Lord Harry's Folly (27 page)

“Don’t worry,” the earl said. He took Harry’s arm and drew him away.

“Now you,” Jason Cavander said to Pottson. “What is your name?”

“Pottson, your grace,” he said, moving quickly to the carriage door. Lord Oberlon lowered his voice, for he had no wish that even Silken hear his words. “Now, Pottson, what is the young lady’s name, if you please?”

Pottson stared vacantly at his unconscious mistress pressed close to the marquess’s chest. His promise to her rang clear in his mind, yet, he knew at the same time that all had changed. What the devil was he to do?

“Out with it, Pottson. Don’t you see that I must know everything now if we are to pull through this mess without a scandal that would rock all of London? What is the girl’s damned name?”

“She’s Miss Henrietta Rolland, your grace.” Oh gawd, what would happen now? She’d kill him, Pottson knew it. He’d betrayed her, yet what could he do?

Henrietta Rolland, he thought blankly. That lovely young lady at the Ranleaghs’ ball who’d fascinated him and who’d liked him very much as well until she’d learned who he was. Sir Archibald’s daughter, Jack’s sister she’d left Sir Archibald’s house rather than dine with him. And the dowdy female at his aunt Melberry’s soiree who’d made his eyes cross just to look at her, yet she’d taunted him and mocked him until until she’d realized that to continue just made him all the more curious. Then she’d become a vulgar, obnoxious twit. And as Lord Harry she’d turned her attention to Melissande, she’d even taunted him that he wasn’t enough of a man for his mistress. A girl, no, a young lady of quality had said that to him. He didn’t understand any of it. Why the devil did she hate him? Had she assumed the identity of a young gentleman just to kill him? It was fantastic, utterly without sense to him. He pulled himself together. “Ride with Silken. I will see to her. Dammit, man, go now.”

He settled her in his arms and yelled out the carriage window, “Spring’em, Silken! If they’re blown, we’ll change them at Smithfield. Hurry, I want to be at Thurston Hall in an hour.”

Silken took his master at his word, and Lord Oberlon clutched her more tightly to his chest to keep her steady as the carriage lurched and swayed over the rutted ground. He gently pulled back the greatcoat that covered her and carefully eased up her shirt. The wadded handkerchief was nearly soaked with blood. He placed his fingers atop the wound and pressed down. He tried to cradle her as best he could with his free hand, and drew the greatcoat over her.

He stared down into her pale, still face. Henrietta was the beauty of the family, Louisa had said. His eyes followed the slender column of her neck to the firm smooth chin, a stubborn chin, he thought, bloody stubborn and determined. Just look at all she’d done. He looked closely at the high cheekbones, the straight, proud nose, the thick, fair lashes lying in wet spikes on her cheeks. How strange that looking down at her now, everything made sense the myriad parts he had thought about so fancifully now fit perfectly together. She had Jack’s blond hair. Curling ringlets were working themselves loose from the black ribbon at her neck, and the thick pomade no longer held the curls back from her forehead. Were she conscious, he knew her eyes would be as light and pure a blue as the summer sky. He also knew she would stare at him with contempt and hatred. She would mock him. She would be more arrogant than he himself had ever been at her age. But she hadn’t killed him. She’d pulled up. He could still see the foil as it swung gently back and forth in the early morning breeze.

I think you were born a fool and will most certainly leave this world an equal fool, he told himself, shaking his head at his blindness.

It was often said that the clothes made the man. He was now inclined to believe, rather, that one saw what one expected to see. Lord Monteith dressed as a gentleman, talked like a gentleman and partook in all the gentleman’s sports. Everyone had accepted him as such. Now, gazing down at her undeniably female face, he was forced to admit with rueful admiration that she had pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes. Even Melissande. He laughed aloud at that. Melissande accepting all the flattery, the riding costume, the mare. It was marvelous, by God, bloody unbelievable and he’d been taken in like all the rest.

Ah, but why had she hated him so much as to force a duel upon him? Why Jack’s sister, in particular? It made no sense to him. He could bring Pottson into the carriage with him and demand the reason. Yet, somehow, he wanted to hear from her own lips why she’d planned and executed this outrageous charade. He realized, too, his hand covered with her blood, that his most pressing concern wasn’t to discover her motives, but rather to save her life.

