Truly Yours (6 page)

Rex slapped his hand over her mouth. Then he apologized when she winced and tried to pull back. “Sorry. But think of your reputation.” No, that was so far blackened, she might as well be dipped in tar. “Think of mine.” Which was worse. Lud, her eyes were wide and terror-filled, except for the one that was half swollen shut. That was brown, but bloodshot. “Please do not be afraid. I am trying to help you.”

She stayed rigid, gathering her breath for another scream, he thought. “Please. My . . . mother sent me to help.” The words were almost as painful as this little kitten’s fear of him. “I would not hurt you.”

“J-Jordan?”

He sighed in relief, that she was not out of her mind in a blind panic. A rational creature could be reasoned with. “That is right. Jordan, Lord Rexford, Lady Royce’s son.” He tried for a smile to reassure her while he put the bottle on the floor. He bowed and said, “At your service.”

Amanda blinked and tried to focus on the man’s features, not the knife in his hand. He was dark while the countess was fair, and his eyes were a bright sapphire, unlike Lady Royce’s baby blue. But there was something about his mouth, and the smile, that seemed familiar. Perhaps she was thinking of the portraits on Lady Royce’s walls. She almost smiled back, except for the pain in her split lip. “She must be so happy to see you.”

“Not if I let you sicken worse,” he muttered, not wishing to discuss the countess or their eventual meeting. To avoid any talk of Lady Royce, Rex busied himself putting the knife away and searching for a cup near the washstand, then pouring a tiny bit of the brandy into it. “Here, have a sip. Lord knows you deserve it.”

She swallowed and sputtered, then looked around. “I am not in prison?”

“No.”

“Then it was all a bad dream?”

“I am sorry, but I cannot lie to you. You are not acquitted.”

A tear ran down her cheek, so Rex hurried to add, “But I will work on it. I swear, on my honor.”

Amanda brushed at her eyes with the sleeve of the voluminous gown she seemed to be bundled into, clean and smelling of lavender. “Your mother always said you were an honorable man, one who could be trusted to tell the truth. She thinks you can accomplish anything you want.”

“Not quite.” Or else he’d be in China right now instead of Grosvenor Square. “But before I can hire barristers and such, we need to get you well. And clean. Your clothes have to be burned to protect against the spread of disease.” He did not mention the possibilities of lice and fleas.

“Lady Royce?” she asked, looking around the room for her godmother.

“She is on her way.” Like lice and fleas, the details were not important right now. “As are a physician and hot tea.”

Ah, the maid must be bringing the tea. “Thank you.”

“Unless the potboy does not know how to fix a tray.”

“No maid?”

“I am afraid not. Not yet, that is. Soon, I pray. I was, ah, attempting to cut off your clothes in the meantime,” he tried to explain, holding up his knife again.

Could a ghost get any whiter? Miss Carville matched the color of the sheets. To distract her, Rex decided to ask his questions. To hell with her modesty and her virginal fears. He had to know if she killed Sir Frederick. “Miss Carville, you need to tell me about your stepfather’s death. I do not care much what you say, as long as it is the truth. I will help you either way, but I must hear it from your own lips. And believe this if nothing else: I will know if you lie.”

Her mouth opened as if she were going to speak, but then her eyelashes fluttered closed and her hands fell back to her side. Miss Carville had fallen back into her fevered stupor—or else she was evading his question.

R
ex cursed. He cursed the sick—or sneaky—female. He cursed the countess for calling for help—and his father for giving it. Mostly he cursed his own traitorous body for assessing Miss Carville’s body while he quickly cut the clothing away, hastily swabbed at dirt and dried blood, hurried to pull the nightgown down. Damn, for all he’d done, for all his freakish quirk, Rex still considered himself a gentleman. Not a voyeur, not a rake, not a lust-driven despoiler of virgins. Of course Miss Carville might not be any pure maiden, not if the rumor mill ground true. Virgin or not, murderess or not, she deserved better than being ogled while she lay ill. That was a reprehensible breach of honor. Yet Rex could not help noticing her high, firm breasts and her narrow waist, flat belly, and long, shapely legs. The female might be small, but she was perfectly formed. And blond.

He pulled the countess’s overlarge nightgown down so fast and so hard the shoulder might have ripped. Miss Carville was clean enough in his view, and far too long in his view, also. He did not think any of her ribs were broken, nor were any of her cuts deep enough to need stitches. He moved her over, between the sheets, and coveredher to the chin with the blankets. Then he could breathe again.

