Chapter Ten
The sound of rhythmic explosions threatened Julian’s very existence. Muskets were going off in close proximity; the enemy was closing in for the kill. He grabbed the nearest thing to hand and pulled it over his face for protection. It was his pillow, apparently. The explosions continued, now accompanied by some sort of shouting. He pulled the pillow closer around his ears, but the shouting and explosions continued. Ah, he must have been hit already. No way to explain the searing pain in his head other than a bullet through the brain. Too bad. Now he’d never get to set things right with Elspeth—never feel the touch of her soft lips against his own. On the other hand, death would be a welcome relief from the pounding and shouting.
And then, mercifully, came silence. No more explosions. He thought about putting a hand to his head to see how bloody the wound was, then decided to just lie there instead, savoring the exquisite pain. Surely no man had ever suffered so....
“Excuse me, Mr. Thorpe, I had to take the liberty of entering since you did not respond to my rapping.”
Ah, and now he was taken by the enemy. Well, small good it would do them. He’d reveal nothing, and all they’d have was his bloody corpse to bury....
“Sir? Are you awake, sir?”
Torture. He’d heard that the French were not above torturing prisoners of war. Well, he would die long before they made him crack. Couldn’t remember what the devil he wasn’t supposed to tell them anyway.
“I am so sorry, sir, but you simply must rise. The Viscountess Alderson is downstairs. She is most insistent, sir. Gave me exactly five minutes by the clock to get you downstairs, or said she would be up to roust you herself. I do believe she means it, sir.”
Ah, yes, the Viscountess Alderson. Secret head of the French torture unit. He should have known it would come to this.
“I’ve ordered coffee, sir,” came the insistent voice. Trying to trick him into opening his eyes, they were, but he was nobody’s fool. Hands pulled at him, and he tried to wrench himself away. Got caught up in some sort of net, or perhaps it was a feather comforter. Oh, they’d stoop to nothing. Gad, how his head pounded. He’d be dead in minutes, no doubt.
“Julian! Get up this minute. I haven’t got all day.” The strident tones of The Alderson Horror rang out. Now he knew he would die a hero’s death. Ungentle hands pulled him up. Against all his will power, his eyes opened. Ahhh, there she was, snake-headed Medusa, the Gorgon, sans merci. The pain in his head was unbearable. Death could not come too quickly.
“I’ve had enough of this nonsense, Julian. Come alive, boy, now!”
He shook his head. That was a big mistake. From the fireworks exploding inside his brain, he might almost think the enemy was still shooting at him. Except he had a sinking feeling that things were much worse than that. Infinitely worse.
“Lady Alderson?” he heard himself croak, his voice muffled by pillows and bedclothes.
“Exactly,” came her redoubtable tones.
“Er—I—er—I don’t believe I’m dressed to receive you, ma’am,” he muttered, trying frantically to recall his attire of the evening before. No doubt his valet Forbush had divested him of a good bit of it before he fell into bed.
“I’ve buried three husbands, young man. If you think I do not know what gentlemen’s small clothes look like, you are sadly mistaken.” Just then the door opened timidly, and one of the kitchen maids pushed through, eyes popping. She carried a large silver tray bearing Julian’s grandmother’s best coffee service. She placed it on a small table between the two wing chairs and with a hasty, terrified bob, scurried away.
“Er—well, I’m not sure I’m even wearing.…” And he wasn’t entirely sure. Things were feeling awfully bare under these sheets.
“Well!” she said, her tone, if possible, even more frosty. “I certainly do not care to see what you consider appropriate attire for sleeping. Particularly considering the shape you were in last night. I shall busy myself with the coffee while your man here remedies your sartorial inadequacies.”
“Lady Alderson, I’m really not feeling very well at the moment....”
“I do not care how you are feeling, boy,” she snapped. “Indeed, in view of your behavior last night, I trust and fervently hope you are feeling quite poorly. You deserve that. Nevertheless, I require your undivided attention this morning, and I shall have it.” She turned and snapped her fingers at the manservant, who stood goggle-eyed by the coffeepot. “You, there,” she announced. “See to your sorry sot of a gentleman. I shall observe the proprieties by pouring myself a cup of coffee. Not,” she added acerbically, “that I’ve been offered one.” She turned toward the silver coffee service.
