Barbara Metzger (12 page)

Or honest. Wynn couldn't remember the last time anyone had disliked him so. He ducked lower against the sloping eaves and took a step closer to the bed. “Miss Lockharte, I am sorry you feel that way, and I am sorry for your plight. Do you need anything?"

Rosellen could have laughed, if her lip weren't swollen. She was destitute, disabled, and in danger of her life. What could she possibly need from this popinjay who had everything? “Get out."

He nodded. “I do not wish to add to your distress, ma'am. I just wanted to bring my sister's best regards and these flowers."

Wynn held out the bouquet, then realized that one of Miss Lockharte's hands was bound to a board and the other, sticking out of a frayed cuff, looked as frail as a reed. He looked around for someplace to put the blasted nosegay. This was the last time he'd listen to his sister, he told himself, and definitely the last time he'd have anything to do with crackbrained spinsters. He settled for putting the flowers on the bed next to her. At least she could smell them there, which had to improve her condition somewhat. He'd leave some money with the beldam behind him in the doorway. Susan would have to be content with that. “I'll be going then."

Miss Merrihew's relief was obvious as she asked him again to stay for tea. Wynn turned to follow her out, his mission concluded as unsatisfactorily as everything else recently, but then he looked back and saw the tear. A solitary drop of moisture was rolling down the penmanship instructor's empurpled cheek, traveling from a closed black eye to a cut and scraped chin. Wynn gently touched the hand that lay limply on the cover. “Miss Lockharte?"

Rosellen was not totally attics to let. Viscount Stanford was obviously the heaven-sent answer to her prayers. Heaven must have a quirky sense of humor, indeed, for he was not the answer she wanted. The elegant Stanford was there, though, in the ramshackle room of a ragtag schoolmarm. That was miracle enough. She could not afford to send him away, not even if her pride was the only thing she had left to lose.

Rosellen licked her swollen lip, tasting the salty tear, and whispered, “Please, sir, I need help."

Wynn turned toward Miss Merrihew. “Do you know, I believe I will take tea after all, here with Miss Lockharte."

"Here?” she squawked. “You cannot stay here!"

"Certainly I can. It's not what I am accustomed to, but if Miss Lockharte can manage, I daresay I can muddle through."

"It ... it isn't proper."

Wynn took out his quizzing glass again and gave the formidable dame a glance that reminded her of who he was. “If, as you said, Miss Lockharte is no longer in your employ, her reputation cannot be any concern of yours. We shall, of course, leave the door open.” He thrust the bouquet of flowers into her hands. “And perhaps you would be so good as to find a vase for these when you order the tea."

As he took two steps closer to the bed, Wynn hit his head on a roof beam. “Blast!” he muttered, then, “Pardon."

Rosellen smiled on the inside, oddly relieved that he wasn't hunchbacked after all.

Rubbing his head, Wynn looked around. He couldn't stand, not without getting a permanent crick in his neck, and there was no chair. He shrugged, then sat on the none-too-clean floor next to the low bed. Thank goodness his valet was back in London. “Now, miss,” he said, “how may I be of service?"

He was really going to help her! Rosellen was so overcome, she could hardly speak. She swallowed twice before managing to tell him, “I need to get to Brighton. Could you ... would you take me?"

Perhaps she had family in Brighton, friends who would look after her better than she was being tended here. There were no jars of ointments for her cuts, no ice for the swelling, no lemonade or calf's-foot jelly, nothing one associated with the sickroom. Wynn saw an easy, speedy solution to the problem confronting him. “My pleasure, ma'am. I am headed that way myself. But are you sure you are up to making the trip? Those stairs alone"—he gestured toward the attic door—"seem too tortuous for one in your condition."

"Oh, I got down them all right last time. It was getting up that was the problem. It doesn't matter. I cannot stay here."

Wynn nodded. He didn't know how much longer he could tolerate the fetid room himself. “I agree that this is not the most healthful environment."

Rosellen made a sound almost like a chuckle. “That is why I have to get to the magistrate's office in Brighton. They're trying to kill me."

