A Rake's Redemption

by Donna Lea Simpson

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Lawrence.”

  He felt the bed depress where she sat at his side and he wanted to curl himself around her and feel her hands on his face, as had happened in the night. He remembered a few times waking to her hands on his hair, or his face, and once he thought she kissed his cheek. It was merely the comfort she brought him that he sought. Nothing wrong or weak in that, was there?

  Her touch, when it came, jolted him with an unexpected streak of warmth through his battered body. She rubbed his shoulders, and he almost groaned aloud at how good it felt even as it hurt, how her small hands were kneading just the right spot, how she seemed to heal with her touch. But too soon, she stopped.

  “I—I will come back shortly and give you your breakfast,” she said, her voice a little higher than normal and breathless. Her steps were quick as she left the room.

  Chapter Four

  “Miss Gillian, are you all right?” Mrs. Lovett asked.

  Phaedra closed her patient’s door behind her. She had just experienced a strange new feeling and did not know what to make of it, but didn’t feel comfortable sharing it, especially with one of the village’s most inveterate gossips. The widow was a good woman and invaluable in this instance, but still, the interpretation she was likely to make of it if Phaedra told her the truth! She must not reveal her susceptibility. “I’m perfectly fine, Mrs. Lovett. Should you not be getting back to little Susan soon?”

  “My daughter will be just fine with old Mrs. Jones. The good lady is teaching her to knit, an’ Susan is afire with her new skill.”

  “I’m so glad.” Phaedra felt the unaccustomed flush leave her face and body, and relaxed. She felt a momentary urge to giggle, for if Mrs. Lovett knew of Mrs. Jones’s past as the valued mistress of a duke, the good woman would have had second thoughts about the placement of her daughter there, but Phaedra had no qualms. It was ancient history, in relative terms, for “Mrs. Jones,” as she had designated herself, had taken her generous settlement and retired more than twenty years before. Since then she had led an exemplary life and was even a valued supporter of the local church. “I will start Susan’s cooking lessons any time you want.”

  “There’s no one with a hand for bread like you, Miss Gillian,” the widow said. “Wife or servant, my Susan will have all the skills to be useful and happy.”

  “I so appreciate your help with Mr. Lawrence,” Phaedra said, speaking obliquely of the trade of favors they had arranged, her baking skills passed on to little Susan in exchange for Mrs. Lovett’s no-nonsense and extremely personal nursing. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

  “Speaking of which,” the woman said, patting the pile of linens she had in her hands. “I was just on my way in to change Mr.—Lawrence, did you say?—Mr. Lawrence’s bedsheets. Will you lend me a hand, or”—she stared into Phaedra’s eyes—“or are you just going somewhere else?”

  Under the older woman’s shrewd gaze, Phaedra felt compelled to buck up and leave behind her ridiculous panic over the odd feelings she had experienced rubbing Mr. Lawrence’s poor bruised shoulders. “Certainly I can help.” She took a deep, bracing breath. She would not let unaccustomed feelings alarm her.

  • • •

  Phaedra’s day had always been full, but now with a patient lying helpless upstairs, she had no time to think, and maybe that was a good thing. Lunch for her father was one of her most important duties, though, for he would forget to eat at all if she did not carry it in to the library and sit down to eat with him.

  “Papa, lunch!”

  “Eh? What?”

  “Lunch,” she repeated patiently.

  “Impossible. We just had breakfast.” The elderly man looked up from his book and frowned. His glasses sat down on the tip of his nose, and he looked absurdly lovable to his only child.

  Phaedra set the tray down on the desk and pulled back the curtains to let in the spring sunshine. Her father’s tendency to shut himself up in the gloomy closet that passed for a library in this tiny cottage worried her, but she did her best to bring him out and keep him connected to the day-to-day world. She threw open the window to let in some of the sweet spring air.

  “It is past one, Papa. Time to eat. I have brought mutton and bread, and beef broth.”

  As always when forced to come back from his deep thoughts and research, Mr. Gillian was cheerful enough. “How is our patient, Phaedra, my pet? Up and about yet?”

