Anne Barbour (29 page)

Gerard and Harry exchanged glances of congratulation on their perspicacity in blaming Charles’s wound on land pirates.

Lady Hermione was taken upstairs, where she maintained a vigil at Charles’s bedside until the doctor was announced some twenty minutes after their arrival. This worthy concurred in her evaluation of the wound, saying that the ball had not lodged in the flesh, but apparently had passed through the tissue in a glancing path. He sprinkled a quantity of basilicum powder on the wound and pronounced that, while it was his recommendation that his lordship remain in the inn overnight, if there was no further bleeding, and a fever did not develop, the earl could return home on the morrow. Measuring out a draught to help the patient sleep, he left the inn with instructions to be called if his services were required further.

Charles bore the examination with fortitude, though he drew in a sharp breath as the doctor began his probing, and when Lady Hermione extended her hand, he grasped it with gratitude. Immediately after the good doctor’s departure, however, his eyes closed once more, and once more he began to moan.

“There, there,” said Lady Hermione, applying a cold compress to his head. “I am here.”

Charles moaned all the louder.

“Charles,” said his betrothed with some asperity, but gently, withal, “I know how you happened to be racing through the night in the company of that young girl, and I do not intend to scold you.”

One eye opened cautiously. “You do not?”

“No, for I believe you to have been sadly taken in by that Timburton hussy. I saw her brazen overtures to you, and I will not blame you—at least for just this once—for being taken in by them. Now, do take your medicine, and a little of this broth, my love. It looks most fortifying.”

Obediently, Charles opened his mouth and Lady Hermione spooned first the doctor’s draught and then a portion of the steaming broth into his mouth. When he lay back against his pillows with a sigh, she smoothed back a lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead, and plumped his pillows to a more comfortable position.

In a few moments, Charles’s eyelids began to droop as the effects of the doctor’s draught began to take effect.

“I’m afraid I was behaving very foolishly,” he murmured.

“Yes, I think so, too.” Hermione’s words were softened by the gentle, almost maternal smile she bestowed upon him. “We shan’t speak of it any more. Just rest now, my love.”

Charles smiled blearily. “You’re a prince ‘mong women, Hermione,” he whispered. “Or, no—thas’ not ri’ is it?” He attempted to lift a hand in negation, but it dropped onto the bed almost immediately as his eyes closed yet again, this time in genuine repose.

Lady Hermione’s lips curved in a small smile of satisfaction.

Downstairs, the rest of the group was reviving itself in the inn’s coffee room with ale for the gentlemen, wine for the ladies, and sandwiches, put together with admirable efficiency by Mrs. Biddle. The doctor’s report on Charles set their minds at ease, and they now turned their attention to the pressing problem of the propriety of leaving Charles in the care of his tiger and the landlord and his wife until morning.

“If we were to leave now, we might arrive at Selworth before dawn,” said Jane, in a fever of anxiety about Winifred. “But, I fear lady Hermione will not wish to go with us, and I cannot leave her here unattended by another female.”

“I would volunteer to stay,” said Lissa, “but—

“That won’t do, either. We must get you home as quickly as possible.”

“What a to-do over nothing,” said Gerard, with a snort. “What do you think her ladyship and Charles are going to get up to, with Charles out like a light and a hole in his shoulder besides? Or perhaps you’re afraid she might set up a flirt with the knives and boots boy?”

“Don’t be absurd, Gerard. It’s not what I think, but—

She was interrupted by the sound of an approaching vehicle in the yard outside. Curious, Gerard went to the window to peer out.

“By Godfrey!” He swung about to report to the rest. “It’s Lord Simon! And Mar—Lord Stedford is with him!”

Lissa uttered a faint moan and turned beseechingly to Jane.

Gerard had no sooner drawn away from the window when the inn door opened to admit the two gentlemen in advanced states of anxiety and umbrage.

“Cupid is a knavish lad.
Thus to make poor females mad.”
—A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
III, ii.

“Lissa!” roared Simon and Marcus in unison on beholding her.

“Jane!” Simon roared equally loudly as his glance scoured the room.

Pandemonium reigned in the inn for several moments as everyone tried to speak at once. Simon held up his hand.

“All right. First things first. Is everyone safe?”

By mutual consent, Jane took up the position of spokesman for the little group.

