“I did not.” He glanced at the flowers. “They, um, smell very nice.”
“Thank you,” she said, able to study him now that he was looking away from her. The swelling in his face had gone down, allowing him to open both eyes, though the left one was not as wide as the right. His face was still mottled with bruises, and a cut showed up black against his forehead. A painful-looking split cut through the perfect line of his bottom lip. “I came to see how you are faring.”
He looked toward the fireplace, laid but not lit as the day had been warm. “I am unable to rightly answer that question, Lady Sabrina. I have never felt so . . . unwell in my life, never lain abed for an afternoon, let alone days, and yet I am beyond grateful for your help.” He looked back at her, then away again as though embarrassed by his thanks. Or perhaps his dependence. “You saved my life.”
“I did what anyone would have done.”
He let out a punchy laugh, but then cringed and pressed a hand to his right side, where Therese had said he had at least two cracked ribs. Once he’d caught his breath, he continued. “You have a much higher opinion of humankind than I do.”
“Perhaps,” she said, though she needed him to believe that anyone would have done as much to make her motives look like general concern for her fellow man. “I believe that as I seek to create a world I would wish to live in, that world becomes more of a possibility. You told me you had nowhere to go, no one I could call for you. Bringing you here seemed the only option.”
He stared at the covers pulled up to his chest and seemed to curl into himself. “I-I don’t have other resources, and so I thank you very much for your kindness. I do not deserve it.”
The sincerity of his words struck that tender place in her heart. “Everyone deserves mercy, Mr. Stillman.”
He shook his head but said nothing. After a few moments, he cleared his throat. “Therese tells me that you and I knew one another once. I feel terrible, but I don’t remember. I am sorry.”
Did it hurt that he did not remember their meeting? It was silly to think he would. That night had been of far greater significance to her than it would ever have been to him. Besides, she did not want to be remembered as a scared woman hiding from her husband.
“Our acquaintance happened some time ago, when you were new to London. I had quite forgotten about the meeting myself until you told me your name.”
“I am all the more regretful not to remember yours, seeing as how you have done me this turn.”
“Do not worry yourself over it, Mr. Stillman. Your focus must be on your healing.”
“Therese says it may be weeks before I am able to walk again.”
“Yet you will walk,” Sabrina said encouragingly. “Therese is remarkably skilled, and as you are young and . . . hale, I’ve no doubt you will impress all of us with your fortitude. You are welcome to stay here for the next month—that is how long Therese expects it will take before you are fit to travel—but there must be some additional arrangements in place by then.”
“Yes, she told me. I am . . . considering my options.” He paused, his expression thoughtful. “Could tell me how it happened? Your coming upon me?”
Sabrina regarded him warily and then crossed to straighten the curtain on the rod covering his window. She needed something to do with her hands. “Do you remember anything of that morning?”
“I remember being pulled by my arms into the alley by two men, but then only fragments—flashes of . . . a black stick and a carriage and a big man. I think it might have been Joshua—he is a footman here?”
Sabrina understood his confusion. Joshua was not built like the typical footman, small-boned and elegant. Rather, he was quite tall, broad-shouldered, and looked as though he would better fit in the stable.
“Joshua is Therese’s son,” she said simply, not feeling it necessary for her to explain that he had trained under the former butler from the time he was thirteen. When Mr. Rawlins had retired last year, Joshua had taken on his responsibilities but kept the title of footman due to his age. “He helped bring you here. I’m afraid navigating the stairs was a painful process, and you were quite uncomfortable.”
“Yes, I do remember that—lots of pain.”
“Do you . . . um, remember anything else?”
On the drive from Wimbledon, she’d sat with him on the floor of her carriage, his head in her lap. As he went in and out of consciousness, she’d sung softly to him, stroked his face, and assured him all would be well. It seemed he did not remember that either, which was just as well.
Mr. Stillman wiped his forehead, and she noticed the tremor in his hands. The laudanum must be wearing off, leaving him susceptible to his body’s demand for liquor. He shook his head. “I remember nothing else. Trying to remember . . . makes my heart race.”
“Then do not try,” Sabrina said. “It is rarely helpful to ponder on traumatic events. Pretend what you remember is a dream, and in time, the anxiety you feel will lessen.” She spoke from experience. It was better to look ahead than back.
He nodded, looking relieved, then met her eyes again. “How did you find me?”
He watched her as she told the story, his eyes occasionally moving to her lips. The rose stain emphasized their fullness, but other people’s notice did not often make her feel self-conscious. His attentiveness tempted her to adjust her neckline or smooth her skirts. When she finished her practiced version of events, his eyes remained on her lips for a few seconds until moving to her eyes again.
“Why were you in the area so early in the morning?”
“I’d had an appointment with a cobbler for a fitting. The early time did not conflict with my social calendar. I have an upcoming trip, you see, and am trying to get everything I’ll need ordered in time for my departure.”
“You did not send a servant on your behalf?”
