An Inconvenient Wife (28 page)

St. Clair leaned against one
of the bedposts, all traces of amusement leaving his face. “Very little, I’m
sorry to say. I’ve had your men, and mine, scouring the neighborhood on the
look-out for strangers or rumours of who might have been responsible.” He
frowned at Westcott. “Nick, that bullet came from a rifle and almost certainly
one of military issue.”

“I suspected as much,”
Westcott said heavily. “It was no accident, then, but I tell you, Dev, I cannot
begin to guess who wants me dead. And I would have been, if I had not turned in
the saddle at just that instant and Anne had not been so quick-witted. Damn it
all. I don’t even know any soldiers well enough to have one as an enemy.”

 “Anne did not feel
Meraux…?”

Westcott snorted. “I’m sure
the man hates my guts, but he’s too much of a coward to shoot at someone. I
doubt if he’s ever so much as held a weapon.”

St. Clair lowered his voice
as the door opened behind him. “Then watch your back, my friend, until we find
out more.” He straightened and turned. “I’d say the food you’ve been looking
for has arrived.”

Anne, her face once more set
in its cool expression of casual friendliness, led a small parade containing
butler, maid, and Miss Caxton behind Sarah’s chair. Forcing aside his regret he
had again driven his wife away with his boorish behavior, Westcott pasted on a
smile for his daughter. However much he wanted to lie down and sleep—he was not
so much the fool to deny his stubborn insistence on getting up had worn him
out—Sarah needed assurance he was not seriously injured.

“Mother Anne said I may sit
with you while you eat, Papa.” Sarah’s smile was tentative, her gaze going to
his bandaged shoulder. “Does it hurt terribly?”

She knew how badly one could
hurt. The memory of her own pain-ridden days was in her eyes and Westcott held
out his hand to grasp hers. “Yes, it does hurt, but not terribly,” he said,
sure if he denied having pain she would see through his lie and be doubly upset
at his duplicity. “But with you here I can forget about it for a time.” She
looked pleased at that and chattered away while Harman placed another pillow
behind him.

Clara set out a teapot, cups
and a plate of toast. Hardly what he wanted, but he should be happy it wasn’t
gruel, he supposed, and in any case, the tea appealed more than food. Suddenly
aware of a raging thirst, Westcott downed the contents of his first cup in
several swallows and held it out for more.

“Eat something with your
tea, sir.” Anne took the cup and handed him a slice of toast.

At least jam smothered the
crunchy bread, Westcott noted, taking a few bites before drinking, more slowly
this time, a second helping of tea. “Thank you.” He slumped back against the
pillows, content to listen to Sarah’s story about a hedgehog she and Danielle
had found in the garden. Apparently the sight of her father sitting up and
eating had convinced her he was not at death’s door.

Vaguely aware of the voices
around him fading, he drifted asleep, only rousing at the sound of footsteps
some time later. Anne, and someone else—Mrs. Fenton, and she would not be
paying a social call. Bracing for an uncomfortable session of bandage changing,
Westcott opened his eyes, his gaze first searching out his wife, who showed no
sign of wanting to check his temperature on this visit. He eyed the older woman
warily as she opened a roll of lint and took a pair of scissors from her
pocket.

“I’ll be as quick about it
as I can, my lord,” Maggie said. “Mistress Anne, if you will please bring some
water and candles.”

“Do what you must.” He
started to shrug, and winced. “The sooner this heals the better.” He looked at
Anne. “I’ve been asleep all the morning? What time is it?”

“Somewhat after two, I
believe. You have been asleep a long time and look the better for it,” Anne
said. “I’ve ordered some food for you. Something a bit more substantial this
time.”

The viscount glanced toward
the windows. The sky was dark with an impending storm. Not from nightfall, as
he had first thought, and the hollow feeling in his stomach had implied.
Amusement sparked in her eyes and he gathered she had noticed his distaste for
the toast.

“Thank you.”