“Oh, by all means, madam,” Julian mumbled, “do have some coffee.” He eyed her rigid back with some alarm as he slipped out of bed. Naked he was, indeed. As the day he was born. He’d never seen old Forbush move quite so fast. The handsome burgundy silk robe was around him and tied up tight in seconds flat. A neckcloth, too, appeared around his neck, fast enough to near strangle him, had Forbush not had such a practiced hand, although that hand was certainly shaking now. Forbush stepped back and eyed his work with concern. If Julian hadn’t known the man since his own birth, he’d have sworn the fellow was near to swooning like a lady overset. Perhaps he might at that. Julian gave him a weak grin and stepped away, ready to beard the lioness in his own den. Well, if she wished to so flaunt proprieties, who was he to quibble? Besides, his head hurt like the devil himself was marching up and down in his brain with hobnailed boots on. Coffee was required.
“Now then, Lady Alderson,” Julian murmured, moving with purpose toward the silver coffeepot. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your delightful company this morning?”
“Well, to begin with, Julian, it is afternoon. Well into the afternoon, to be precise. You young people today think nothing of wasting the day entirely. You may go,” she announced to Forbush. Not certain whether or not to be scandalized, Forbush glanced questioningly at Julian, who shrugged and nodded. He doubted seriously that the viscountess’s honor and reputation were at stake here. As Forbush quit the room, the viscountess seated herself with a flourish in a wing chair near the fireplace, giving Julian an icy stare, as if to rebuke him for failing in the most basic courtesies of seating a lady. He sighed and sank heavily into the chair next to her. At least the porcelain coffee cup sent a pleasant warmth through his hands. He took a small sip. It was heaven-sent.
“I wish to know the meaning of your conduct at my ball last night, Julian. I’ve known you since you were in leading strings, and your dear mother before you, and that was not an exhibition I would care to witness again.”
Now, here was a minor problem. Julian had no idea what she was going on about. Didn’t remember attending her cursed ball, in fact. Last thing he remembered, and that not so clearly, was sitting in his club offering to fight anyone who cared to take him up on it. Come to think of it, they must have been a cowardly lot. No one had felt up to the challenge. Now, should he admit his lack of memory, which would be an indictment in and of itself, or bluff it out?
“Well, what have you to say for yourself, Julian?” she demanded.
“I must offer you my abject apologies for my deplorable conduct, Lady Alderson.” There. That should do it. Ladies always liked a handsome apology. Take full responsibility and all that. Never mattered whether a man was guilty or not. Just confess and move on. And then she would move on and leave him to his misery. The coffee was good but it was not magic. His head still pounded like the very devil. Perhaps he had had a drop too much last night, at that.
“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you, Julian?”
“Er—well, I’m sure you are referring to my somewhat inebriated state,” he floundered. If she wanted details, he was lost. “I’m sure I said something to offend. I was a bit foxed, I admit...” he let it trail off. That had to be enough of an admission.
“Foxed?” The viscountess drew herself up in apparent o
utrage. “You call that merely foxed? You were an absolute disgrace. I’ve seen bounders passed out in the gutter in better shape than you were. And what, do you mind telling me, do you think you are playing at by deviling that poor gel—the Quinn cousin, what’s her name?” The viscountess paused peremptorily.
“Miss Elspeth Quinn?” Julian filled in, horror growing in him. What had he done to Elspeth?
“I thought so!” the viscountess exclaimed triumphantly.
“Thought what, ma’am?” asked Julian, voice faint. Why couldn’t he just die and have done with it all?
“It’s the Elspeth chit you’re after now, isn’t it? And here you are, engaged to her cousin Caroline. Why, it’s an absolute disgrace the way you young men set about ruining these girls’ reputations. Not a care in the world for what becomes of them when you’ve finished your dalliance. Have a care, boy, or I shall give you the Cut Direct in the Assembly Rooms and you’ll dare not show your face in Bath or London. You mark my words.”