The miles pounded by. He began to grow concerned that she didn’t regain consciousness. Minutes ago they’d bowled past the signpost for Helderton, a small village not many miles from the halfway point to Smithfield. He gazed down at her again and saw for the first time a dark purplish bruise forming over her temple. She must have struck her head when she fell. He quickly laid his hand over her breast to feel for her heartbeat. It was, he thought, rapid but steady. A blow on the head could keep her from regaining consciousness. He prayed silently that it wasn’t serious.

He found himself wondering if he was not a coward. Had he hidden her identity from the others to protect his own reputation? By God, who would want it known that he’d been challenged to a duel by a girl? That she’d managed to have him at her mercy, the tip of her foil against his heart? Was he, in fact, endangering her life to keep himself from being a laughingstock?

He looked up as the carriage drew to a halt in the yard of the Red Rose Inn, in the center of Smithfield.

Silken’s small, pointed face soon appeared at the carriage window. “The cattle are winded, your grace.”

“Change ‘em, quickly, Silken. Five minutes, no more.” As soon as Silken had bustled away to search out the ostler, Pottson scratched lightly on the carriage door to gain the marquess’s attention.

“Is Miss Hetty all right, your grace? Please, sir, she’ll live, won’t she?”

“Yes, Pottson. The bleeding has stopped. When she fell, she hit her head on a rock, and it’s that keeps her from consciousness. Now, what is it you want to say?”

“Miss Hetty wrote two letters, your grace. One to Sir Archibald and the other to Sir John. If something happened to Miss Hetty, I was to give the letters to her maid. You see, your grace, Miss Hetty always has luncheon with Sir Archibald at precisely twelve o’clock. If she’s not there, he’ll miss her. There’ll be hell to pay.”

“Damnation. Well, it must be dealt with. No, be quiet, Pottson, I must think.” He stared down at the unconscious girl in his arms. “I’ve got it. Listen, Pottson. You’ll rent a hack from the ostler and return to London immediately. Tell Miss Rolland’s maid to inform Sir Archibald that Miss Rolland has been invited by my sister, Lady Alicia Warton, to spend several days with her at Thurston Hall. She will then accompany you to Thurston Hall by this evening if possible, Pottson. I shall attend to my sister. Do you understand?”

“Yes, your grace. Lady Alicia Warton.”

“You may ask my butler, Rabbell, in Berkeley Square, the directions to Thurston Hall. Here,” the marquess added, reaching into his waistcoat pocket. “This should be enough money. You must pull it off correctly, Pottson, there is much at stake. You know it as well as I do.”

“I know, your grace, I know. It was a mad scheme, but once Miss Hetty had the bit between her teeth, there was no stopping her. I couldn’t blame her, your grace. After all, her brother”

The marquess interrupted him. “No, don’t tell me any more. Go now, there’s no time to lose. Don’t forget, Lady Alicia Warton. I fancy she and Miss Henrietta Rolland are going to become bosom pals.”

The marquess thought about Sir Archibald and his general vague perceptions of his family, and decided that his plan was likely to work. Moreover, Sir Archibald wouldn’t question an invitation from Lady Alicia Warton. He must remember to write to his sister this very evening, and warn her not to appear in London.

The marquess lifted her shirt again and saw with dismay that his hand was covered with her blood. The wound was bleeding again. He shouted to Silken to bring him several very clean napkins from the inn.

Gently, he laid her on the opposite seat and unfastened the soaked handkerchief.

He winced at the raw wound, remembering all too clearly the unbearable pain he’d suffered when he’d accidentally been run through the shoulder by a school friend, George Pulmondy. Strange, he thought, that he remembered George’s name, for he hadn’t heard a thing about him in years.

He didn’t let Silken spring the horses until he’d fashioned a new bandage from the clean napkins and settled her again against his chest. She was so bloody slight. How could anyone have ever believed her a young man? And just look at that smooth white jaw. That soft white flesh, the thick lashes, a shade darker than her blond hair. And where were any whiskers? Not in this lifetime, that was for certain.

Fools, they’d all been fools. Sir Harry, Monteith’s best friend, had never suspected. Julien St. Clair hadn’t suspected. None of them had.

He found himself impatiently gazing out the carriage window for familiar landmarks that would tell him they were drawing close to Thurston Hall. He had never greatly cared for the rambling mansion with its forty bedrooms and ghostly draped ballroom, yet when he saw the entrance to the park, lined with naked-branched lime trees, it was the most welcome sight he’d ever seen. He breathed an audible sigh of relief when the carriage drew to a jolting halt in front of the great pillared front entrance.

