Sally blinked owlishly out the window, recognizing a tavern about two blocks from her employers’ home. “We aren’t there yet.”
He took her hand to assist her from the carriage. “Aye, but the food is good, and I intend to see you fed before I return you. Otherwise, your employers will be sacking you for drunkenness and it will be my fault.”
His tone was amused, but Sally still took offense. “I am not drunk. Jus’ . . . just a trifle well-to-go. Don’t need to eat.”
He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. “You might not be hungry,” he said diplomatically, “but I am. Will you join me so I don’t have to eat alone?”
When he put it that way, she couldn’t refuse. In fact, she didn’t want to. She was ravenous, now that she thought about it.
The tavern was a clean, well-kept place, with enticing odors wafting from the kitchen. The owner greeted Kinlock like an old friend and seated them in a dark, quiet corner. Sally rapidly put away bread and cheese, a hot beef and onion pie, a peach pudding, and the strong coffee the surgeon ordered her to drink.
After draining her coffee, she said candidly, “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance, Dr. Kinlock. I must have been a bit drunk, or I wouldn’t feel so much more sober now.”
Smiling, he surgically sliced an apple into eighths. “Relief for your brother coupled with brandy on an empty stomach did have an interesting effect on you.”
She relaxed against the high-backed oak settle, feeling very much at peace. “I don’t think I’ve eaten a full meal since I saw the casualty lists after Waterloo.”
The spring had seemed endless while England waited for a battle with the Corsican Monster, miraculously returned from Elba and with whole French armies rushing to his support. She’d read the newspapers compulsively, hungry for every scrap of news. Perhaps she’d had a premonition, because she had never worried so much during the years that David had fought on the Peninsula. When the news of his severe injuries finally reached her, she hadn’t been surprised. Sick and terrified, but not surprised. And then the waiting had begun. . . .
Reminding herself that was all behind her, she said, “I’m sorry that because of taking care of me you’ll have to walk home when Lady Jocelyn’s carriage could have taken you. Do you live near Bart’s?”
“No, I have consulting rooms just a couple of blocks away, on Harley Street, and live in rooms above. I eat here often.” He traced a circle in a small spill of ale. “What’s the story behind your brother’s marriage? Not the usual arrangement, I think.”
Sally sketched out why Lady Jocelyn had wanted to become a rich widow, and how David had become her husband. The story sounded bizarre when she explained, but the surgeon showed no signs of shock. She suspected that it would take a good deal to surprise Ian Kinlock.
When she had finished, he shook his head with a bemused expression. “The poor woman. No wonder the two of you have been at daggers drawn. Your interests in the major’s health have been entirely different.”
“Do you blame me for wondering if she might put a period to his unwelcome existence?”
“Nonsense, lassie, you don’t believe she’s a threat to him any more than I do,” he scoffed. “Didn’t you see her expression when she thought he was dead?”
“She did look distressed,” Sally conceded. “Probably she was afraid a death in the house would upset the servants.”
“She may not want to be married to your brother, but he’s a likable man, and she was genuinely happy to hear that he would be well. It will be amusing to see how the two of them work this out.”
Dealing with life and death all the time must give surgeons a morbid sense of humor. “The thought of having Lady Jocelyn as a permanent sister-in-law has no appeal for me. She’s the haughtiest female I’ve ever met.”
“She’s not so bad, for all she’s a member of a class of useless wastrels.” He sliced up a second apple, having finished the first. “Quite a charming woman, actually.”
Sally wisely refrained from comment. Lady Jocelyn was not someone they were likely to agree on. Under the circumstances, politics would be a safer topic of conversation. “You sound like a radical.”
“If it’s radical to despise lazy people who have never done a particle of good for anyone else, I suppose I am. Women who assassinate character and spend more money on one gown than the average family sees in a year, men whose idea of sport is slaughtering helpless animals and gambling away their fortunes.” He smiled wickedly. “I’ve often thought hunting would be a good deal more fair if the foxes and pheasants were armed and could fight back.”