“Yes,” she replied, “we are all well, except for Charles. But how did you get here so quickly? Surely the messenger I sent could not have—

“We had already started out,” replied Simon impatiently. “We met the tiger on the road. He wasn’t making much sense—mentioned something about Charles being shot. We saw the carriage in the ditch—and blood.”

He turned to Jane questioningly, whereupon she launched into an explanation of the momentous circumstances that had taken place earlier in the evening, omitting to reveal fully her own motives in setting out after the adventurers. Her listeners hung on her every word, and when she had finished, Simon returned to the occurrence that interested him most.

“You mean?” he asked incredulously. “Charles abducted Lissa by mistake?”

“Well, yes—more or less,” Jane replied a trifle unsteadily. “I suppose one female in one’s carriage is pretty much like any other—in the dark.”

Simon turned to Lissa, who still sat at the table, frozen. “Which brings me to my next point. What the devil were you doing in Charles’s chaise in the first place?”

“I would like to know the answer to that, myself,” said Marcus tightly.

At this, Lissa was galvanized into action. She started up from the table like a flushed pheasant to stand before Marcus. “And, I would like to know, my Lord Stedford, what you have done with Winifred.”

“Winifred?” he asked blankly.

“Yes, Winifred—as in Miss Timburton—beauteous Titania, Queen of the fairies. The same Winifred Timburton who— whom—you said meant nothing to you.”

“Lissa,” said Marcus in apparent bewilderment, “what are you talking about?”

Lissa became almost incoherent. “Ooh!” she breathed. “Look at you—as though butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth! Of all the despicable...!” Her face crumpled suddenly. “Oh, Marcus, how could you?”

“For God’s sake, Lissa—how could I what?”

“Marcus, stop it! I saw you!”

“Saw me... ?”

“I saw you kissing her—if you could call it that. It looked more as though you were nibbling her face off in little chunks.”

Marcus’s jaw dropped. He glanced around at the others as though for corroboration that his beloved had taken leave of her senses.

“Kissing Winifred! Lissa, I don’t understand any of this!”

By now Lissa looked as though she was about to shoot skyward in a burst of sparks. “Do not try to cozen me, Marc. You and she stood in the courtyard, and—”

“Courtyard! I was not in the courtyard all evening. And even if I were, kissing Winifred is not on my agenda, and never has been!”

“B-but, I saw you! You were standing in the light—it shone on your hair, and you were wearing your cloak from the play.”

Marcus, oblivious to the patently interested spectators clustered about them, placed his hands on Lissa’s shoulders and shook her gently. “Lissa, I don’t know what you thought you saw, but I did not kiss Winifred Timburton in the courtyard, nor any place else—ever.” His blue eyes were serious. “I told you before, my love, she means nothing to me.”

“But. . . Oh, Marcus, she is so very beautiful, and she is all the things I am not.”

“What?” Marcus stared at her in blank amazement. “What has Winifred being beautiful to do with anything? As for her being all the things you are not. . .” He grasped her shoulders gently. “Lissa, I enjoy Winifred’s beauty, as I would any work of art, but she is spoiled and shallow and utterly selfish. Moreover, she is not more beautiful than you. You have life and—what is it?” he asked in horror as Lissa burst into tears.

“Oh, Marcus, I know very well that I am spoiled and shallow and s-selfish, too. But I do try to be good. Sometimes. And I do love you. That’s why when I saw you—or somebody—and Winifred, I—”

“Wait just a moment, Lissa,” interposed Simon before the two oblivious lovers proceeded any further in what promised to be an extremely public and intimate reconciliation. “Did you say Marc was wearing his cloak?”

Lissa nodded wordlessly.

“His cloak is dark green, is it not?”

This time both Lissa and Marc nodded.

“But, earlier this evening, Marc—after the play—-you were wearing one of bright blue. I’m sure it was Jared’s, for he commented on the fact that you had absconded with it.”

“Yes,” said Marcus eagerly, “that’s true. I felt rather foolish, wandering about accepting the accolades of the masses wearing only that ridiculous tunic. I couldn’t find my cloak, so I picked up another, lying on a chair.”

Marcus turned to Lissa, who gazed back at him with an incredulous joy dawning on her delicate features.

“Oh, Marc!” Her eyes fell. “I have been so foolish.”