She nodded, and returned her
attention to Mrs. Fenton while he concentrated on not disgracing himself during
the arduous procedure. “No brandy this time?” he managed to joke through
gritted teeth and was rewarded by Anne’s soft laughter.

“If you feel well enough to
joke about it, you don’t need it,” she said, rinsing out a cloth in the basin.
“Hold still for a few more minutes.”

Westcott submitted to having
his face and hands washed, and then let out his pent-up breath.

“I feel like a child,” he
grumbled, but without heat, and the women exchanged a smile.

“Nothing like illness to
make a body feel like that,” Maggie said in as cheerful a voice as he’d yet to
hear her use. She packed up her things, stuffed the soiled bandages into a
sack, and sailed out with a brisk “you’ll do, my lord” trailing behind her.

“I’m beginning to believe
her,” Anne said with a small smile, and then turned at a tap on the door. “I
believe your meal has arrived, and here is Harman to assist you.”

She was leaving. He saw the
intent in her eyes and caught the sleeve of her dress. “Stay and keep me company.
Please.” A cool look then, and he thought she would refuse, but something on
his face seemed to answer an unvoiced question and her expression softened.

“If you wish.”

“I do.” So simple after all,
and a stiffness he hadn’t noticed drained away. She sat on a chair beside the
bed and fed him, speaking quietly of everyday things, and for once, he managed
not to act like a bore.
Enjoy it now, Westcott. You’ll be putting up that
barricade again, keeping her from getting too close.
He had to—didn’t he?

Chapter Twenty-two

“My dear Anne! What a
frightful experience for you!” Juliette St. Clair swept into the parlour with
her usual disregard for formalities, tossed her wide-brimmed hat and leather
gloves onto a chair and sat on the settee beside Anne. “I admire you
tremendously! I am sure I’d not have had your presence of mind if it had been
Devlin.” She took Anne’s hands in hers and studied her face with a critical
eye. “You look tired. Have you been up at all hours with Westcott? How is he?
I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. St. Clair has been too occupied in making
inquiries to bring me, and you know how he is about my going anywhere without
him.”

Her friend’s concern was her
undoing and Anne blinked back sudden tears—tears which she had not shed in the
past two days. She clung to Juliette’s fingers for a moment and then groped in
her pocket for a handkerchief. “I don’t know why I am crying now that the worst
is over.” Anne wiped her eyes and managed a wobbly smile. “Westcott is doing
well and needs no one but Harman at night now, but I have not been sleeping
well.” She looked soberly at Juliette. “I thought he was...there was so much
blood. I was never more frightened in my life.” The admission burst out of her
along with the sobs she could no longer suppress. Juliette said nothing, simply
folded Anne into her arms and held her until the emotional outburst was spent.

“I am so sorry.” Anne
straightened, wiped her eyes again, and blew her nose. “Weeping over you like a
watering pot.”

“Nonsense! You have every
reason for a good cry, and I daresay it’s just what you needed,” Juliette said
bracingly. “Now I want to hear the entire story before I go up to visit
Westcott. I don’t doubt St. Clair left out all the best details.”

The airy declaration
produced a watery chuckle and a real smile. For the first time since the
shooting, Anne felt the underlying fear that had kept the tension thrumming
through her subside. “I don’t know if that is the case, but I am more than
willing to tell you what happened. We had gone out for a ride, a habit we have
fallen into most days, and had just gotten to the copse where Westhorp land
joins yours, when….” In a steady voice, Anne related everything to her
apparently enthralled guest, who never once interrupted with the questions Anne
saw in her eyes as the tale unfolded.

Juliette let out a gusty
huff and went right to the heart of the matter. “St. Clair believes it was
deliberate, you know, which means someone was watching for you. Were you going
out at the same time every day? Who would know where you planned to ride?”

Anne furrowed her brow,
trying to remember if there had been any talk of their destination before they
set out. “We do ride almost every afternoon, but in no particular direction
that I am aware of. Westcott, of course, usually has a reason for going one way
or another, but how would anyone know of his plans? That is one reason this is
so puzzling. Unless it was a matter of conjecture. I’m told the road through
the wood is often used for traffic between Westhorp and Lynton Hall. But we
could have ridden any number of ways,” she protested. “No one would just choose
a spot and wait for us to show up.”