  “It will be a while before he is able to walk, I think. Mrs. Lovett agrees. The bruises on his back and legs are especially bad, and he needs some time to heal. No bones were broken, though, and that is a miracle. Mrs. Lovett and I just changed his sheets this morning, and he tolerated it all pretty well for one so damaged, and is now sleeping comfortably.”

  “Young men are tough creatures not easily killed. I shall visit him this afternoon, if you will remind me, my dear. Do you think that is wise?”

  Phaedra encircled her father’s shoulders with her slim arms and laid a kiss on his wrinkle-soft cheek. “I think that would be a marvelous idea. By the way, he was able to tell us his name. He is a Mr. Lawrence, but he says he has no family. Is that not sad?”

  “Every man should have a family,” Mr. Gillian agreed, patting his daughter’s hand. “Without you, my pet, I would be lost. After Constance went to the Lord—” He broke off and shook his head.

  Determined to bring a more cheerful tone to the luncheon, Phaedra sat down opposite him at the desk and turned the topic to some of the villagers. “I took some of my new ointment down to Mr. Ferguson; he has that infectious toe, and I’m worried about him. I hope Dr. Deaville will soon pass through, for I want to consult with him about the case.”

  “Perhaps the apothecary at Thame could send something?”

  “Mr. Ferguson would barely even accept my help. I was lucky he didn’t toss me from the door.”

  With an affectionate look, Mr. Gillian said, “Not a single man nor woman in this village would toss you out, my dear child.”

  “And I saw Mrs. Boyer this morning,” Phaedra said, of the vicar’s wife. Mr. Boyer was still referred to as the “new vicar,” even though he had taken over when Mr. Gillian had retired more than ten years before. “She will be having her child any time, I think. Old Mary, in the village, wants to help, but I think Mr. Boyer has religious scruples.”

  “He will put aside those scruples quickly enough when his wife is screaming in her labor and there is no one but him in the house,” Mr. Gillian said with a chuckle. “How foolish it is to reject Old Mary’s aid just because of her reputation. I happen to know her belief in God is as firm as her faith in herbal remedies.”

  Phaedra nodded in agreement, buttering a morsel of bread. “It is those silly Druidical airs she puts on. Scares the Evangelist in him.”

  Frowning, Mr. Gillian said, “Do not dismiss our ancient ancestors, my dear. ‘Silly Druidical airs’? Faith in a higher power was theirs, even if it does not agree with our Christian faith.”

  “I did not mean to dismiss Old Mary’s ways, Papa,” Phaedra said with mild tones. “Now, eat your bread and mutton.” They ate in silence for a moment. “I have been wondering,” she said, finally, “if Mr. Lawrence can describe the items he lost to the robbers, perhaps it will help in their recovery, for if anyone local has seen them, it will surely lead to the highwaymen.”

  “Could be, my pet. Speak to Squire Daintry about it.”

  At that moment, Sally came to the door of the library twisting her hands in her apron. “Miss Gillian, I didn’t know what to say to . . . Miss Peckenham was at the door, an’ I told her you was havin’ lunch with your pa, but she said as how she would come in an’ wait, and now she’s a’snoopin’ an’ I didn’t know how to tell her—I didn’t know—” The girl broke off with a wail of consternation.

  “It was just a matter of time,” Phaedra muttered under her breath, putting down her bread and gazing in dismay past Sally into the hallway. She could hear the sounds of Miss Peckenham in
the parlor. It was amazing, perhaps, that the woman had not come before this, considering how Mrs. Lovett had been asking around the village about her houseguest’s identity. “I’ll come, Sally. Go back to your chores.”

  With a pat on the shoulder for her father, who absentmindedly had returned to his book even while still eating his bread and mutton, she “girded her loins,” much as Boadicea must have many centuries before, to do battle with the foe. Not that Miss Peckenham was the foe, she reminded herself; she was a good Christian woman. However—

  With a determined smile on her face, Phaedra sailed into the parlor, catching Miss Peckenham in the very act of mounting the stairs. “How nice of you to visit us, Miss Peckenham,” she said.

  The woman started and whirled, and Phaedra was forced to conceal a smile.

