laudanum-induced sluggishness had gone. She used her left hand for eating, allowing her right arm to rest at her side. A silk dressing gown was wrapped around her, and the glasses lay forgotten on the bedside table.
She smiled a bit hesitantly upon seeing him in the doorway, as if she was unsure whether he had rethought his earlier decision.
“I have come to see how you are faring.” He stepped into the room, leaving the door open. It was all so strange now, trying to decide how strictly to guard propriety after all the time they had spent alone together.
“Very well, thank you.” She smiled slightly. “Lucy changed my bandages not long ago, and I immediately felt foolish for making such a fuss over a mere scratch.”
He chuckled and sat down in the chair beside the bed. “Well, it certainly bled more than a scratch. You wouldn’t allow Doctor Shepherd to examine you until we were here, so I had no idea if Munroe’s bullet had found its way into you or not.” His smile faded as he realized why she had insisted upon such a course of action.
She seemed to realize what he was thinking, for her smile turned into a frown as well.
“You are fortunate the ball only grazed you.” He was unable to keep a hint of annoyance from his tone. “If it had found its way into a lung or one of your other organs, your insistence might have cost you your life.”
She swallowed, and her voice was soft when she responded. “I was fairly certain that I was in no danger of dying.”
“You might have let me know, the
n,” he said.
“I did,” she pointed out. “I even said there was no need for the doctor.”
He scoffed. “Not terribly convincing, given the blood soaking your coat and the way you fainted in the carriage.”
Her eyes widened and then glazed over, as if she was trying to remember. “I did, didn’t I? How mortifying. And chicken-hearted.”
“I don’t think a woman who has played a part in a duel could fairly be called chicken-hearted.”
She smiled wanly.
“What were you thinking?” he said. “Have you no regard for your own life?”
She shot him a significant look. “Oh, believe me. I contemplated making an escape more than enough times to set me firmly in the camp of the chicken-hearted.”
“And yet you didn’t. Why?” It was incomprehensible to him, and it frustrated him not to be able to understand. It was a reminder of how little he understood someone he had thought he knew well. Had he not told Doctor Shepherd he knew Ruth better than he knew most men?
Her cheeks gained even more color, and she took a moment before responding with a little shrug of the shoulders, avoiding his eye. “I didn’t want my behavior to reflect poorly upon you.”
He blinked, disarmed.
She glanced at him and rushed on. “Everyone who has come to know of me in Town associates me with you. They saw you come to my side when Munroe challenged me. Any cowardice on my part would have made you look foolish as well.”
He was speechless for a moment. It had not been the answer he was expecting. “So you risked your life for the opinion of a host of strangers?”
She took her spoon from the bowl and slowly set it on the tray. “They are not strangers to you, though, are they?”
“No, but they know me well enough not to be swayed for long over such an occurrence.”
The corner of her mouth tugged up in wry amusement. “Ah, yes. That unassailable reputation of yours.”
“Something like that,” he said with a begrudging smile.
When she spoke, there was a stiffness about her. “You might have survived with everyone’s good opinion intact, but I would have lost yours. And I couldn’t bring myself to face that.” A corner of her mouth pulled up in a wry smile. “I suppose I lost it in the end despite that.”
Philip found himself bereft of speech yet again, but he was spared the necessity of responding by the appearance of Mr. Hawthorn in the doorway.
He checked on the threshold at the sight of Philip. “Ah, you here again. Is he chastising you, Ruth?” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Philip.
She shook her head with a smile. “No, he is not.” She looked at Philip again. “Topher is returning home tomorrow. To check on the family—just for two or three days. He has refused all my begging to accompany him.” She shot her brother a displeased look.
“I find myself in agreement with him,” Philip said. “A bumpy journey was not in Doctor Shepherd’s recommendations for your recovery.”
She cocked a brow. “I may be a woman, but I am not a fragile flower. And the injury is nothing—you know that as well as I do.”
Mr. Hawthorn shot Philip a glance that pleaded for his support.
Philip cleared his throat. “I am afraid I cannot forgo the Swan’s services for that long.”
“So you take Topher’s part, do you? Traitor,” she breathed.
Mr. Hawthorn laughed at his sister’s antics. “She has never gone this long without seeing Joanna or George,” he explained to Philip. “Don’t fret, Ruthie. I will tuck them in and give them your love.”
Philip watched Ruth’s throat bob as she nodded with a smile. She had spoken of her younger siblings a few times over the course of their acquaintance, and her affection for them had been apparent, but the knowledge that she was an older sister somehow changed things for Philip. It made her sacrifices for them more…poignant.
Mr. Hawthorn came up to his sister on the opposite side of the bed as Philip. “I shall be back before you know it, though I don’t flatter myself it’s my absence that puts that look upon your face. The stage will put me back here around seven in the evening on Friday, and I expect a full dinner to be ready for me upon my arrival.”
