Amanda Scott (24 page)

He left them then, and Sylvia took Reston farther down the corridor so as not to take a chance of their being overheard. “Do you know anything else, Harry? Who the man was? Why he shot poor Mr. Perceval?”

“Nothing. I learned what had happened at almost the same moment that I saw Greyfalcon. There was a huge flurry of movement just when the shots were fired. Several men were knocked down as others rushed to apprehend the assailant. I should have thought Greyfalcon was large enough and strong enough to avoid such a fate, but it is entirely possible, since he was by the wall, that someone barged into him and he knocked his head against the wall itself. Marble, you know. Hard stuff. No doubt there will be a complete description of the event in all of tomorrow’s papers.”

There was indeed a complete account of the dreadful deed in all the morning papers, and Sylvia found her parent and Lady Greyfalcon poring over these when she entered the breakfast parlor rather earlier than was her custom.

“Only listen to this, dear,” commanded the countess. “He hid, it says here, ‘behind one of the folding doors of the lobby of the House of Commons; and when, about a quarter-past five, the ill-fated Chancellor made his appearance, Bellingham—for that was the unhappy creature’s name—shot him through the heart. Perceval reeled a pace or two, faintly called out that he was murdered, and then fell. He was at once raised and carried into the Speaker’s apartments, but he died in two or three minutes.’ And what is more, the man actually had another pistol in his pocket, in case he missed with the first shot. Oh, it is simply too dreadful. To think that Francis might well have been standing right beside the man, that he might have been shot in his place. Oh, it does not bear thinking about.”

“Then do not think about it, madam,” recommended Lord Arthur, looking up from his own paper just then. “Your son is quite safe and sound upstairs in his bed.”

“Hardly sound, Papa,” Sylvia said. “I’ve just spoken to Wigan, and he says his lordship passed a difficult night. He was forced to slip him some laudanum in a mug of ale, for despite his promise to me, Greyfalcon refused to take the stuff when it was offered.”

“Oh, it is always the same with him,” said Lady Greyfalcon, shaking her head. “He detests being mollycoddled, as he will call it, and has done since he was a boy. He would never take his medicine, even when he was in the nursery. I can remember Nurse telling me she had been forced to hold his nose until he opened his mouth to breathe, just to get a dose down him. And then, like as not, he’d spit it out again and have to be smacked.”

“Well, Wigan cannot do either of those things,” said Sylvia, chuckling at the vision these words brought to mind. “His lordship is sleeping now, and Wigan hopes he will not make too much fuss over being ordered to keep to his bed. He did give me his word, so I believe he will stay there quietly.”

She spent the earlier part of the morning perusing the articles in the papers regarding the assassination, and then proceeded to the drawing room to greet morning callers with her hostess. The first of these was Mr. Lacey.

“Hope you’ll pardon the intrusion,” the young man said, “but I only just heard late last night what happened to Greyfalcon, so I came ’round directly I had had my breakfast, to visit him and see what I might do to help.”

“Thank you, sir, you are very kind,” Sylvia said, forestalling the countess before she might give her consent to his visiting the earl, “but the doctor has forbidden him any callers until he is feeling more the thing.”

“Good God, then it must be serious business!”

“He has a concussion, Mr. Lacey,” said the countess, lifting her chin a little as though she feared it might begin to tremble. “His ribs are possibly cracked, and he was still unconscious when they brought him home to us.”

“But he is not still—that is, surely—”

“He is recovering well, sir,” Sylvia said, taking pity on the young man. “’Tis merely that the doctor fears he will attempt to do too much too soon. His ribs hurt, and he becomes dizzy when he attempts to sit up, but the doctor assures us these symptoms will pass, as will the pain in his head.”

“But what happened? I heard all about the assassination, of course. No one could talk of anything else, which is why I didn’t hear sooner about Fran. Don’t tell me the fellow knocked him down as well as killing the prime minister.”

“No, no, we are certain that that at least was not the case. He has no memory of the events just prior to his accident, but he was not near enough to Mr. Perceval to have taken a bullet, and Lord Reston believes he was merely knocked against the wall in the surge to apprehend the assassin.”

