“He’s alive.” Hodgson felt his scalp carefully. “Just a cut. No bones broken,” he said, and doubled over to cough some more. “We have to get him out of here. Help me get this chair back.”
Together, Hodgson and Miranda managed to pull the chair away from the desk without tumbling Merton onto the floor. Miranda held Merton’s head up while Hodgson bent over to get hold of him around the hips. He straightened as best he could, carrying Merton over his shoulder.
“Christ, you’re a heavy bastard,” he muttered.
Miranda shoved aside the pieces of the door that littered the floor, and Hodgson made his way, staggering, to the staircase. The air here was less smoky at least. He leaned against the wall and tried to catch his breath.
“Stay behind me,” he told Miranda, “and try to keep his head from banging into anything.”
She nodded, and stood close enough to keep her hands on Merton’s head. She gave his cheek a gentle touch before Hodgson said, “All right. Down we go.”
Their progress was slow. Hodgson had to stop frequently to lean sideways, letting the wall take some of Merton’s weight for a moment or two. At least the air was fresher the lower they got.
Finally, they made it out of the building. Hodgson fell to his knees and Miranda ran in front of him, helping him to lower Merton to the ground, where he lay with his head in Miranda’s lap. She gently smoothed his hair away from his face, then took her kerchief, folded it into a pad, and held it against the cut on his head.
Almost immediately, someone brought her a basin of water and a clean cloth. She dipped it in the water and wiped Merton’s face, being careful not to jar him. She scarcely breathed as she wiped gently, dipping the cloth frequently and squeezing it as best she could with one hand, until his face was reasonably clean of blood and soot. She tried not to think as she kept the pad pressed against the cut on his head. She forced herself to concentrate on taking care of him and not consider how serious his injury might be.
Someone took away the dirty water and brought a fresh basin with more cloths and a bottle of brandy. She looked at it in astonishment.
“For the cut on his head, Miss,” a young man said, holding it out to her.
She remembered then that she had heard of sailors using rum on wounds. Brandy probably worked as well, so she nodded. The bleeding had slowed, so she washed carefully around the cut and then poured brandy on it, tilting his head back so it would not run into his eyes. He flinched, but remained unconscious. Was that good or bad? The young man hovering over her—it was Curry again—folded a cloth into a fresh pad and handed it to her. She held it in place while he wound a bandage over it and around Merton’s head.
“He’ll be all right, won’t he, Miss?” Curry looked worried. “We need him, you see. None of the other nobs care about people like us.”
She had not uttered a word since she heard the cry of “Fire!” and wasn’t certain she would be able to speak now, so she simply nodded. He had to be all right. She could not possibly bear it otherwise.
Eventually, Merton coughed and started to stir. She put her hand on his cheek to hold him still. His eyes opened and he looked straight into her eyes. “Miranda?” he whispered and smiled. “Miranda,” he repeated. He reached up to take hold of her hand.
She had to swallow a sob of relief before she managed to say, “Careful. You do not want to jar your head.”
Then he seemed to see the men standing around, staring at him in concern, while Hodgson knelt beside him. “What…?” He tried to sit up. Miranda held him back, with Hodgson’s help.
“Easy, easy, you lummox,” said Hodgson. “Hold on before you try to sit up. Now, tell me how many fingers you see.” He held up three fingers.
Merton blinked, then said impatiently, “Three. What happened, Dick? What am I doing out here?” He shook off their hands and struggled up to a sitting position.
“There was a bit of a fire,” began Hodgson. “No, no, it’s all under control, Tom, and no real harm done,” he continued soothingly as Merton stared in alarm. “But you were taking a nap, and the office was a bit smoky, so it seemed like a good idea to get you down here.”
Merton glared about, affronted. “A nap? I never nap.”
Miranda probably ought to have stood up, but Merton was leaning on her and was still holding her hand—clutching it, one might say, so she remained seated beside him. “Dick had to kick in your office door to reach you,” she said. Her voice came out as a whisper. “It seemed to be locked.”
Merton continued to glare. “I never lock that door,” he said.
“That’s as may be,” said Hodgson, “but it wouldn’t open.” He looked about. “All right, you men, clean up the mess behind that shed and then get back to work. Curry, come with me. We’ll rig up a bed of some sort in one of the wagons to get his lordship back home.”
“This is ridiculous,” said Merton. “I’m perfectly fine.” He started to rise but promptly swayed and fell back against Miranda.
“Perfectly fine, indeed,” she said. “You will stay right here until they come with the wagon.” She eased him back until his head was in her lap once more.
By the time the wagon appeared, Merton had fallen into a doze, holding Miranda’s hand. Mr. Rollins and Lydia had also ventured out of the shelter of the tool shed to see what had happened. Lydia was distressed to hear that Lord Merton had suffered an injury, but was even more distressed to see Miranda’s obvious distress. Mr. Rollins was distressed to see that Lydia was distressed. They both fluttered about, getting in the way. Hodgson looked at them in disgust.
Between them, Curry and Hodgson got Merton into the wagon. When Miranda seemed about to get into the wagon as well, Lydia pulled her back.
“You’d best go back in your carriage, Miranda,” said Hodgson kindly. “You’ll be there faster and you can have everything ready for him. And I’ll send someone for the doctor. He can meet us at the Hall.”