“I don’t care about that,” Julian mumbled into his coffee cup. Dowager she might be, but he’d had about enough of the proprieties.
“I beg your pardon?” came her frosty tones.
“Lady Alderson,” he said, wearily, putting down his sadly empty cup. “I begin to understand I behaved like a clodpoll at your ball last night. For that I am truly sorry. It is not my habit to act the pickled fool. Nevertheless, I beg you to understand that I was most provoked, and leave it at that. I can offer you no other explanation as a gentleman.”
“I rather think your credentials as a gentleman are sorely tarnished at this point, Julian. I begin to suspect rather strongly that you are not over the moon about this engagement of yours. You’ve got yourself into some fool of a situation and cannot extricate yourself. Am I correct?”
“I have nothing to say on that point, madam,” he said, but it came out sounding more like a growl than polite conversation.
“Your silence speaks volumes, boy. On the whole, I have found you to be a cut above your peers as a rule. Has Miss Caroline Quinn got you trapped, or have you simply made an ass of yourself chasing after both gels, and got yourself in a stew of your own making?”
“I—I—Lady Alderson, I beg of you,” Julian said in a near whisper, “leave me to my slow death. I am not up to your withering cross-examination.”
“Well, based on what I saw of your performance last night, Julian, I’d hazard a guess that your heart is engaged by the country cousin, but you have somehow got yourself entangled with Bettina’s viper instead.” The viscountess raised an eyebrow, as if she were expecting a response. Julian reached for his coffee cup, peered into its empty, beflowered depths, then put it down with a sigh.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, boy, give it here,” she said, holding out her hand imperiously. He put the delicate porcelain cup and saucer in it. Dratted little thin things. Forbush knew to serve his usual morning coffee in the sturdy, good-sized china mugs the staff used in the kitchen, but obviously the man did not dare place such offending vessels before the grande dame of Bath. She poured a jot into the little cup. A thimble would hold as much, he thought sourly, but he reached for it like a drowning man, nonetheless.
“Now, then, Julian. You are in a pretty mess, I’d say. I can’t think how you’ll get out of it. I suppose I have to assume you have engaged the country cousin’s heart?”
Julian just stared at her over the rim of the nasty little cup.
“Yes, I could tell by the look of her last night. Although she’s a plucky little thing, I have to give her credit for that. Held up rather well for all that the tongues were wagging. Deserves better of you, I’d say.” She cast an accusatory glance at him. “Well, I can’t mend what’s broken, boy,” she went on briskly, “but if I can aid you in setting it right, I will. Otherwise, you are in for a long and unpleasant married life. Never could abide Bettina Quinn, and her spawn takes after her. I couldn’t for the life of me think what had possessed you to ask for Caroline’s hand. You’re not at all suited, unless I miss my guess, and I never do.”
Julian said nothing. What could he say? The very idea of spending long years of marital acrimony made him wish he hadn’t put all that coffee into his querulous stomach.
“I suggest you set about putting your house in order, Julian, for everyone’s sake,” she announced imperiously, standing and moving toward the door. “I believe I’ll pay a call on Bettina. An explanation is owed me from that quarter as well.”
As she reached for the door handle, it turned and the door swung open, nearly knocking her down.
“Oh, I do beg your par—good heavens! Lady Alderson! What in heaven’s name—?” Edgar Randall stammered to a close. His gaze took in Julian’s dishabille, then halted abruptly at the viscountess’s magnificently arched eyebrow. “I—that is to say, good morning, Lady Alderson. How lovely to see you looking so well this morning. We had such a splendid time at your ball last evening, I do declare it was the most—”
“Oh, do hold your tongue, Mr. Randall. I heard enough inanities last night to last me a lifetime. Julian, you should discharge that man of yours. Entirely too much unannounced traffic in your boudoir. I suppose you’re expecting the Prince of Wales himself at any moment.”
Julian fairly goggled at her, then reached for the coffeepot.
“I trust, Mr. Randall, you will be at some pains to help your friend sort out his difficulties?” she said.
“C—certainly, Lady Alderson. I live but to serve,” Edgar replied, although somewhat faintly.
