The Bargain (10 page)
Authors: Mary J. Putney
“I see why your sister wouldn't feel she could call on them in time of need.” Jocelyn's mouth tightened. “Betrayals by family members are the cruelest, I think.”
He wondered whose betrayal had put that shadow in her eyes. Perhaps she was thinking of her father, who had sought to rule her from the grave. “A pity we can't choose our relatives as we do our friends.”
“My family has its share of dirty dishes.” She smiled self-mockingly. “If I hadn't been so angry with the way my Aunt Elvira was coveting this house, it might not have occurred to me to make such . . . such an impulsive marriage.”
David exhaled roughly. Her words were a sobering reminder that the intimacy of this late night interlude was only an illusion. There was nothing between them but a legal contract meant to be fulfilled and over in a matter of weeks at most. Instead, they were in a situation neither of them had bargained for.
Though he knew that the topic must be addressed soon, he was far too tired to discuss it now. “Don't worry, Lady Jocelyn. I think this . . . unintended marriage can be sorted out without damage to either of us.”
She looked so pleased it was almost insulting. “Really? How?”
Before he could reply, Morgan entered carrying a tray. Curbing her curiosity, she said, “We can discuss this tomorrow. Or rather, later today. Now it's time for you to eat.”
Despite the convenient legged tray designed to be used by someone in bed, that proved harder than expected. What little strength David possessed had been expended on his conversation with Jocelyn. When he tried to raise a spoonful of chicken and barley soup to his mouth, his hand was so weak and uncontrolled that it slopped onto the tray. The footman had already been sent back to his own interrupted meal, so Jocelyn matter-of-factly took the spoon and dipped it into the bowl.
“You shouldn't be doing this,” he protested.
She gave him a reproachful look. “Don't you think I will do it well?”
“You know that's not what I meant.” Before he could say more, she stilled him with a spoon in the mouth. He swallowed slowly, savoring the flavors and textures. Soup had never tasted so good. “It isn't fitting that you perform such a menial task for me.”
She shook her head mournfully. “Just because I have a title, no one thinks I'm good for anything. Perhaps you should just call me Jocelyn.” As he opened his mouth to reply, she popped the spoon in again. “That should remove any exaggerated respect.”
Mouth full, he could only roll his eyes. He got a chuckle in response. After he swallowed, he said, “You're good at this. Have you done nursing before?”
Her smile ebbed and she looked down, dipping the spoon into the bowl with unnecessary care. “My father, in the last weeks of his illness. He'd always been robust and energetic, and he made a terrible patient. He behaved best when I was with him.”
And in return for her daughterly devotion, the earl had left that outrageous will. No wonder she felt betrayed.
He wouldn't have done justice to roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. He didn't even finish the bowl of soup before his shrunken stomach decided it had enough. “I'm sorry,” he said, eyeing the other covered dishes with regret. “I haven't the appetite for anything more.”
She grinned. “I didn't think you would. To be honest, I ordered the omelet and custard for myself. Being up at this hour makes me hungry.”
She lifted the tray away from him and set it aside, then made short work of the omelet. He enjoyed watching the gusto with which she ate. Was it true that a woman who enjoyed her food had equally strong appetites in other areas? It was a pleasant thought to ponder as he faded into the first natural sleep in weeks.
In the hazy land between waking and oblivion, he thought that Jocelyn's hand brushed his hair, but surely that was only a last trace of delirium. . . .
Chapter 10
J
ocelyn had suspected that within a week Major Lancaster would be impossible to keep in bed, but she was wrong. The very next morning she stopped by his room and found him sitting on the edge of his bed as Morgan helped him put a dressing gown over his nightshirt. “Major Lancaster!” she exclaimed. “Are you out of your mind?”
ocelyn had suspected that within a week Major Lancaster would be impossible to keep in bed, but she was wrong. The very next morning she stopped by his room and found him sitting on the edge of his bed as Morgan helped him put a dressing gown over his nightshirt. “Major Lancaster!” she exclaimed. “Are you out of your mind?”
Morgan said plaintively, “After he ate his breakfast, he insisted on sitting up, my lady. Refused to listen to reason.”
Perhaps the major and his sister did have a resemblance that went beyond eye color, she thought dryly. She wasn't sure whether to be impressed, alarmed, or amused by his determination. “Kinlock will have your head for a haggis if you don't show some sense, Major. Remember that twenty-four hours ago, you were on your deathbed.”
He gave her an uneven smile. “If you want me to call you Jocelyn, you'll have to call me David.” The words were light, but his voice was strained and his face was sheened with perspiration.
Thinking he looked very unwell, she approached the bed to feel his forehead. “Has the wound become inflamed?”
He halted her with a raised hand. “Not . . . not feverish. Kinlock warned me that there would be a reaction when I stopped the opium. It's . . . beginning.”
She frowned. “Wouldn't it be better to continue taking laudanum until you're stronger? Surely recovering from surgery is enough for now.”
“The longer I take opium, the harder it will be to stop,” he said tightly. “I want to do it now, before the addiction becomes any worse.”