  “Miss Gillian! Has that naughty maid of yours disturbed your midday meal? I told her I would await your convenience.” Miss Peckenham, short, rotund and with a tiny upturned nose and small currant-like eyes, had recovered her equanimity and seemed not at all fazed by being caught in the act of intolerable snooping. She had made an art of the time-hallowed position of village gossip. Once, many years before, she had been governess in one of the most illustrious houses in the nation, and she had been trading on it ever since.

  She crossed the room and took Phaedra’s hands in her own. Peering shortsightedly up into her hostess’s eyes, she said, “I heard, you know, that you had rescued a gentleman from those dreadful highwaymen, and I just wanted to congratulate you, my dear, on your hardiness.” She shuddered. “So intrepid! So brave!”

  Phaedra sighed. “Miss Peckenham, please sit down and have some tea.” She signaled to Sally, who stood at the door watching uncertainly, and then led the woman over to a settee. “I did not ‘rescue’ him, ma’am. Indeed, the robbers were long gone, for it was daylight.” Phaedra bit her lip, wondering if the lady had pictured her dueling with a swarthy opponent over the fallen body of her patient.

  Leaning forward, the older woman, glancing around the room as if the chairs had ears, whispered, “I hear he is—ehem, a very well setup young man. Quite one of the gentry, according to Lucy Lovett.”

  Mildly shocked, Phaedra was speechless.

  “I hear that he is—” Again, Miss Peckenham glanced around the room. “I hear that he is exceedingly well knit, so to speak. Lucy Lovett says that he is the finest specimen of—er—manhood she has ever seen.”

  Good Lord, Phaedra thought. Was Mrs. Lovett bragging? Or—or gloating? “I—I really have not noticed.”

  “I was just concerned for you, my dear. A young man of the gentry, in this house, with you alone?” She raised her eyebrows and waggled them.

  “I am not alone! There is Sally, and if you remember, my father is present at all times to offer me countenance.” The maid, just as her name was mentioned, brought in a tray with tea and scones, and Phaedra poured for herself and her guest as the maid retreated hastily.

  Miss Peckenham’s expression told a tale of how little her father was thought of in the village as protection for Phaedra. Her little currant eyes were hard and bright and she looked away from Phaedra’s steady gaze after a moment and cleared her throat. She took a sip of tea and then set the cup back down in its saucer.

  She turned her inquisitive stare back to Phaedra’s face. “I came to offer my assistance, my dear. If, at any time—once the gentleman has gained consciousness, you know—if you feel the need for adult female companionship, I place myself at your service. I can move into a spare room and be your chaperone day and night, you see.”

  Phaedra bit back a hasty reply, framed as a sarcastic inquiry as to where Miss Peckenham thought the Gillians had tucked away an extra room in the tiny cottage, since the stranger had her room and she was sharing Sally’s, up under the eaves. Did the inquisitive lady suggest bedding down in Mr. Gillian’s chamber? But Phaedra’s better nature surfaced. Miss Peckenham, for all of her gossiping ways, was a good woman, just lonely. She subsisted on a very small pension and so her encroaching manners were often a way to survive, to cushion and extend her meager allowance.

  “Thank you for your kind offer, Miss Peckenham, but I don’t think—”

  “The least I can do right now,” that lady said, gulping down the last hot swallow of tea, “is to see if I can identify the mystery gentleman.” She rose and headed for the stairs. “After all, I did spend many years among the gentry, you know, and have not lost all of my faculties, yet.”

  “Ma’am,” Phaedra said, setting her own cup down. “He’s sleeping, and I would not have him disturbed.”

  The older lady had already started her ascent, though, and Phaedra understood that to deny her was wasted breath. This was what she had come for, and she would not leave until she had accomplished her mission.

  “Ancient saints preserve us,” Phaedra muttered under her breath, but followed in the tiny woman’s footsteps.

  Miss Peckenham found Phaedra’s bedroom and opened the door, quietly, at least, Phaedra was glad to see. She tiptoed into the room and stood at the slumbering man’s bedside, gazing down at him. Phaedra watched her curiously, and noted the flickering of expressions across her round face.

  She knit her furrowed brow and gazed up at Phaedra. “What did Lucy Lovett say his name was?”

  “She wouldn’t have said,” Phaedra whispered. “We just found out today that his name is Mr. Lawrence.”