Mr. Lacey would no doubt have asked more questions, but just then Mrs. Mayfield and her daughter were announced, and he had perforce to give way gracefully to the newcomers. When they asked similar questions, though, he spoke up before either of his hostesses might do so, and Sylvia gratefully let him have the floor, thinking that the conversation would be repeated often enough as the day passed. A moment later, when Lavender approached her to ask if there was anything she might do to help, Sylvia smiled at her.

“Nothing, thank you. The doctor has ordered complete rest, and Greyfalcon has agreed to obey him.”

“Oh, dear, and I had so hoped he might be well enough to take me for a drive in the park this afternoon. He is always saying we will do so one day, but whenever I mention that a particular day might be just the one, he has pressing engagements that cannot be put off. Surely, a quiet drive would not hurt him, Sylvia.”

“I’m dreadfully sorry, Lavvie, but the doctor was most insistent that Greyfalcon remain quietly in bed. Look here,” she added as an idea occurred to her, “poor Mr. Lacey is quite beside himself with worry, for he is a very good friend of Greyfalcon’s, you know, and the doctor will not even allow him to visit. I can think of nothing better calculated to take his mind off his worry than for him to treat you to a drive through the park. He has an elegant curricle, you know. I have had the pleasure of riding in it. One sits up high and can see all one’s friends and show off one’s gown. Quite delightful, Lavvie. You would enjoy it above all things.”

“Oh, to be sure, but I daresay … Why, though we have met several times, I scarcely know Mr. Lacey, Sylvia.”

“That can be altered in a trice. Mr. Lacey, Miss Mayfield has just been telling me that she has never been driven in a curricle, and I was telling her how very well you—”

There was no need to say more. Mr. Lacey would be delighted if Miss Mayfield would do him the honor of driving with him that very afternoon. Thus, when a footman entered the room a moment later to inform Miss Jensen-Graham that Mr. Wigan desired her presence on the second floor, if she could spare the time, Sylvia was able to leave with a sense of having accomplished something rather clever.

On the stairway, however, when the footman said in a low voice, “If it pleases you, miss, Mr. Wigan says can you hurry,” she glanced at him and quickened her pace.

Upstairs, her gentle tap on Greyfalcon’s door was greeted by a bellow. “Go away!”

A moment later the door opened, and Wigan stood there, his face red, his expression pleading. “Come in, miss. We are not having a good day.”

“Out, Wigan,” commanded his master, “and do not let me see your face again—ever.”

“Dear me,” said Sylvia, smiling at the manservant. “You seem to be in his black books, for certain.”

“Aye, miss, he’s given me the sack again. Only done it twice this month, but this time he sounds as if he means it.”

“Nonsense,” she said bracingly. “He wouldn’t know how to get on without you. I’ll stay now, so you may go away for half an hour. But mind you come back, Wigan. He needs you, even though he is too churlish to tell you so.”

With these words, she pushed the little man out the door and shut it behind him.

“Open that door.”

“I shan’t. You are only going to bellow at me, and there is no sense in making a gift to the servants of your childish temper tantrums. You ought not to treat Wigan so badly. He is very kind to you.”

“Kind! The man poisoned my ale. If I had a headache yesterday, it is nothing to the one I’ve got today, and I recognize this one. ’Tis nothing more than laudanum.”

“The doctor said you were to have it. Wigan was merely following his orders.”

“Oh, was he? Well, it can’t have been very good to mix the stuff with ale.”

“No, probably not, which is why you will henceforth take it when it is offered to you.”

He sighed, moving uncomfortably against the pillows. He looked hot and tired. “Sylvia, open the door. You ought not be in my bedchamber with it shut unless someone else is in here with you, even if I am weak as a kitten. Go on,” he added when she still hesitated. “I promise I won’t bellow, but I promise also that if you do not obey me at once, I shall get up out of this bed and open the door myself.”

“Very well, sir,” she said, moving to do as he bade her, “but you still have not agreed not to make another fuss when Wigan brings your medicine.”

“Nor shall I. Look, Sylvia,” he added when she opened her mouth to explain just why he should do as he was told, “laudanum always makes me ill. I discovered that when I was a child. My nurse used to give it to us at the least little sign of anything, and if I refused, I only got a larger dose tipped down my throat while she held my nose. If I spat it out, I got smacked and then got yet another dose. It’s a wonder she didn’t kill me with the stuff.”