“And why not?” Juliette
waved her hands dismissively. “Anyone determined to shoot at Westcott must be a
madman, and they are often quite cunning, I understand.” She tapped her finger
against her lips. “It’s
who
would want to go to such lengths that we
need to discover. You don’t think it might be that Frenchman, Meraux, trying to
get to Danielle? St. Clair said neither you nor Westcott believed it so, but….”

 “He is too much the
coward,” Anne said scornfully, shaking her head. “Besides, he would stand out
like fox amongst the chickens, even in Winchester.”

Juliette hesitated, looked
thoughtfully at Anne for a moment, and then asked the question Anne had been
expecting, and dreading, these past few days.

“Please don’t take this
amiss, but might there be someone from your past who resents your marriage to
Westcott?”

A reasonable question, so
she could hardly take umbrage. Not a question Anne was willing to answer,
however. Not when she had yet to tell Nicholas that it was a very real
possibility.
Something
you must do, and soon. Before he is up and
about, exposed to harm—if it is the Major—which is probably no more than a wild
guess.

“I doubt anyone from my past
even knows of my marriage,” she said lightly. “Except my father’s man of
business, who was delighted to learn I had the good fortune of marrying so
well.” Her face schooled into a calm she did not feel, and anxious to forestall
further discussion, Anne stood. “I was about to call for tea, which I usually
have with the children. Would you care to join us?”

For a moment, Juliette
seemed reluctant to drop the subject, but other than a moue that expressed her
disappointment, said only, “A flight of fancy! My imagination runs wild at
times.” She got to her feet somewhat awkwardly, laid a hand on the almost
unnoticeable bulge in her stomach, and laughed. “I have not become entirely
accustomed to this extra weight but suspect I will look back on
this
little bump with fondness in a few months.” Her eyes bright with amusement,
Juliette walked over to collect her hat and gloves. “I would love to join you
for tea, once I’ve looked in on the patient,
and
told St. Clair he is
not allowed to hurry me home.
He
can keep Westcott company, although I’d
wager he would rather have tea with us. I’m sure it will be far more
entertaining.”

“
Entertaining
is not
exactly how I would describe it,” Anne said, picturing the often noisy
gathering of three children, their governess, and Anne. She chuckled. “But I
can guarantee you won’t be bored.”

~* * *~

Much to the viscount’s
bemusement, they all gathered in his bedchamber for their refreshment, St.
Clair being as unwilling to forego time with the children as his wife
predicted. Using his condition as an excuse to remain somewhat apart, Westcott
listened to the lively discourse with interest. The upcoming performance was
discussed at length, and he realized how little attention he had paid lately to
his daughter’s current pursuits. The music lessons he was aware of, certainly,
not being able to avoid the continuous practice sessions of one girl or the
other—Guy having given it up to devote all his spare time to his pony. Wisely,
in Westcott’s opinion, since the boy’s lack of talent became more evident every
day. His sister, on the other hand, progressed more rapidly than he’d believed
was possible. Sarah, too, was showing an almost equal talent.

Westcott studied the two
girls, dark-haired Danielle as animated as he had ever seen her, explaining
some musical technique to St. Clair—who, to give him credit, appeared
engrossed, and Sarah interjected a sentence now and again, her blond curls
bouncing in her enthusiasm.

Juliette was deep in a
spirited discussion of the merits of ponies with Guy, while Anne looked on the
group with fond amusement, speaking at times to Mary Caxton, who seemed more a
guest than a paid employee. Even Thomas Atkinson, whose presence was completely
unexpected, entered into the conversation occasionally. Westcott had no idea
his secretary was in the habit of visiting the schoolroom. To see so
self-effacing a man to step out of character was not just startling, it made
him speculate about what else he was missing in his household.