Silken jumped nimbly down from the box and jerked open the carriage door. “Is he still alive? Aye, I see that he is. Can I help your grace with the young gentleman?”

“I can manage,” the marquess said as he gently carried the still unconscious Henrietta Rolland up the deep-inlaid marble steps. He’d realized for the past hour that he would be the one to care for her, no other. He couldn’t even let his servants know, no one must know that the young gentleman was a young lady. Jesus, he couldn’t believe this. What if she died? No, he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. He pictured again the instant when his foil sliced into her side. It made him shudder. And she’d closed her mind to the pain she’d wanted to kill him so much. Yet she hadn’t, when she’d disarmed him, she hadn’t killed him.

Silken reached the great oak front doors a few steps ahead of the marquess and soundly thwacked the knocker. Croft, the butler at Thurston Hall since before the marquess’s birth, inched the door open and looked vaguely out into the gray winter morning.

The marquess eyed his butler. “Open the door, damn you, Croft. You’re bloody drunk again, you miserable sot. Just look at you, your eyes are so bloodshot, you can scarce make out that I’m your master and I’ll boot your butt to the next county. Damn you, hurry.” Croft, striving desperately for dignity, weaved about noticeably in the doorway.

“Ah, it is your grace. How welcome you are, sir. Ah, here you are, right here on the front steps, waiting for me to open the door for you.”

“Foxed again, you blighted specimen. Get out of my sight before I lock you in my wine cellar and throw away the key.”

“Your grace, what a fine idea. But what are you doing here? It’s early in the morning. You should still be abed in London. Why did no one warn me, that is, give me ample notice that your grace would bless us with your presence? Who is the young gentleman, your grace? He’s bleeding. His blood is on your shirt and breeches. It isn’t what I’m used to. However, let me take him. It’s my duty. I’ll make sure he doesn’t bleed on you anymore.”

The marquess could only growl. “Shake up the servants, Silken. I need hot water, clean strips of linen very clean, mind you basilicum powder and laudanum. Cook has a sturdy needle and thread.” He whirled about to his glassy-eyed butler. “As for you, Croft, go dip your head in a bucket of cold water. I want you alert in an hour, do you hear me? If you’re not alert, you’ll be walking to East Anglia. Ah, Silken, don’t forget the laudanum.” He knew he could count on Cook to have hoarded a supply of laudanum, particularly when there had not been enough to ease his pain when his shoulder had lain raw and open. He took the wide stairs two at a time. The long eastern corridor had never seemed so endless.

He unceremoniously kicked open the door to the huge master bedchamber at the end of the corridor. He was so intent upon his burden that he nearly tripped over a lion-claw leg of a large gold brocade sofa, a remnant of his father’s delight in the Egyptian influence that had swept the country some five years earlier.

He cursed fluently, more from habit than from his bruised shin, but didn’t break his stride toward the four-postered, canopied bed.

He balanced her on the crook of one arm and swept back the heavy goosedown spread. Gently, he eased her down upon her back and lifted off the greatcoat. To his relief, the napkins weren’t soaked through with blood.

He’d just finished baring her side when Silken, accompanied by two stout footmen, entered the room carrying a bucket of hot water and rolls of white linen.

He moved quickly to shield her from the footmen’s curious eyes.

“Thank you. That will be all.” He waved them all away. If his servants thought it odd that he wouldn’t seek their help with the young gentleman, well, so be it. If they thought it even stranger that he wouldn’t send for the doctor, well, so be that, too. He was a marquess and they weren’t. Whatever he did must be right, must be intelligent. What did they know?

Jason Cavander was thankful that she was still unconscious, for it required more than gentle scrubbing to cleanse away the dried blood from about the wound. Carefully, he pressed his fingers against her side, probing the area. His hand shook. But one more inch inward and his blade would have hit a vital organ.

He threaded the needle with the stout black thread, stared down at her white flesh and drew a deep breath. It required only four stitches. His thrust had been neat and straight.

He sprinkled basilicum powder liberally over her side and bandaged her tightly, layer after layer of the soft linen firm against around her waist and flank. He straightened and gazed down at her. “If I am to have the care of you, Miss Rolland,” he said to her, “it’s time you were out of your man’s clothes and into a man’s nightshirt.”