“She was only trying to do her job, sir.”

“Maybe, but the stuff makes me ill. Once I learned to hold it in my mouth until she turned away and then to spit it out, things went better, but I still react badly to it, so don’t ask me to take any more. A mug of ale by itself or a glass of wine will help me sleep if I need a reposer.”

“I doubt if spirits are good for you when you are ill, sir, but a mug of chocolate will do. Would you like a cold cloth for your head?”

His expression lightened at the suggestion, so she wrung out a cloth in the washstand basin and smoothed it over his brow.

“No more laudanum?” He looked up at her.

“Very well. Would you like me to read to you? That ought to put you to sleep if anything will.”

“Not if you intend to read any of the drivel that Wollstonecraft woman wrote, I don’t. It isn’t kind to read emancipation nonsense to a man tied to his bed. Why has no one been to see me? I thought surely Lacey and some of the others would come to see if I’d snuffed it or not.”

“Mr. Lacey was here this morning,” she told him, “but the doctor thinks it best that you have no visitors for a day or two until the dizziness and the pain in your ribs pass off. Miss Mayfield also called,” she added to forestall argument. “She was expecting you to drive her in the park today.”

“Blast the girl. Well, at least that’s something. She won’t be able to hold my hand and whisper in my ear.”

“Goodness, does she do such things?”

“Much you would care, setting her on to plague me as you did. No, of course, she does not. But I daresay she would, given half an opportunity.”

“Well, Mr. Lacey has very kindly offered his services in place of yours. He will not satisfy Lavvie nearly so well, of course, but I daresay she will get by.”

“Bless Lacey,” said his lordship fervently.

K
EEPING THE NEWS OF
the prime minister’s assassination from Greyfalcon was more difficult than Sylvia had expected it to be, because the newspapers were full of it for days. Even the stately
Times
filled its pages with verbatim accounts of parliamentary discussions and proceedings, the Regent’s personal reactions, those of the man in the street, and with discussions and debates over the apparent freedom of criminals to do their dastardly deeds anywhere they pleased, news of Wellington’s army took second place, though that was possibly because the enemy, for once, appeared to be in retreat.

Sylvia resorted at first to subterfuge, instructing Wigan simply to forget to take the papers to his master, and for the first two days, Greyfalcon slept a good deal and took little note of their absence. On the third day, when Wigan told her he didn’t think the same tactic would succeed, she told him to do what he could until the doctor arrived and could be consulted. Wigan shaved his master and helped him change his nightshirt, and those two exertions tired him so much that he never thought to ask about the papers before Baillie arrived to examine him. When the doctor had gone, Sylvia entered the bedchamber to discover her patient in no very good mood.

Wigan received her entrance with a smile of relief, but Greyfalcon practically snarled at her, “Damned leech says I’ve got to stay at least another two days in bed. I may have promised to obey him, Sylvia, but this is ridiculous. There’s nothing the matter with me barring the dizziness, which I daresay would pass off if I were to move about more.”

“And difficulty breathing, though he hides it,” muttered Wigan. “One o’ them ribs is most likely cracked, Doctor says. Best he should rest, Miss Sylvia.”

“Indeed, yes, but no doubt he is bored to distraction. Do you go and fetch some cards, Wigan. Perhaps a few hands of piquet will cheer him up. Will you play with me, my lord?”

He shot an enigmatic look at her from under his brows, but when she met it with a bland one of her own, he smiled. “Can you play well? I am an excellent player, myself.”

“And so modest, too. I play tolerably well, sir. It is one of the few pastimes Papa indulges in when he can be dragged from more academic pursuits.”

She quickly discovered that she was no match for him at cards, but she could hold her own at chess and the next afternoon was able to beat him three times quite soundly at backgammon. He made no more protest after that over staying in bed, and when Baillie pronounced him fit enough on Friday afternoon to remove to a chair in his library, he surprised them all by saying that he thought he would wait a day or two more before attempting to make his way downstairs.

“There’s still an occasional dizziness,” he told Sylvia when she expressed her surprise at this action.

If she noted a similarity in his demeanor to that of his mother when she was feeling a need to be pampered, Sylvia made no mention of it. As the days passed, she had come to enjoy the privacy of their afternoons and was by no means in a hurry to share him with other visitors.