“I am an eccentric widow, Mr. Stillman.” She shrugged as though embarrassed. “I keep my own appointments and prefer to be measured in person rather than send papers for my shoes. I daresay it is lucky for you that it unfolded the way that it did.”
She held her breath until he nodded in acceptance, then she carefully exhaled.
“And you . . . you are a widow?” he asked thoughtfully.
“Yes, and for that reason I hope we might keep your presence here . . . discreet. Only my staff and I know that you are here.” And Mr. Gordon. And possibly Mr. Ward by tomorrow morning.
“I do not want anyone to know I am here either,” he said quickly.
“Do you know who would have done this? Were you robbed, for instance?” That would be the most obvious reason, if she didn’t know about Malcolm, which Lady Sabrina did not know.
Mr. Stillman looked away from her as though trying to hide his shame, though she was relieved to see it. Shame could be motivation to improve.
“Do you know much of my . . . reputation? Since we were acquainted all those years ago, Lady Sabrina?”
This was dangerous territory. How much of what she knew about him could she reasonably blame on gossip? She had not returned to London for more than a year after having removed for her confinement, and by then Mr. Stillman had apparently worn out whatever welcome the ton had extended him.
“I have heard rumors of certain . . . excesses.”
He nodded but didn’t meet her eyes. “I fear it would be bad for you if your circle knew I was in your home. I . . .” He trailed off, and she wondered if he had been about to say that he would go elsewhere before remembering there was nowhere else for him to go.
“I have no concern that they will find out,” she said with confidence she hoped would boost his own. “I live quietly here in Wimbledon, and my staff is loyal. Should I have to defend myself, I have no shame in saying I merely helped a young man in dire circumstances as any Christian woman would.”
She shrugged to further demonstrate how unconcerned she was for societal judgment. It was mostly sincere. She tried very hard not to give anything worthy of gossip to the tongue
s of the ton. They’d already had their share at her expense.
“It is not only reputations,” Mr. Stillman said after a moment.
She thought it humorous that he feared he could still be damaged by gossip. From Jack and Mr. Gordon’s reports, Mr. Stillman was a rake as well as a drunk and a gambler, but he hadn’t pursued female companionship over the last year as much as he had the tables and the bottle.
Recovering in a widow’s house would have no bearing on what the ton thought of him—the damage had already been done on that score. A good many men would find it admirable.
“I owe a man a great deal of money,” Mr. Stillman continued, “and he was quite insistent I not leave London before my debt was paid. I worry that puts you at risk should he find me here. I should hate to bring such things to your home. A lady should not even know of them.”
She was touched by his concern and humored by his protectiveness. “I know more than my share about dark places and evil persons, Mr. Stillman, and, as I said, no one knows you are here. If you are right about it being an unsavory lender who rendered you so injured, he has done his work in keeping you from getting very far, and I do not imagine he is much concerned beyond protecting his investment.”
“If no one knows I am here, it will look as though I have fled the city, which is what he was trying to prevent.”
“Ah,” she said with a nod. “I see.”
Mr. Stillman’s eyes were eager to share more information. “I have made arrangements, however, with a different sort of lender just before I was attacked. He may have already paid off the debt, which frees me from the man’s interest—every sort of interest.” He looked to the side. “I need to correspond with this second lender, however. He will be concerned about my disappearance too. I shall be prudent in revealing my exact location.”
“I have an address in London that might be more discreet for such communications. Any messages sent there are forwarded here when I am not in residence. I transact a great deal of business that way.”
Every few days, Mrs. Billings would put the delivered correspondence in a canvas pouch and send it on to Wimbledon. Sabrina would spend a day or so responding to the messages and then return them in the same canvas pouch. The messenger service she used between her houses considered her an excellent client. The process seemed cumbersome when she explained it to others, but she never fell behind on business or personal correspondence this way, and the Wimbledon staff remained ignorant of whom she was writing.
“A London address would be ideal, thank you.” He held her eyes, then looked at his hands, which shook slightly.
He’d been two days without a drink; the effects must be increasingly uncomfortable. It would get worse before it got better, however, and the misery was an essential part of his healing as it would, she hoped, help keep him from ever repeating his indulgence.
He wiped at his brow, wincing when he accidentally bumped the cut.
Sabrina dropped her clasped hands and came to the head of the bed to inspect the injury. His eyes did not move from her face as she examined his forehead, then turned to the bowl of water next to the bed. She dipped a corner of a cloth into the water, displacing the few rose petals that floated on top. She gently patted the cuts on his face with the wet cloth.
He studied her until she began wiping along his temples, then his eyes fluttered closed. He let out a breath, and his body relaxed against the bed linens. She was so very close to him.
Richard had been forty-three years old when they married, and already paunchy and balding. If he had been kind, his physical aspect would not have mattered, but since he was not, every deficit underscored his broken character.
Mr. Stillman was a very different specimen of the male sex. His nightshirt settled upon defined shoulders, and his hair appeared thick and soft. Unable to resist the temptation, she brushed his hair from his forehead. The tingle in her fingertips against his skin caught her off guard, and she swallowed the awareness of how vulnerable he was right now—his eyes closed, letting her minister to him.