Sally pictured a fox aiming a shotgun and began to laugh. “I can certainly think of a few members of the beau monde who would be improved by buckshot in the breeches.”
His grin made her recognize the impropriety of her remark. Kinlock was so unconventional that he made her forget to hold her tongue. She studied the craggy face shadowed by the thick shock of white hair, the expressive features that could reflect such extremes of anger and compassion. She would never be able to repay him for what he had done.
Her gaze fell to the remaining apple slices, which he’d pushed aside. Once more forgetting to think before she spoke, she asked, “Are you going to eat those?”
She immediately wanted to hide under the table, but he only slid the apple pieces to her. “You’ve quite a bit of eating to catch up on. You’ve grown too many bones from worry.”
He thought she was skinny, she realized as she ate the last two apple slices. Her next thought was to wonder why she should care. To her alarm, she realized that she would like him to see her as a woman in her own right, not simply the sister of a patient.
Acerbically she told herself that the stirring of excitement she felt was only because of the intimacy of this relaxed dinner. In the whole of her spinster life, she’d never dined alone with an attractive man like this, except for David, and brothers didn’t count.
Of course in Kinlock’s eyes, she was a skinny little governess who had become tipsy and insulted a beautiful woman who turned men into entranced slaves. Humiliated at the thought, she swallowed the last of the apple and slid from the oak settle. “Time for me to return to the Launcestons’.”
“Aye, I should be getting home as well.”
As he got to his feet, she saw that for the first time since she’d met him, he seemed completely relaxed. Well, he deserved to feel good about his day’s work.
As he walked her the last blocks to the Launcestons’, she luxuriated in the knowledge that tonight she would sleep better than she had in months.
Chapter 9
Jocelyn sat drinking tea for a long time after the surgeon and Sally Lancaster left. Her Aunt Laura would say that ending up with an unwanted husband was a just reward for her improper actions. On the whole, Jocelyn was inclined to agree.
Drawn by instinct, Isis leaped onto her lap and nestled down, purring and bumping her tawny head into her mistress’s ribs in a welcome display of affection. Stroking the sleek fur was a good way to quell the panic that welled up whenever Jocelyn thought about the fact that she was married to a complete stranger. An amiable stranger whom she had come to like and admire, but still a stranger. It was enough to give even the calmest female strong hysterics.
Regaining his health might make the major a very different man from the one who had waited for death with such quiet courage. He hadn’t bargained on a lasting marriage any more than she had, and might be equally upset at having lost his freedom to marry as he chose. Perhaps there was a woman he loved and would have married if not for the apparently mortal wounds he’d received at Waterloo.
Divorce was out of the question, of course. She’d suffered all her life from the ghastly scandal of her parents’ divorce and would never take that path. A bill of divorcement required an act of Parliament and could only be granted after a humiliatingly public airing of the most intimate details.
Even if she was willing to take that route, a divorce required cause. Most oft
en, the grounds were adultery by the wife, which she certainly had no intention of committing. Even if she did, Major Lancaster might not want to divorce her if he decided he liked being married to a wealthy woman. Thank heaven he’d signed the papers waiving his rights to her property, so he couldn’t bankrupt her.
She gave her head a quick shake. Her imagination was running away with her. A healthy David might be different from one at death’s door, but she couldn’t imagine that he would turn into a monster. She would wager money on the fact that he was a decent and honorable man. She simply didn’t want him for a husband.
Eventually Isis jumped down, hitting the carpet with an audible thump before proceeding about her own concerns. It was time to inquire after the major’s health.
In the blue room, Hugh Morgan watched patiently over his sleeping charge. Because of the incision on his back, the major lay on his stomach, his breathing steady and his thin face peaceful.
“He’s doing well?” she asked quietly.
The footman rose and joined her at the door. “Sleeping like a baby, my lady,” he assured her in a low voice.
“Good.” On the verge of leaving, she remembered to ask, “And your brother. Is he comfortable here?”