Wynn's heart sank. So much for a tidy resolution to the mess of Miss Lockharte. And so much for his hopes that Miss Merrihew had exaggerated the female's mental condition. She didn't have any friends in Brighton; she had a flea-brained notion to call in the constables. “Surely not,” he said, trying to speak lightly. He was hoping to humor her out of a scheme that would see her in Bedlam before she could say “Jack Rabbit."

But she was going on. “Yes, they are. They pushed me down the stairs when they couldn't strangle or suffocate me. And they made those wild horses bolt, although I am not quite certain how."

"They...?"

Rosellen understood his question. “The Merrihews, of course. Oh, and they stole my money."

"Miss Merrihew robbed you?” It seemed like a good place to start, Wynn thought. If he could make her see the absurdity of her accusations, perhaps there was hope for her after all.

"And her brother. That's why I need to get to Brighton, so the constable will find Fanny, who can explain.” Rosellen knew she was speaking disjointedly, but she could see the disbelief on his face, on both faces. She closed her eyes to make the double image go away. She just had to make him understand, and she had to do it before Miss Merrihew returned or before she ran out of energy altogether. “Fanny was the maid here before they sent her away so she couldn't tell anyone about the money. If I find her, someone will have to listen to me."

"Miss Lockharte, have you considered that, if your coins have gone missing and the maid Fanny has gone missing, perhaps they are together?"

"No, not Fanny. She is a good girl and my friend. Besides, it wasn't a handful of coins; it was fifty pounds. And one crown, to be exact."

More delusions. Wynn sighed. “Miss Lockharte—"

The fingers of her unbound hand clenched the covers at her side. “I know what you are thinking: Where did this freakish female get fifty pounds? That's the problem. I'm not quite sure, but Fanny knows. I was feverish when the messenger came. By carriage. In a wig.” She opened her eyes to see his reaction, then closed them quickly, before another tear could escape. “You don't believe me."

"I believe you were ill, desperately so. And you certainly took a fall. But to think that Miss Merrihew and her brother—he is that clerical fellow, isn't he?—tried to murder you for fifty pounds does not make sense."

"It wasn't about the money at first. They tried to kill me before it even arrived."

"Before...?” he prompted.

She turned her face toward the wall. “It was because I wrote some letters."

Wynn cleared his throat. “I am well aware that you wrote letters, Miss—Good grief, never say you wrote one of
those
letters to your employers?"

She nodded, then groaned at the movement. “Both of them."

Wynn stood so quickly, he bumped his head again. Incredulous, he demanded, “What kind of blithering idiot would do such a thing?” Now he wanted to strangle her, too. “What did you expect to happen?"

"I expected to die, that's what!"

"And you believe in burning your bridges with a vengeance, don't you? Still, an apology ought to take care of the coil. The Merrihews cannot be without forgiveness. He's a religious chap, after all."

"No, you don't understand. I saw things here, knew information that could damage their reputations, ruin the school."

"And you threatened them with it?” he practically shouted.

"I thought I was dying,” she repeated.

Wynn didn't know what to believe, what to think of this female. She was either the world's biggest fool or a raving maniac. He was relieved when a maid came to the door and coughed. She was holding a tray, looking for a place to set it. “I'll take that,” Wynn said, nodding for her to leave. She scurried away like a frightened mouse. Most likely she thought Miss Lockharte was dicked in the nob, too, Wynn thought.

He set the tray down on the floor, noting that this could not be the offering he would have been served in the headmistress's private parlor. The teapot was earthenware, and the plate contained bread and butter and two slices of poppy-seed cake. Miss Lockharte was leaning over the bed, looking at the meager fare as if it were manna.

"Shall I pour?” he asked, already at the task. “Sugar?"

"Please.” Rosellen licked her swollen lip.

"One or two lumps?"

"Four."

He placed a slice of cake in her good hand and watched while she struggled to bring it to her mouth. Deuce take it, she'd never manage the teacup. Feeling like the veriest nodcock, he bent almost double to set it next to her lips. She gulped audibly, then looked up. “I'm so glad you're here. They wouldn't poison
your
tea."

Lud, Wynn thought as he fed her the entire contents of the platter and half the pot of tea, she was starving. And she was stark raving mad.

"You cannot stay here.” By the time Miss Lockharte had finished the last crumb, Lord Stanford had reached a decision.

Rosellen sighed with relief and repletion. “You do believe me then."