She hesitated, seeing his point, but vividly aware of how near death he'd seemed less than a day before.
Seeing her doubts, he caught her gaze with his. His pupils had expanded until his eyes were nearly black. “Jocelyn. Please trust that I know how much I can endure.”
He deserved the dignity of being treated like a man, not a child. “Very well. Just . . . don't overestimate your strength and waste all Kinlock's good work.”
“I won't.” He took a shuddering breath. “I . . . I'd rather you left now. Withdrawing from the drug isn't a pleasant process. I don't want you to see me at my worst.”
She would feel the same in his position; one's darkest moments were best kept private. “Very well.” She glanced at the footman. “Inform me at once if you become concerned about the major's condition, Morgan.”
“Aye, my lady.”
The young Welshman's eyes showed his awareness of the responsibility he bore. Odd that he'd worked for her more than a year, and she'd never suspected the depths of his caring and compassion. Quiet daily life didn't require the display of such qualities, she supposed.
As she exited, the major whispered, “Thank you, Jocelyn. For . . . everything.”
She hoped she wouldn't live to regret allowing him to go to hell in his own way.
He exhaled with relief after Jocelyn left, knowing he'd gained a formidable ally. “It's a rare woman who knows when not to argue.”
“She's rare indeed, Major,” Morgan said fervently.
David glanced at the footman, wondering if he was in love with his beautiful mistress. No, it wasn't romantic love in the young man's eyes, but devotion to a woman he respected profoundly. Though wages could command a servant's duty, it took character to inspire true loyalty.
A chill shivered through him. Knowing what lay ahead, he said, “Help me into the chair, please.”
“Wouldn't you be better off lying down, sir?”
“Later. For as long as I can manage, I'd rather face this sitting up.”
The footman obligingly took an arm and helped him to his feet. His weakened legs almost collapsed under him, and at first he just stood swaying dizzily. Without Morgan's help, he'd have fallen in a heap on the floor.
When his whirling head steadied, he managed to stagger three steps to the wing chair, with Morgan's considerable help. He sank into the chair and leaned his head against the back, tremors in his limbs and pain blazing from the surgical incision. But at least, by God, he was no longer lying in bed as helpless as a kitten.
Sitting in a chair, helpless as a kitten, seemed like an enormous improvement.
Jocelyn had sent a note to Richard Dalton about the major's health, but the messenger crossed him, and the captain arrived in midmorning not knowing of his friend's miraculous improvement. Too discreet to offer information himself, Dudley left Richard in the morning room and notified Jocelyn of the visitor.
She found Richard standing by a window, his knuckles white on his crutches. Expecting the worst as she herself had done yesterday, he asked, his face a taut mask, “Is David . . . ?”
“Richard, he's much, much better,” she said quickly. “He was operated on yesterday, and the surgeon thinks he has an excellent chance of full recovery.”
His eyes widened. “David is going to
live?”
live?”
“With luck, he'll be as good as new.”
The captain swung to face the window and stared out, his shoulders rigid. To allow him a private time to collect himself, she scooped up Isis, who had followed her in from the study. The cat could absorb infinite amounts of petting.
When Richard finally spoke, his voice was so low it was barely audible. “When your butler brought me here, I was sure you would tell me that David had died last night. You . . . you can't imagine what this means. When so many have died, to know that at least one friend will survive, against all the odds.”
“I think I can guess, a little,” she said quietly.
Richard turned to her. “What will this mean to you?”
“I honestly don't know,” she said wryly. “But I hope that unlike Sally Lancaster, you will acquit me of a desire to slip poison into David's soup.”
“Sally never said that!”
“She implied it quite strongly.” Jocelyn scratched Isis's chin and got a rumbling purr in response. “To be fair, she was foxed at the time and probably didn't mean it.”
“If you were going to murder someone, I assume it would be very direct, perhaps pistols in Bond Street. Not something sly like poison,” Richard said with a grin that made him look years younger, the way he'd appeared when they first met in Spain.
“It would be a pity to waste my marksmanship,” she agreed.
He shifted on his crutches. “Is David well enough to receive visitors?”
“Since I'm a mere frail female, he threw me out of his room this morning, but I expect he'll be happy to see you.” As they left the morning room, she repeated what Kinlock had told her.
“So it was the opium that brought him so near death,” Richard said, amazed. “Lord, when I think of how much I gave him with my own hands!”
“Everyone, including David, thought that for the best. But now that he knows better, he's flatly refusing to take any more laudanum.” She glanced at her friend worriedly. “Do you know anything about opium addiction? I'm concerned that he might endanger his health by stopping so abruptly.”
“In Spain, one of our officers became addicted after a severe wound. He was unable to stop taking opium no matter how hard he tried. His state was . . . unenviable,” the captain said bluntly. “Having witnessed that is surely a good part of the reason that David wants to stop the drug as soon as possible. But he's not a fool. He wouldn't insist on doing something that would destroy him just as he is on the verge of recovering.”
She must hope that Richard was right. “I'm told you were here yesterday, so you can find your own way up. Please feel free to visit David at any time and to stay as long as you want. I'm sure your presence will speed his recovery.”
