The Rake (9 page)

Horatia Wynthrope was probably the biggest
gossip in all of England. How fortuitous that she’d been at
Moreland Abbey to witness Demi’s downfall! “On second thought, I
believe I won’t go down again this evening. I’d thought, maybe, it
would help if I did, but Horatia Wynthrope will only pump me for
information and then twist everything I say.”

“
I expect you’re right, but
they’ll be leaving soon, and probably Reverend Flemming too. You’d
best barricade your door if you mean to keep Lady Moreland
out.”

Demi smiled wearily. “Thanks for the
suggestion.”

Sarah moved to the door but paused when she
reached it. “It’s not my place to say so, Miss, but you’re liable
to find yerself locked in if you think to stay holed up in here
long.”

Demi, who’d risen to lock the door behind
her maid, hesitated but finally nodded. “She’s liable to lock me in
anyway, for fear I’ll slip the noose. I’d leave tonight if I had
anywhere to go. Unfortunately, I can’t think of anyone that would
take me in, especially not now.”

She was propped up in bed, waiting, when her
aunt arrived at her door several hours later to ring a peal over
her for her ‘disgraceful behavior’. It took an effort, but Demi bit
her tongue and endured, tuning out most of it. Eventually, she ran
out of steam and left, but not before she’d emphasized at least a
dozen times that Demi had ‘burned her bridges’ and needn’t think
she had any alternative other than marrying Mr. Flemming as quickly
as could be decently arranged.

She didn’t bother to point out that that
would only feed the gossip mills. Alma Moreland could hardly be
unaware that such actions would only be feeding the fire.

She resolved, however, that whether she was
forced to marry the man or not, she had no intention of seeing him
again until that time unless she simply couldn’t avoid an
encounter.

After an anxious night, most of which was
spent tossing and turning, she rose early, dressed and went
downstairs. Her aunt and her cousin generally broke their fast in
bed before they came down and the house was as silent as a tomb
when she reached the breakfast parlor. She found it empty, Geoffrey
and his cronies apparently already having departed to go shooting.
The maid, clearing away the remains of their breakfast, returned
with a plate and she settled down to eat in blessed solitude.

When she’d finished, she went into the
library, found a book, and left the house for the solitude of the
garden. She was tempted to go further afield, but if Geoffrey was
out shooting, she thought it safest to stay near the abbey. The
boy--young man--had always been a menace with a gun. He was
eighteen now, but she sincerely doubted he’d improved since the day
he’d shot his gamekeeper in the buttocks with bird shot.

She heard a carriage arrive shortly before
noon. Her belly clenched. She knew it must be Mr. Flemming.
Resolutely, she ignored sounds of an arrival. She might have to
marry him, but they would have to bind and gag her to get her into
another carriage with him in the meantime.

The sounds filtering to her from the house
escalated and she frowned. She couldn’t imagine Jonathan Flemming
arousing such a flap. Finally, curiosity overcame caution and she
made her way inside, drawn by the babble of excited voices to the
front hall.

Her heart nearly stopped in her chest when
she saw the mayhem there. Phoebe was wailing almost hysterically
and Lady Moreland looked as if she might faint dead away at any
moment. Geoffrey was being supported by two of friends. Blood
streamed from his hand, dripping onto the tiles of the hall.

She wondered, without a great deal of
sympathy, if the fool had shot his hand off loading his gun. Before
she could decide whether to surge forward and offer help, or
retreat and leave them to their own devices, several more men
struggled through the front door, carrying Lord Wyndham, who was
either unconscious … or dead.

A wave of such horror washed over her that
she sank weakly to the floor. She didn’t breathe for several
moments. It was only as she gasped in a desperate draft of air that
she realized she’d been holding her breath as they crossed the hall
with his limp form.

She regained her feet as they started up the
stairs with him and rushed over. “Is he … is he…?” She
stammered.

“
He is unconscious at the
moment, Miss Demitria,” the man following the procession announced.
“I would like to have him comfortably settled before he comes
around.”

Demi nodded jerkily and led the way up the
stairs, throwing open the door to the first guest room they came to
and rushing ahead of them to turn the coverlet down.