“Oh, yes. He’s like a new man, and thank you for asking.” Morgan gave a shy smile. “You were right about the maids, my lady. They’re making quite a fuss over Rhys, and ’tis doing him a world of good.”
The comment gave her a much needed smile. At least one of her impulsive decisions was having good consequences.
After a solitary dinner, Jocelyn took her anxieties to bed. She tried to be philosophical about her unexpected husband. After all, in a hundred years they would all be dead, and what would all of this matter? Nonetheless, she tossed for hours before falling into a troubled sleep.
She was awakened by insistent knocking. Isis, ensconced in her usual spot at the foot of the bed, pricked her sharp ears toward the door as Marie entered, wearing a simple dress that had obviously been pulled on in haste. “Hugh Morgan asked me to wake you. The major is very restless, milady, and it’s that worried Morgan is.”
“I’ll take a look.” Instantly alert, Jocelyn swung from the bed and donned the wrapper Marie held out. After sliding into slippers, she stepped outside, where Morgan waited with a candelabrum. “Did Dr. Kinlock leave his direction?”
“Aye, Lady Jocelyn. He said to fetch him if necessary.”
She belted her robe as they hastened along the gallery to the blue room, the flames of the candles flaring behind the footman. It was very late, the darkest hour of the night.
Hoping they wouldn’t have to disturb Kinlock needlessly, she entered the major’s room. He’d rolled onto his back and was twisting weakly under the covers. She caught her breath as she saw his legs move. Only a little, but genuine movement. Kinlock had been right—there was no paralysis.
Elated by the knowledge, she crossed to the bed and laid a hand on his forehead. If he were feverish she’d send for the doctor immediately because of possible inflammation, but his temperature seemed normal.
His restlessness stilled under her touch. “Jeanette, mignonne?” he murmured with an admirable French accent.
She removed her hand and said crisply, “No, it’s Jocelyn. A proper Englishwoman, not one of your French or Belgian hussies.”
His lids fluttered open. A moment of confusion gave way to recognition. “How do you know that Jeanette wasn’t my horse?”
“You would call your horse ‘darling?’ ”
“A soldier and his horse become very dear to each other,” he said gravely, but there was humor in his eyes.
She had. to laugh. “I don’t think I want to know more.” Her expression sobered. “Do you remember what happened? Dr. Kinlock? The operation?”
His expression tightened. With a flash of insight, she realized that he was afraid to ask about the outcome. “The operation went well,” she said quickly. “Kinlock thought you might make a complete recovery.”
At first he was so still that she wondered if he’d heard her. Then, his face straining with effort, he moved his right leg, drawing the knee up a few inches. The same with the left. “My God!” he exclaimed, his voice shaking. “It’s true. I can move. I can move.”
He closed his eyes again before glinting tears could escape. Guessing at how powerfully affected he must be, she sat on the bedside chair and took his hand, then said to Morgan and Marie, “You can leave for a bit. Morgan, perhaps you’d like to find some tea and something to eat.”
“I’d like that, my lady,” he admitted. He and Marie exchanged a glowing glance as they left. Servants seldom had much privacy, and the opportunity to share a meal in the depths of the night was obviously welcome.
While David struggled to master the dramatic change in his circumstances, Jocelyn calmly repeated what the doctor had told her earlier in the day. When his eyes opened again, she asked, “How do you feel?”
“Compared to the way I’ve felt since Waterloo, fairly good. By any normal standard, rather rotten.”
Smiling at his whimsy, she asked, “Are you in much pain?”
“Of course I am! What kind of a fool do you take me for?” There was a giddy light in his eyes. Not fever, but the exhilaration that came with miracles.
“Major Lancaster, I have a feeling you are going to be very difficult now that you are convalescing.” Jocelyn continued to study his thin face, thinking there was another, subtle difference.
The eyes. For the first time, the green eyes looked almost normal, without the opium-induced pinpoint pupils. The last dose of laudanum must have worn off. She lifted the bottle from the bedside table. “Dr. Kinlock said to give you some laudanum if you woke up in the night. You need rest to recover.”