  “Yes,” Miss Peckenham said, absently, staring fixedly at the sleeping gentleman. “But she did say. I spoke to Lucy as she was leaving your cottage to go to Mrs. Jones for Susan. She did say you had discovered his name to be Mr. Lawrence.”

  They both stood gazing down at the man. Phaedra watched him sleep, and found she was smiling. His black hair was silky and clean, and the harsh lines of his face were softened. There had been times when pain had twisted his handsome face, but for the moment he appeared to be at peace.

  Miss Peckenham grasped Phaedra’s arm and drew her away from the bed. “But you see, my dear, he looks so very much like—well, I shouldn’t say, I am sure, but he is the very likeness of the third Earl of Hardcastle, you know, that terrible angry gentleman who was killed in a duel about the time I was governess in the home of the fifth Earl of Mannering’s second son, Mr. Worth. I saw the man once, when he visited, and this gentleman is the very image of the third earl, down to the black hair and—and—well, his stature.”

  Phaedra pulled her arm from the woman’s grasp. “Miss Peckenham,” she said with clipped accents, “he is Mr. Lawrence, not some nasty Earl of Hardcastle, you can be sure of that. Really, what would an earl be doing on the road to Ainstoun in the middle of the night? And alone!” She shook her head, trying to bite back her impatience. Miss Peckenham was an elderly lady, she reminded herself, and liked to make herself important by her long-ago tenuous connection to the houses of the nobility. If she had ever caught a glimpse of this Earl of Hardcastle, Phaedra would be amazed. In softer tones, she said, “It is likely just a chance resemblance, ma’am, or he could belong to some minor branch of the family. Nothing to trouble yourself over.”

  Miss Peckenham stared at the figure on the bed. Her hard little eyes held a troubled expression and her lips pursed. “I hope so, my dear. I truly hope so. The Hardcastle line is full of bad associations. I have heard from my London connection that the present earl is even worse than his father: wilder, more dissipated, a fornicator and a gambler.”

  And they said that wild imaginings were the province of the young, Phaedra thought. She barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes. Miss Peckenham’s “London connection” was a niece who was governess to a baron who rented a London house for the Season every other year. “Do not concern yourself, Miss Peckenham, please,” she said firmly. “This is no Earl of Hardcastle, and surely no danger to any of us.”

  As she exited the room, the lady murmured, “I hope so, my dear. I truly hope so.”

  • • •

  Why was it so cursed dark? For one w
ild moment Hardcastle feared he had lost his sight, but then realized it was night and his candle was burned low, just a guttering, flickering flame to give relief to the absolute darkness.

  “You’re awake.” The voice was soft and velvety, like the gloom. Out of the murky depths of the room the young woman came and sat down on the bedside. “Are you feeling any better?”

  He was, he thought. Somewhat. He nodded.

  “Good. Will you take some of this broth?” She picked a cup up from the bedside and held it to his lips.

  Who would have thought beef broth could taste so delicious? He licked his lips in appreciation and drank some more. “Enough,” he whispered, after about half the cup. She looked pleased, he thought, her lovely face alight with a soft glow. What a breathtaking young woman she was; he had not truly noticed it until now. Before this he had just thought her angelic, but now he saw that she was ravishing. There was a subtlety to her beauty, an evanescence that no painter would ever be able to capture. She was springtime and flowers blooming and fresh, sweet country air. She was untainted and—he stretched out one hand and touched her hair. It was soft, not at all what he had expected from the crinkly texture.

  “Soft,” he whispered. “Pretty.”

  Her face alight with a shy smile, she said, “Thank you, sir. Now go back to sleep. I hope you’re feeling better.” She rose, but he grasped her hand. “What is it?”

  “Don’t go,” he whispered.

  “All right,” she said, and pulled a chair close to the bedside. “But you have to close your eyes.”

  He did. His mind drifted once more to the sweet maiden aunt—his mother’s sister?—who had nursed him through that long-ago childhood fever. Had she been young or old? Pretty or plain? He couldn’t remember. It would not have mattered to a nine-year-old boy. What he did remember was that she smelled of lavender and she stayed by his bedside day and night. She kept a cool cloth handy and had patted his hot brow all through the night.