The man who’d spoken to her, she discovered,
was his manservant. When he’d seen to it that Lord Wyndham was
settled with utmost care upon the mattress, he turned to her once
more. “We’ll need to undress him now, Miss.”

Demi tore her gaze from Lord Wyndham’s pale
face to look at the man blankly.

“
If you would step outside,
Miss? You may return once we have him comfortably settled and stay
with him until the surgeon arrives.”

Nodding numbly, Demi left the room, leaning
weakly against the door for several moments after she’d closed
it.

Geoffrey, still supported by his friends and
now trailed by Lady Moreland and Phoebe, was hobbling up the
stairs. The procession passed her without even glancing in her
direction.

She heard cursing in the room behind her and
jerked away from the door as if she’d been scalded. A few moments
later, the manservant opened the door and ushered the men out who’d
brought Lord Wyndham up. “His lordship will see you now, Miss,” he
said when the men had departed.

“
How bad is it?” Demi
gasped fearfully.

“
I’m no surgeon, Miss
Demitria. He seems to have caught the shot in the muscle of his
calf, however. Thankfully, his boot prevented a great deal of
damage and there does not seem to be an excessive amount of
bleeding. I feel most hopeful that the wound will not prove to be
mortal.”

Demi thought for several moments that she
would faint at the mention of mortality. Gripping the edge of the
door frame, she fought it off and, after a moment, moved inside.
Lord Wyndham was propped against a mound of pillows. The coverlet
that had been spread over him was tented at the foot, as if his leg
had been propped up on pillows, as well. He was pale, his features
taut from pain. Hesitantly, she moved around the bed to the side
nearest him and stared down at him, fighting the urge to burst into
tears. Something touched the back of her knees and she turned to
see that the servant had brought a chair. She stared down at it as
if she’d never seen one before.

“
You should sit. I’m fairly
certain it would not please his lordship if you were to faint and
fall.”

Demi nodded jerkily and sat, turning to look
at Lord Wyndham again. His eyes were closed, but she couldn’t tell
if he’d lost consciousness again or if he was simply in too much
pain to do otherwise. She moistened her fear-dried lips, trying to
think of something to say. It seemed like a very poor time to ask
what had happened and in any case she could surmise the gist of it.
Undoubtedly, he’d fallen victim to Geoffrey’s prowess with a
gun.

She felt a wave of guilt that she hadn’t
warned him, that she’d been too caught up in her own concerns to
think of his safety.

Almost as if he’d read her mind, he opened
his eyes just then. “He fell and the gun discharged,” he said
tightly. “A stupid accident, no more.”

“
I will see to it that it
is reported as such,” the manservant responded.

Demi glanced from one man to the other and
slid to the edge of her seat. “You will be able to tell them
yourself once you’re better.”

He studied her a long moment. “I will not
feel like answering questions in the meanwhile, however.”

Demi nodded jerkily in agreement, but she
did not like the trend of the conversation. “Is there anything I
can do?”

He forced a wry smile. “You may go so that I
won’t feel the need to be so manful about it and can gnash my teeth
and curse.”

Demi jumped to her feet. Before she could
rush away, however, he caught her hand.

“
That was an attempt at
humor.”

She swallowed with an effort. “No. I’m not
offended. I know it must be near unbearable. I’ll come back when
you’re feeling a little better.”

His hand tightened on hers. “Stay. I’d as
soon have something to keep my mind off the surgeon.”

She glanced at the manservant, wondering if
it would be better if she stayed or left. He nodded and left the
room, closing the door carefully behind him.

“
Your aunt is liable to
have apoplexy if she finds you here. Perhaps you should go after
all.”

He did not release her hand, however, and
Demi made no attempt to retrieve it. She shook her head. “Shhh.
Don’t try to talk and don’t worry about me. I doubt Aunt Alma has
any notion of where I am or cares, at least for the moment. They
brought Geoffrey in bleeding, as well. His hand was injured, and he
was limping, but I do not believe that he is hurt very badly.
Regardless, Aunt Alma is bound to coddle him until he is sorry he
did not shoot himself in the head, for she dotes on him and always
has.”

“
Fool fell off his horse,”
Lord Wyndham ground out.