“No!” His arm flailed out with more strength than she would have dreamed he possessed, knocking the bottle from her hand to shatter in a dark stain across the rich Oriental carpet.
She stared at him as the spicy scent of cloves and cinnamon wafted through the room. His usual humor had been replaced by a kind of desperation. “I’m sorry,” he said unevenly. “I didn’t mean to strike you. But I won’t take any more opium. Ever.”
“Why not?”
David marshaled his whirling thoughts, knowing that he must make Jocelyn understand, or she would have some of the damned drug down him for his own good. “Did Kinlock explain that I was dying of opium poisoning?”
When she nodded, he continued, “Heavy opium use distorts the mind and the senses. Sight, sound, scent, thought—everything changes. It was like . . . like having my soul stolen. I would rather die than have that happen again.”
“Would you really prefer death?” she asked quietly.
He took a long, slow breath. “No. I exaggerate. I suppose that if taking laudanum was the difference between life and death, I’d take it. But tonight, for the first time in weeks, I am not under the influence of the drug, and I feel better than at any time since that damned artillery shell went off beside me. Stronger. Saner.”
“What about the pain?”
His mouth twisted. “I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it feels as if a tiger is trying to chew me in half. But even so, I prefer that to drugged delirium.”
“Very well, Major, I won’t force it down you, though I make no promises about what Dr. Kinlock might do when he calls tomorrow,” she said reluctantly. “If he feels laudanum is essential to your recovery, I’ll help hold you down while he doses you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly, having won his battle.
“If you won’t sleep, will you eat? You must build up your strength.”
He took stock of his innards. “Do you know,” he said with wonder, “I believe that I am hungry, for the first time since the battle.”
“Does the idea of a roast joint with Yorkshire pudding appeal to you?”
The mere thought made his mouth water. “Who do I have to bribe?”
“Prepare yourself for soup,” she said
sweetly. “If that seems to settle well, perhaps an omelet or a bit of custard.”
He laughed, even though it hurt. “You have your revenge for my failings, Lady Jocelyn.”
She pulled the bell cord. Morgan appeared fairly quickly, panting a little after racing up from the kitchen. As she ordered food, David admired the pure line of her profile. Though her nightclothes covered more of her than most day dresses, there was an alluring intimacy to the sleeping garments. She looked tantalizingly huggable.
The footman said warningly, “Cook won’t like getting up this late.”
She raised aristocratic brows. “If Monsieur Cherbonnier objects to the conditions of employment in my house, tell him that he is under no compulsion to continue accepting the exorbitant wage I pay him. I expect to be served within fifteen minutes. Is that clear?”
Suppressing a smile, Morgan bobbed his head and left to obey.
“Lady Jocelyn, if you ever desire employment, you might become a sergeant-major,” David observed. “You have a talent for putting the fear of God into your underlings.”
She smiled, unabashed. “My servants lead a fairly easy life, I think. There is no great harm in their being challenged occasionally.”
“They seem a contented lot.” And well they should be. Lady Jocelyn’s cool, ladylike exterior couldn’t conceal her underlying warmth and fairmindedness.
“Is there someone you would like notified of your improved health?” she asked. “I’ll send a note to Richard Dalton in the morning, but who else? Surely there are some relatives who will be glad for the news.”
Unthinking, he replied, “My brothers would hardly be interested in my continued existence.”
“You have brothers?” she said, surprised. “I thought you said your sister would be left alone in the world when you died.”
Not wanting her to think he’d lied, he explained reluctantly, “Sally and I have three older half-brothers. Mostly we try to pretend they don’t exist. My mother was a second wife, much younger than my father. His sons by his first wife despised her because she had no fortune, and by their standards her birth was inferior. They didn’t dare insult her in front of our father, so they took out their resentment on Sally and me.” He smiled humorlessly. “I learned to fight at an early age, a very useful skill. After my father died, the oldest son threw the three of us out of the family house.”
The Bargain Page 9