When he gathered her ruined garments to toss out into the corridor for burning, Rex heard steps on the staircase again. This time Dodd brought the doctor up. The butler did not meet Rex’s eyes when he mumbled that none of the neighbor ladies agreed to come, and none of the nearby maidservants, either.

“Perhaps the doctor knows of a willing woman,” Rex said, looking toward the older man in hope. “An experienced nurse, fit for a gentlewoman’s care.”

The physician was already examining Miss Carville, making snorting noises, while Rex kept his back turned. “I’ll try to find one who isn’t a drunkard. The countess wouldn’t want one of those in her house. Not that she’d want this, either, poor lady.”

“Are her injuries that dire, then? Or is it the fever?”

“Hmph. I meant Lady Royce, not the murderess. This one will do, with some willow bark tea for the ague, laudanum for her nerves, basilicum ointment for everything else.” Rex could see the man’s certainty in bright color as he laid out the powders and potions, and was relieved until the doctor said, “But I still say it seems a shame, the same as I told Dodd here when I arrived.”

“That a gently bred woman could be treated so savagely?”

“No, that Lady Royce will be bothered with such a mare’s nest, and that I have to waste my time over a killer.”

Rex turned and glared at the physician. “Thank you for coming. You need not send over a nurse. We’ll manage. You may send Lady Royce your bill. Good day.”

“Hmph.”

“How?” Dodd wanted to know, despite the impertinence. “How are you going to take care of the female? There is already enough scandal to see Lady Royce’s good name destroyed.” What use was a good position if he was laughed at when he visited the pub his fellow butlers frequented? How was Dodd to collect vails from callers if no one visited her ladyship?

Rex wanted to say “Hmph” himself. Reputations be damned, he would not see Miss Carville ill-treated or insulted. He could not say precisely why he felt protective of the girl, but it was certainly not because he’d touched her soft, silky skin, or that her appearance, battered and bruised with her hair lopped off, appealed to him. Even clean she still looked like something the cat dragged in, and then dragged outside again as unappetizing. No, he’d felt the surprising tug of tenderness the moment he’d glimpsed her in prison. Why, he could have bribed the warder to have her moved to a more comfortable cell. He could have paid a matron to tend to her, and see that she was fed and bathed and doctored. Maybe he should have done just that, leaving her there. No one, not even his father, could have expected him to do more. He was in London to determine guilt or innocence, to investigate a murder, to hire a competent barrister. Lud, he was not here to play nursemaid to a wench weeks away from the hangman’s noose. Rex looked at Miss Carville, pale against the pillow, though, and knew he’d had no choice. It was as simple as that, not a matter of duty or chivalry or justice. He, and no one else, had to make her safe.

He smoothed the blankets around her and told the butler, “Caring for Miss Carville is not your concern. Just find someone to cook a meal—porridge or something that a sick person can eat. Find a coffeehouse or a bakery if you need to. And find me another bottle of brandy.”

Dodd shook his head on his way out. “There’ll be the devil to pay, for sure,” he muttered, whether Lady Royce found out about Nell or not.

Rex did not have to see any colors to know the truth of that.

He waited until Dodd’s footsteps echoed down the hall, then grimaced at the stuff the physician had left. The tea he could brew, the laudanum he could dose, but damn if he did not have to half undress Miss Carville all over again to spread the healing salve on her wounds. He’d done the same many times for soldiers, he told himself. And for his horses. This was another act of charity, nothing else.

Then why was his sight swimming in a sea of red lies? Because no matter what he told himself, he wanted another glimpse of Miss Carville’s delectable body, hoping the sight was not half as lovely as he recalled.

It was.

Murchison finally arrived. The valet clucked his tongue when Dodd brought him to Miss Carville’s bedchamber, but blessedly did not say anything about the highly irregular situation. Verity the mastiff skittered around the room in joy at being reunited with Rex, then took an interest in Miss Carville—or the salve on her face. She was fast asleep. Rex had spooned some food into her, a thin soup that was all the weepy scullery maid could manage, along with the physician’s powders. Her skin was cooler to the touch, her breathing more even, the pucker between her eyebrows smooth, her cheeks showing some color besides the purplish bruises.

“She’ll live to the trial, at any rate. Call me if she wakens.”