“Then I bid a good day to you both,” she stated. “Don’t bother to ring; I’ll see myself out,” she announced, and took herself off with a stamp of her gold-tipped walking stick.
By tacit agreement Julian and Edgar held their peace as the rhythmic tapping of her cane and the sound of footsteps receded down the hall.
“Dare I ask...?” Edgar ventured when nothing more could be heard of the retreating Personage.
“No,” growled Julian.
“Ah, well then, I simply must assume that you’ve gone and compromised the Viscountess Alderson. Good heavens, man, the woman must be past seventy! I should think there’s many an ample kitchen maid who would cheerfully oblige. I shall, of course, have to spread this little tidbit all over Bath by evening. I cannot for the life of me, though, see how I am to make people believe it.”
“I must assume you’re joking, Edgar, I am not in the mood, to tell you the truth.”
“Headache?” Edgar asked, with a somewhat wicked grin.
“A slight one,” Julian acknowledged with a shrug.
“I should rather think, based on your conduct last night, that this headache is—how shall I put it—one of the great headaches of all time, a headache of Olympian proportions. Indeed,” Edgar trilled, “I rather expected you to be dead this morning.”
The door opened and Forbush entered with a large tray. Julian was gratified to see a substantial coffeepot on it, and two kitchen mugs. The man glanced around the room with some apprehension. “I did hear her ladyship leave, did I not?” he asked in a whisper. The cups rattled on the tray.
“You did,” Julian replied, inhaling the restoring scent of freshly brewed coffee.
They were silent while Forbush served them. Julian felt the weight of the large, hot china mug with great satisfaction.
“Edgar,” he began, as Forbush quit the room, “I hate to ask, but what, exactly, did I do last night? Must have been rather amazing to bring the Viscountess Alderson to the very foot of my bed. Like some goddess of vengeance out of myth, she was.”
“Well, I’d laugh about it, if it were funny, dear boy, but I fear it really is not.”
“I was afraid of that. Go ahead.”
Julian sipped his coffee in growing horror as the evening’s atrocities were laid out before him. As for offending Caroline, he cared not a whit. Making a drunken spectacle of himself in his club and at the viscountess’s ball, was merely an outrageous bit of folly they could
all, he hoped, laugh about in years to come. Humiliating Elspeth, however, was unforgivable. Julian had dropped his head into his hands by the end of Edgar’s recital, the coffee worthless and forgotten.
They were silent for a moment. Edgar seemed edgy, perturbed, unlike his usual bon vivant self. “What shall I do?” Julian finally asked. He could see no solution to his dilemma, nothing but a lifetime of misery for them all. But he was damned if he could figure out how he had deserved this.
“Well, I suppose you owe Caroline and her awful mother an apology,” Edgar ventured.
“Caroline? What the deuce do I care what she or her mother, think about my conduct? It’s Elspeth I’m worried about. What has this done to Elspeth?” He slammed the mug down on the small table next to his chair. The table teetered precipitously.
“You do love her, don’t you?” Edgar asked quietly.
“More than my life,” Julian replied, dropping his face into his hands again. He rubbed at his temples, but the pain would not go away. He thought it had nothing to do with brandy. This was a pain he would feel for the rest of his life. The dull ache of a long and lonely defeat.
“You—you don’t much care for Caroline, I suppose?” came Edgar’s response.
“I loathe the woman. What she did to me—” he stopped and looked at Edgar sharply. “I suppose there’s no reason for you to believe me—no one else does—but I did not lay an improper hand on Caroline the other night in the maze. She had been roughed up before I got there—” he stopped, aware how lame an excuse that sounded.
“I have reason to believe you,” Edgar said, his voice almost a whisper. “Actually, I do believe you, Julian. I’ve known you for most of my life, and it would not be like you to despoil anyone, much less Caroline Quinn.”
“Would that Elspeth could believe in me as you do, Edgar,” Julian replied, his voice nearly breaking. “She’s the one who matters. She thinks I’m a rutting, faithless pig, and I cannot convince her of the truth. How can I? As she said, she saw with her own two eyes....” His voice broke.
Corey McFadden Page 16