Philip frowned. “The stage?”
Hawthorn nodded.
“Don’t be ridiculous. How far is Marsbrooke?”
Hawthorn shrugged. “A matter of twenty miles or so. But I am perfectly fine on the stagecoach, Oxley.”
“My uncle expects you to make use of his carriage. You will take it, of course.”
Hawthorn looked at his sister, as if for guidance.
She shrugged. “He can be very stubborn. And insufferable.”
Philip nodded with a half-smile. “Best not to try me.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Topher left the room to give instructions to the servants on dinner. Ruth’s hunger had been teased but not satiated by the bland bread and broth Lucy had brought.
She stared after her brother thoughtfully. A journey home might do Topher good—reminding him of what was most important, of the realities of their situation. Ruth envied him in a way. She needed the reminder just as much.
But Topher leaving town provided her and Oxley with an opportunity.
“What is it?” Oxley asked.
“I was just thinking…why do we not get up a small card party here? We could invite Miss Devenish and Miss Parkham—and others if you wish. An opportunity—and an excuse—for you to have more time with Miss Devenish.”
Oxley tilted his head to the side. “Hm. I suppose we could ask my sister to play hostess.”
Ruth’s stomach turned uncomfortably. She was intimidated by Lady Tipton, but they could hardly host a party without someone to lend it propriety. “If you think she would accept?”
“Accept? She has been begging me to allow her such a role these past weeks. I shall send a note to her this evening.”
“Do you think Wednesday is too early?” Ruth asked with some hesitation. The card party needed to happen while Topher was still gone. The fewer reminders he had of Miss Devenish, the better. Ruth had even considered telling him to remain in Marsbrooke. But when she had hinted at the option, Topher had rejected it flatly.
“I’m not leaving my sister—the one who was just shot in a duel, mind you—by herself in London for that long. Who do you think I am?”
What difference three days or a week made, Ruth couldn’t see, but she had refrained from pressing the matter.
“I think Wednesday is feasible,” Oxley said. “If Alice accepts—which I have no doubt of whatsoever—I will instruct her to send invitations to Miss Devenish and Miss Parkham. I imagine that Miss Devenish’s mother will be glad to accompany them.”
Ruth nodded, trying to ignore the way her heart shrank from her task as the Swan. Somehow it felt even more difficult now that Oxley knew the truth than it had before. He might be allowing her to stay on to consult him, but she would be foolish to read anything more into it than that. He knew she had deceived him, and she could still feel a hint of coolness in his manner when any reminder of the fact cropped up.
But even if that weren’t the case, she was so very far from the type of woman he would consider as anything more than a friend—or a charity case, perhaps. He employed her, for heaven’s sake.
“I imagine we will have to postpone the lesson we were planning,” he said.
Was there a hint of embarrassment in his expression?
She thought of her plans for the lesson on physical touch with a fluttering of her heart. Now that he knew she was a woman, it all felt different. Perhaps she could rethink the lesson so that it required less…contact. “I think we might manage it well enough.” She shifted her right shoulder up and down, feeling a bit of stinging in her side. It was uncomfortable, but nothing too prohibitive—especially if she could rework the lesson plan.
He frowned. “We shall wait until after the card party, I think.”
She shook her head. “It is the p
erfect setting to put into practice many of the concepts we will be discussing.”
He regarded her evaluatively before nodding once. “I shall come here tomorrow, then.” He rose from his seat and made his way toward the door. “Oh, and Ru—” He stopped, pursing his lips. “Miss Hawthorn, I mean. It will take time to accustom myself to calling you that, I’m afraid.”
She lifted her shoulders. “I don’t mind if you continue to call me Ruth. It is my name, after all.”
He considered this for a moment then nodded. “Perhaps that is preferable. If I am calling you Miss Hawthorn in private and Ruth in public, I stand the risk of making a mistake.”
She nodded, heart betraying how relieved she was that she would continue to hear her name on his lips. “What were you going to say before that?”
He sighed. “Something related, actually. I have a request.”
“Of course,” she said. She hated how eager she was to grant him whatever he wanted. “What is it?”
His jaw shifted from side to side before he responded. “I understand that you will be obliged to maintain your disguise anytime you are in public. But when you are with me, I ask that you refrain from it. I wish for no more secrets. If I am to trust you, I must know who I am trusting.”
Ruth swallowed and nodded quickly. “I understand. But what of the servants here? They still believe me to be a gentleman.”
“I will take care of that. You needn’t worry over them. My uncle is very particular about the servants he keeps on. We can rely on their discretion.”
He took his leave, and Ruth watched his departure with an irrepressible sigh and a weight settling on her chest. Perhaps it was just the effect of having passed such an eventful day—or maybe it was a result of the laudanum—but she was finding her feelings for Oxley more difficult than ever to smother now that he knew the truth—now that he demanded the truth.