“You are in need of a trim,” she said, taking a step back. She wrung the cloth out over the bowl, making the rose petals dance like tiny boats caught upon the waves. “I shall discuss it with Therese.”
He nodded, but his eyes remained closed and his body remained in soft repose.
Sabrina took another step away, and his eyes opened, capturing her and making her feel as though they were the only two people in existence. If other women felt this same way when he looked at them, no wonder they had come so easy to him in the past.
Nothing that came easy in life was worth having, however. She would be wise to remember that.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
She wasn’t sure if he meant the rescue yesterday morning or the ministrations just now. “You’re welcome.” She looked toward his legs beneath the cover, the bulk of the right thicker than the left due to the splint Therese had applied. “How is your leg?”
“Painful,” he said, sounding exhausted. “When I shift my position, even a little, fresh pain shoots up my leg.” He waved from his hip to his feet.
She was glad to see his shoulder was doing so well. Once a dislocated shoulder was returned to the socket, movement was no longer impeded, though the area would be tender for a few days. He would also be susceptible to reinjure it if he wasn’t careful.
“Therese says that in another day or two you will be able to sit up more fully, perhaps even transfer to a chair. We are attempting to find a Bath chair that will allow you some ability to move around the room. I imagine a young man like yourself would have difficulty staying abed this way.”
“I fear it will drive me mad,” he said, then held up his hand and hurried to add, “though I am very grateful for the chance.”
Sabrina smiled. “Grateful for the chance to go mad?”
He attempted a smile, though he could not manage much given the injuries to his face. “Madness is a fair trade for one’s life, I suppose.”
She laughed lightly. A man both handsome and witty was a powerful combination. “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable, Mr. Stillman?”
He cleared his throat and licked his lips. When he spoke, the higher tone of his voice and quick delivery made her think he’d been waiting for her to issue the invitation. “Yes, actually, I wonder if I might have some . . . brandy or rum or . . . s-something.”
She had expected this request, and had planned to say no, but changed her mind. One drink a day would not set back his recovery, and it could help him sleep if administered at night.
“I shall have a glass of sherry sent up.”
“Sherry?”
The disappointment in his voice was rather overt, but then he attempted a smile that she suspected was designed to charm her, though the effect was subdued because his face was a mask of bruises. “Might I request brandy instead? It shall help manage the pain.” He clasped his fingers together, perhaps to contain the trembling, or maybe to show her how bad it was.
“You are being given regular doses of laudanum for the pain, Mr. Stillman.”
“The laudanum is helpful, yes, but I would also appreciate something more, um, familiar.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Are you not familiar with sherry?”
He attempted to smile again, but there was a tightness to his mouth. “Of course, I am familiar with sherry. Women drink it in tiny glass cups while discussing hats and springtime.”
Lady Sabrina took his sarcasm as an opening. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Stillman, from what I have heard, you are more than a bit familiar with liquor. Seeing how your body is coping with the lack of such drink these last two days”—she gestured to his trembling hands—“I would guess you are used to far more than is good for you.”
His smile fell and a look of desperation entered his eyes. It was essential that she establish her authority, so she did not give him a chance to speak. “Ale with your meals and a glass of sherry each night t
o help you sleep are all I will prescribe. Any more would interfere with your healing.”
“I need brandy, Lady Sabrina. Without it, I feel quite ill.”
“You feel ill because you have overindulged, Mr. Stillman. I would go so far as to suggest that your condition in the alley yesterday morning was in part due to your overindulgence, since I’ve never met a gambler who did not also drink to excess.”
He was not humbled by her reprimand. “Surely one glass of brandy will only help me toward healing. It’s medicine, really.”
Her tone was tight and sharp. “As the authority of this household, I suggest you discontinue this argument both with me and with my staff. They will not go against my orders, and I will not change my mind. Your body needs to heal in more ways than one, and none of it will be comfortable.”
She turned and spoke the last over her shoulder on her way to the door. “The next few weeks are an opportunity for you, Mr. Stillman, to heal your body and overcome some of the vices that put you in this position in the first place. While I am dedicated to providing for your comfort, I shan’t do it to your detriment.” She opened the door, smiled—though she kept it tight—and delivered her final sentiments. “Good night, Mr. Stillman. I shall have that glass of sherry sent up shortly.”
Harry shivered beneath the covers while sweat dripped from his face and into his ears, pillow, and sheets. His stomach rolled like a ship on ocean waves, and there were monkeys climbing the curtains. Mean ones that kept baring their teeth.
Therese had tucked a bowl beside him on the bed in case he vomited, but there was nothing left to retch. The remedy to his miserable condition was somewhere belowstairs in the house’s liquor cabinet, but he could not have it. This was the fourth day, and though Therese assured him things would get better soon, they had only been getting worse.
The cloth that had been laid upon his head was removed and a fresh one put on. The welcome coolness relaxed him some, but it quickly warmed from his fevered brow, and he shook his head to make it fall to the side.
Rakes and Roses (Proper Romance Regency) Page 9