Demi bit her lip. “I feel awful that I
didn’t warn you it wasn’t at all safe to go off with him. Only two
years ago, he shot his groundskeeper in the … uh … seat of his
breeches.”

Lord Wyndham’s lips curled in a smile. “I am
far more fortunate than I thought.”

To her relief, the surgeon arrived. She got
to her feet, relinquishing Lord Wyndham’s hand with reluctance and
moved away from the bed. “I think I’ll go and sit in the garden for
a little while. If you need anything….”

The manservant gave her an approving look
and escorted her to the door. Demi stared at the door panel for a
moment after it closed behind her and finally turned and fled from
the Abbey to pace the garden. As badly as she’d wanted to stay with
him, she knew very well that it would not have been allowed, and,
in any case, she didn’t want to increase his discomfort by
witnessing his suffering when he preferred that she didn’t.

It was some comfort that the wound was in
his calf--not much, but a little bit. It also made her feel a
little better that the manservant seemed to think his boot had
protected him somewhat and that no major vein had been damaged. She
didn’t think he would have told her that if it hadn’t been
true.

Infection was always a danger, however, and
until the surgeon checked, they couldn’t know for certain just how
much damage there was.

Finally, worn out from pacing and worry,
Demi sat on the bench she’d occupied earlier and stared into the
distance, replaying the few memories she had between them over and
over and wondering morosely if that was all she’d ever have … a
handful of memories. The sun had almost dropped behind the trees by
the time Lord Wyndham’s manservant came out to find her.

She looked up at him, trying to keep the
fear out of her expression.

“
The surgeon seems to
consider that there will be no lasting damage and that his lordship
should be on the road to a speedy recovery now that he’s removed
the lead and cleaned the wounds.”

Demi was so relieved she covered her face
with her hands and burst into tears. Embarrassed by her lack of
restraint, she did her best to choke them back. “I’m … so relieved.
Thank you for taking the time to come and tell me….”

“
Fitzhugh, Miss. The
surgeon gave him something to help him rest.”

Demi nodded, then sniffed, mopping the tears
from her face with her hand. “You will let me know if he needs …
anything?”

“
Certainly, Miss. I’ll keep
you informed.”

When he’d gone, she composed herself and
went upstairs to bathe and dress for dinner. Phoebe and her Aunt
were in the parlor when she came down again, both of them looking
uncharacteristically subdued.

“
How is Geoffrey?” she
asked when she’d taken a seat.

Alma Moreland blinked, as if coming out of a
trance and stared at her for several moments. “Well enough. He has
a very badly sprained ankle. The surgeon seemed to think he might
lose a part of his finger, but he sewed it up and said we could
wait and see if it healed properly before there was any talk of
removing it.”

Demi nodded, but as awful as the thought was
that Geoffrey might lose his finger, it paled beside the
possibility that Lord Wyndham stood an equal chance of losing all
or part of his leg if the wound became infected, and possibly his
life. “Did he tell you what happened?”

She sighed. “They were all near hysterical
over the incident. Not one of them had a very clear idea.
Apparently, Geoffrey lost his seat and somehow managed to discharge
his gun as he fell. We will be ruined if Lord Wyndham dies on
us.”

What little sympathy Demi had felt toward
her aunt vanished at that remark. It was just like her only to see
her own side of the situation.

She supposed it was understandable to an
extent. It was only natural to feel more concern over her own
family. But what of Lord Wyndham’s family? And what of Lord Wyndham
himself, if he survived but lost his leg? She’d not even so much as
mentioned any sort of anxiety over his injury.

She discovered when dinner was announced
that Geoffrey’s friends, fearful no doubt that their friend had
killed a peer of the realm, had decamped almost as soon as they’d
dropped Geoffrey and Lord Wyndham at the Abbey. Lady Moreland had
shuttled Phoebe’s visitors off when she’d come down from overseeing
the physician that had been sent for to attend to Geoffrey.
Reverend Flemming called just as they settled in the dining room,
but to Demi’s surprise, Lady Moreland sent word that they were not
receiving visitors due to the invalids upstairs. And so it was only
Demi, her cousin Phoebe, and her aunt who dined together that
evening, none of whom were disposed toward conversation.