“About a number of things,” he replied gently, taking her hands. His head bent to hers, but suddenly bethinking himself, he lifted it immediately and glanced around. “If you would all excuse us for a moment,” he said, his blue eyes alight with tender laughter, “Lissa and I have one or two more points to clear up.” Placing an arm about her shoulder, he led her to the door.

Lissa blushed rosily as she followed Marcus from the room, her eyes downcast.

Simon expelled a long breath and glanced involuntarily at Jane. Encountering her gaze, it seemed to him that her luminous eyes reflected his pleasure at Marc and Lissa’s imminent reconciliation. She sobered almost immediately, however, and shooting a glance at Gerard and Harry, who sat in bemused conversation at the far end of the room, she moved hesitantly toward him.

“But, what then, of Winifred?” she asked, her voice husky.

“Oh,” said Simon. Lord, he had almost forgotten about Winifred. “Well—I am assuming she’s at Selworth somewhere. God,” he added wearily, “I wonder who she was kissing. I mean, Lissa surely wasn’t imagining the entire episode.”

Jane raised startled eyes to his face. “You wonder who—Do you not care?”

“Of course, I care. The little twit seems bent on ruining herself.”

Jane shook her head in a baffled gesture. “But, surely it must pain you to know that she was kissing another man.” Jane’s voice was strained and she had paled visibly.

“Another man?” What the devil . . . ? he thought, thoroughly puzzled.

“Winifred told me,” Jane whispered. “About this afternoon ...”

His eyes still on her face, Simon cast his thoughts back with an effort. Lord, this afternoon seemed a hundred years ago. Anyway, why were they wasting time talking about Winifred? Jane’s nearness was having its usual effect on him. Her upturned mouth, with lips slightly parted seemed an almost irresistible invitation, and an urgent need rose within him to draw her close so that he might press his mouth on hers.

What? he thought dazedly, aware that she was speaking again.

“She told me of your offer.”

“Oh. Yes,” he said stupidly. “Offer.”

“I am happy for you, of course.” Her voice was a bare whisper now and he bent his head to catch her words.

“Ah, well, it certainly solved my problems,” he said.

Jane uttered a little choking sound. “Your problems?” A peel of hysterical laughter broke from her. “I—suppose that is one way of looking at it, although I would think—”

“Look, Jane,” said Simon earnestly, feeling that if he had to stand there much longer without touching her he might simply explode. “Could we shelve the subject of Winifred for the nonce? Come.” He grasped her arm gently. “Can we speak privately? There must be another room where we—

“We have nothing to say to each other,” returned Jane rigidly, drawing away from him.

“But—” he began in puzzlement. The next moment, he swore softly as he was interrupted by the hurried entrance of Lady Hermione, who fairly bristled with importance.

“He’s asleep,” she announced breathlessly. “Where is the landlord’s wife? I would like to have more broth ready for him when he wakes.”

Jane and Simon stared at her and then at each other. It was as though the woman had just emerged from a spell put on her at birth by a wicked fairy. Her stony features were softened by a becoming pink flush, and her eyes glowed with a tender light. Even her form seemed suddenly supple and more feminine.

“How—how is Charles?” asked Jane.

“Oh, he seems much better. I expect he will experience some pain in the morning, but—oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed, glancing out the window. “It is morning already.”

“Why, so it is,” declared Simon, observing the faint outline of the inn yard, just becoming visible in the gray light of dawn. “I had forgotten how early the sun rises in England in the summer. Do you think Charles will be ready to travel soon?”

“Oh, my no,” replied Lady Hermione. “Selworth is a good two hours from here”—she shot a malevolent glance at Jane—”Driving at normal speed, and such a long carriage ride would be most deleterious to his condition.”

“But, the doctor said—” interposed Jane, only to be silenced by Lady Hermione’s impatient gesture.

“Pah! The man is competent enough in his way, but he is a country practitioner, after all, used to dealing with rustics. He cannot be expected to understand the complexities of Wye’s delicate constitution.”

“Of course,” said Simon gravely, remembering Charles drinking half his regiment under the table after a day of campaigning in the rain and mud of a Spanish winter, only to repeat the procedure again the next morning.

“I shall remain here with him until you can send my mother to me. I trust I shall not be wholly compromised,” she concluded with an unmistakable note of relish in her voice as she turned to ascend the stairs once more.