Wynn didn't believe a word of the preposterous prattle. The Merrihews were pillars of propriety. The sister was a well-respected educator of young females and the brother was a man of the cloth. They were not killers and cutpurses. This was a girls’ school, by George, not a sinkhole of depravity.

On the other hand, Miss Lockharte was certainly not in their good graces, to judge from Miss Merrihew's scowls, to say nothing of the treatment she was receiving in this airless cubbyhole, such as it was. To be fair, when the viscount dismissed an insolent servant, he did not expect to have to care for the chap forever either.

Well, the Merrihews wouldn't have to look after Miss Lockharte any longer. They hadn't done much of a job of it, Wynn thought angrily, and they were ready to send her off to an insane asylum. That
would
be murder. He was ready to send her to one of his lesser estates to recover. Lud knew he had enough pensioners; one more would not make a difference if she never got her health back or her wits.

Wynn told himself he'd do the same for any unfortunate soul, not just to appease a guilty conscience, and certainly not because, under the black and blue, the chit had turquoise eyes.

"I'll have my coachman return to fetch you as soon as the physician says you are well enough to travel."

"What physician? My lord, they did not call the doctor in, for they did not want me talking to him."

"Who wrapped your arm then?"

"Jake, the man-of-all-work."

She spoke so matter-of-factly, Wynn couldn't tell if the woman was telling the truth or another of her fanciful taradiddles. “And they didn't mind that you spoke to this Jake?” Lud, he was sounding like her now.

"Jake dares not speak out or he'll lose his own position, and he has three children to feed. It doesn't matter. I have to leave today."

"To see the constable in Brighton?"

"To see another sunrise."

She had a point, Wynn conceded. He could drive her to Brighton, where a doctor could look at her, to make sure Jake knew what he was about, and start her recovery there. He wouldn't have to cool his heels waiting either. She needed a nurse, that's what. He tried hard not to think of it as hiring a keeper, but he would leave Miss Lockharte in good hands and get on with his own investigations. He could send the carriage back for her in a week or two, to drive her to whichever estate seemed farthest away from people who might misinterpret her irrational ramblings.

"Very well.” Wynn stood cautiously, wary of the beams. “I'll wait outside with the carriage. I do not relish another moment in Miss Merrihew's company any more than you do."

Rosellen was revitalized by the food and buoyed by her imminent rescue. She was not brave enough, however, to attempt those steps again. “My lord, would you mind waiting here in the attic? I, ah, don't think I am quite up to the stairs on my own."

"Of course you're not. I assumed Miss Merrihew would send that maid or someone up to assist you."

"No! She mustn't know I am leaving.” Rosellen tried to grab for his hand but reached his coat hem instead. She hung on, as if to a lifeline. “She'll try to stop me, I know it!"

"Now that is definitely a delusion, miss. I believe she'll be happy to see the last of you."

Rosellen ignored his words. “But you'll wait here for me? You won't go down without me?"

Wynn patted her thin hand awkwardly, thankful again that his valet was in London, not seeing what damage was being done to one of Weston's finest creations. “I won't leave without you, Miss Lockharte. But can you manage to get ready on your own?"

Rosellen thought she could, if she kept her eyes closed and didn't make any sudden movements. She nodded, then moaned. She'd better not do that either. “If you'll just hand me my uniform and my satchel."

The rag on the floor was her dress? “This gray thing?"

"Yes, they took all of my other clothes away so—"

"Don't tell me, so you wouldn't run away.” He placed the tattered gray fabric next to her, then found a shabby carpetbag under the bed. “Here you go. I'll be on the other side of the door."

Sweat beading on her forehead, Rosellen managed to get her stockings halfway up her calves. She decided to keep her nightgown on under her dress in lieu of a shift and because she was never going to get its narrow sleeve past her splinted wrist. She did get the despised uniform over her head before she fell off the bed.

Wynn heard the thud and the cry of pain. He dashed into the room and promptly smacked his head on the low beam. “Damn and blast!” Miss Lockharte was on the floor, struggling with her gown. Next thing he knew, she'd be claiming the thing attacked her. He got her to her feet, propped her up by the bedpost, and tugged the gown down. Despite the colorful bruises, her complexion was as gray as the gown. She looked even more miserable, if that were possible.