Understanding her unspoken suggestion, he smiled warmly. “And your home is a much more pleasant place to spend time than the hospital. Thank you, Lady Jocelyn.”
Assuming he wouldn't want her to watch him struggle up two long flights of stairs, she draped Isis over her shoulder and returned to her study. She had letters to write. Laura Kirkpatrick would be delighted to hear about Major Lancaster's improved health. And her other aunt, Lady Cromarty, would be
enraged
to learn that her niece's fortune was forever out of reach. A pity Jocelyn wouldn't be there to see the reaction.
enraged
to learn that her niece's fortune was forever out of reach. A pity Jocelyn wouldn't be there to see the reaction.
She was sealing the note to Lady Laura when Dudley appeared. “The Misses Halliwell are here, my lady.”
The Misses Halliwell? Damnation, in the midst of so much high drama she'd forgotten this was one of her regular at-home days. There would be fewer visitors than during the Season, but she still faced several hours of being charming. It would not be easy today.
With slightly gritted teeth, she went off to receive the Misses Halliwell, three harmless but slightly addlepated spinsters much given to incomplete sentences and pointless stories. Time moved with treacle slowness. On a superficial level she offered tea, cakes, and amusing stories with practiced ease, but underneath ran a river of anxiety. How was David managing? Had he collapsed from pushing himself too hard? Was he enduring ghastly torments from the drug withdrawal?
Glad when the last pair of guests left, she told Dudley to deny her to any latecomers and marched up the stairs to see what was happening. Her knock was greeted with a cheerful, “Come in.”
She entered to find a gentlemen's card party in full swing. Hugh and Rhys Morgan had joined Richard Dalton and David around the table, and a game was in progress. Only Richard accepted her appearance casually. Hugh jumped to his feet while Rhys ducked his head with paralyzing shyness. David, sunk deep in the only wing chair, aimed a smile in her direction. He looked as if he ought to be lying flat in his bed, yet a hectic light in his eyes suggested that he would be unable to rest.
Suspecting that Richard had started the card game as a way to distract David from his miseries, she said with mock reproach, “I'd been imagining all manner of disasters! Instead, you gentlemen have been amusing yourselves while I've been playing hostess to half the bores in London.”
Hugh Morgan stammered, “I'm sorry, my lady, but Major Lancaster insisted that if I was in the room, I must join the game.”
Keeping her tone light, she said, “Major, I fear that you are corrupting my servants.”
Matching her tone despite the tremor in his hands, he answered, “On the contrary, I'm participating in a salutary lesson on the evils of gambling. Never play with Richard, Lady Jocelyn. We are using buildings for stakes, and by now he is in possession of the Horse Guards, Carlton House, St. Paul's, and Westminster Abbey.”
“Who has won the York Hospital?” she asked with interest.
“None of us wanted it,” Rhys blurted out, then blushed so hard his ears turned red.
She was pleased to see how much happier and healthier the corporal looked than he had in the hospital. Perhaps she should turn Cromarty House into a convalescent home, since wounded soldiers seemed to flourish here. “This is clearly no place for a mere female. Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen. I'll send up refreshments.”
She withdrew, thinking that she was beginning to understand the comradeship of arms, and how men who had fought together looked out for each other. There was a tangible bond between the three military men, even though two were officers and old friends while the third was a stranger and a common soldier.
Some fusty fellow, perhaps Samuel Johnson, had once said that every man was sorry if he hadn't been a soldier. She hadn't understood the remark before, but now she had some inkling of what it meant.
What a pity that men couldn't find such satisfactions without killing so many of their fellows.
“Craving, shaking, sweating, and God knows what else . . .”
David realized that he could no longer keep up even a semblance of playing cards. Instead of hearts and spades, he was seeing shifting patterns that wouldn't hold still long enough to define.
David realized that he could no longer keep up even a semblance of playing cards. Instead of hearts and spades, he was seeing shifting patterns that wouldn't hold still long enough to define.
Time had slowed down until it ceased to have meaning. An eon ago, Lady Jocelyn had paid an amused visit. Food had appeared shortly thereafter. The appetite he'd experienced during the night had vanished, and he could neither eat nor drink.
After his companions finished the light meal, he said, voice metallic in his ears, “Sorry, gentlemen, it's time for me to withdraw from the game.” Sweat dripped from his hand, staining the cards as he laid them down, and the skin of his wrist had prickled into gooseflesh. With a supreme effort, he managed to add, “Richard, you'll have to win the Tower of London another time.”
“Just as well. I could never afford to maintain it.” Richard's voice was wonderfully soothing, and it must have been his hand warm on David's shoulder. But surely it was Hugh that got him onto the blessedly soft bed. Neither Richard nor the corporal would have been able to offer much help from their crutches.
He lay shaking as the sheets dampened with sweat. Time would pass more quickly if he could sleep, but his guts were tied in knots and his mind wandered in a peculiar waking dream, where present surroundings mingled with the past, and with the worst nightmares he'd known, fresh as when he'd first experienced them.
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