Murchison’s jaw dropped open, but with Dodd in the room he could not curse or complain in any language.

Rex took the opportunity while Miss Carville slept to claim a suite of rooms across the hall for himself, one with a dressing room with a cot for Murchison. He desperately needed to wash and eat and rest his leg, too. And figure out how he was going to find a respectable woman to come take over the sickroom until the countess returned. He refused to think about the situation if Lady Royce, as was her wont, turned her back on her responsibilities. Heaven help them, but Murchison would have to do for now.

But the mademoiselle slept on, and Murchison’s duty was to his master, whose instructions were to keep the viscount looking and acting as civilized as possible, like a proper heir to an earldom. So the valet left Miss Carville’s door open and went across the hall to unpack a change of clothes for Lord Rexford, while his lordship bathed. The captain’s uniform, to Murchison’s disgust, was covered in dirt and soup and dog hair, with a trace of Miss Carville’s blood. At least Murchison hoped it was Miss Carville’s, lest Lord Royce’s son be charged with murder, too. He took the coat below stairs to sponge it off and press it.

Amanda was having another dream. She was drifting on a cloud; no, she was being carried aloft by a great bird, held gently between its feet. The giant eagle would never let her fall, never let her grow cold or weary or hungry. When the bird bent its neck to look down at her, she smiled. Then she noticed that her winged companion had flashing blue eyes, not the fixed, staring golden ones she expected. The bird’s eyes were brighter than the skies they flew through, circled with a black rim, and shielded by thick black lashes. She laughed out loud. Eagles did not have blue eyes or eyelashes, but this was her dream, and the bird could have a mustache if she wanted, or a scar down its cheek. Either way, she could sleep in safety and wake in peace, watching soft white clouds pass by.

She never wanted the dream to end, but her mother was washing her face. “Do not scrub so hard, Mama. I am too tired to get up now. My head feels heavy. Maybe I do not need to go to church this morning.”

Her mother did not listen. She never did. Amanda opened her eyes to argue some more—then screamed. No gaunt, scarred pirate with a knife hovered over her this time. No calm, confident soldier, either. No blue eyes looked at her with concern. Instead, beady, bloodshot eyes watched her from mere inches away from her face.

Great gods, a hound of hell was about to claim her soul for the Devil! Huge, slavering jaws opened, showing long white fangs in the wrinkled, Stygian dark face. She screamed again.

The beast let out a howl, then scrambled under the bed, thumping and bumping until Amanda feared the whole structure would collapse, tossing her to those gnashing teeth. Should she try to escape out the door, or look for a weapon? What weapon was effective against a demon sent by Satan? How could she hope to outrun her fate? The demon was keening loudly enough to wake the dead anyway.

Then the door burst open. “What the deuce?”

The beast bounded up from under the bed and threw itself at a man wearing nothing but a towel and a few drops of water. He was Lord Rexford, Amanda recalled, Lady Royce’s son, her own rescuer. Now she had to rescue him. She grabbed up her pillow, to go to the viscount’s aid. Maybe together they could smother the creature. No, there was water in the pitcher by her bedside. Perhaps she could blind the creature, or bash it over the head.

But Lord Rexford was petting the beast, telling the huge animal that she was safe. “Good girl.”

“Good . . . girl?”

He nodded, one hand on the dog’s collar, the other at the towel at his waist. “Her name is Verity. I am sorry if she frightened you, but she means no harm. And I can see you are feeling more the thing. Your lungs are working well, at any rate.”

Now Amanda felt a blush rising from her shoulders to her cheeks. She was standing atop a mattress in a too-large borrowed night rail, brandishing a pillow and a pitcher of water. And a half-naked man was watching her chest heave with each gasping breath. She could not help but notice that his own chest—with its downy black line of hair and sharply defined planes and hollows—was also heaving, likely from a mad dash from his bath. The idea of Lord Rexford at his bath was enough to make her already reddened cheeks turn scarlet. Not that she took her eyes away from the rippling muscles and broad shoulders. Oh, no. Who knew when she would get another chance to see a gentleman’s bare chest again, if ever? Whatever precepts of polite behavior she’d had drilled into her head since she could walk and talk flew right out the window, with the eagle of her dreams. Lord Rexford was flesh and blood, and she was no longer constrained by the tenets of the
ton
. No one expected an accused murderess to simper. So she stared.