She nodded, still white-faced, and allowed Lydia to lead her away. Leaning back against the cushions, she closed her eyes and tried to make sense of what had happened.
Had she lost her senses? Yes, she was attracted to Merton. Who would not be? And she had enjoyed his company, but surely that was just flirtation. It could not mean anything. Not really.
After all, he was an earl, an English aristocrat. He was not useless, like so many of them. The shipyard was testimony to that. But still, he owed his wealth and position to his birth, not to his own efforts. His title gave him power and privileges denied to others whether he deserved them or not. That was how things worked here in England.
Her parents had taught her how unjust, how dangerous an aristocratic system could be. It might be the way of the world here, but it was not the way the world should be.
How could this have happened to her? How could she have allowed him to become the most important person in the world for her?
Chapter Fourteen
The carriage arrived at the Hall first, and Miranda had recovered her practical self sufficiently to begin giving orders the moment she stepped from the carriage. A bed on the ground floor should be prepared, bandages and water readied. It was only when Lydia pulled her back and murmured in her ear that she realized how presumptuous she must sound.
Lady Merton had come hurrying as soon as she had been informed, and confirmed Miranda’s orders as soon as she understood what was happening. Lady Carraby, however, let out a shriek and staggered back half-swooning against a footman the moment she saw the blood and soot on her niece’s clothing. Miranda and Lydia were both hustled away to recuperate from what Lady Carraby called their “dreadful experience” without bothering to learn precisely what that experience had been. “Whatever can have possessed you to go to a place like a shipyard?” she scolded. “Positively scandalous. I should never have permitted it. Never.”
The rest of Merton’s family then erupted into the hall and everyone attempted to take charge. Aunt Arabella insisted that Merton should be carried upstair
s, where he would not disturb the guests. Lady Merton glared at her and told the servants to prepare a bed in the small sitting room that got the morning sun. Mr. Browne declared that this was only what could be expected when gentlemen soiled their hands with trade. His daughter soulfully agreed with him.
Edgar poured a glass of brandy.
By the time the wagon with Merton arrived, the scene had degenerated into a chaos of wails and shouts, orders and counter-orders. This was resolved only when the doctor arrived to take charge, and Merton was carried in to the bed that had been set up on the ground floor.
*
Once Merton was safely in the doctor’s care, Hodgson took the reins and, with Curry beside him, turned the wagon back to the shipyard. They rode in silence for a while until Curry, who had been frowning and occasionally shaking his head, finally said, “I don’t understand it. There was no call for a barrel of oily rags to be back there in the first place. And it was out of the sun, too. Why would it go up in flames like that?”
“It was no accident, lad.”
“What do you mean, no accident? What else could it’ve been? You can’t mean somebody started that fire of a purpose? But why? There was nothing special in that shed.”
“Yes there was. Merton.”
Curry goggled at the older man. “It was aimed at his lordship? Never. What makes you think that?”
“Somebody cracked him over the head and then locked him in the office. That’s what makes me think that,” said Hodgson flatly. “If you hadn’t spotted the fire so quick, we never could have gotten him out.”
“But why would anyone want to hurt him? He’s a good ’un. The only good nob I’ve ever seen, or even heard tell of.”
“And if they get rid of him, you’re not likely to see another. If he dies, his cousin is earl. If you want to know what that would be like, just ask the tenants and the people in Schotten what it was like hereabouts when everybody thought Merton was dead. And still, there’s those that would be glad to see Merton dead and his fool of a cousin with the title.”
They passed one of the newly thatched cottages, and Curry turned to look at it. “That thatch, it’s new, right?”
Hodgson nodded.
“It’s the same on all the cottages around here. The repairs are all new, all made since the earl came back, right?”
Hodgson nodded again.
“How could anybody want to hurt him?”
Hodgson kept his eyes on the road. “Some will do anything for a title, to have everybody bowing to them. You know that well as I do.”
“Bastards,” muttered Curry. “If he dies, it’s not just them in those cottages will suffer. Not likely anyone’ll keep the shipyard going. We’ll all be turned out to starve, and nothing we can do about it. Not a thing. There’s no justice in it, is there?”
Hodgson nodded. “It’s a rotten system. It’s all for the lords, the nobs. They can do whatever they want, get away with anything. People like us, we don’t matter. The laws are all on their side. If they even bother to worry about the laws.”
“Bastards,” Curry repeated. “Makes you think those Frenchies might have had the right idea.”
Hodgson turned and gave his companion a long look. “Aye. It’s a rotten system, it is. They expect people like you to fight to protect them and their estates and their fine houses because they’re too grand and important to fight themselves. Then if you come back alive, you find your family was turned out to starve while you were away, and now you’re welcome to beg in the street. It’s a wonder you all put up with it.”
“Bastards,” muttered Curry.
They rode in silence for a while. Then Hodgson said softly, “Back home, we threw them out.”
Chapter Fifteen
The next morning, Merton escaped the fussing of his valet, the tender worrying of his grandmother, and the histrionics of his aunt to hide in the garden. He chose the garden because that was where one of the maids said he was likely to find Miss Rokeby.
The maid was correct. Miss Rokeby was in the garden, as were Miss Saunders, Mr. Rollins, and Hodgson. Miss Saunders was seated under a tree at a distance and appeared to be engaged in a drawing of a clump of hollyhocks. She was, as usual, dressed in pink and white, with a great many ruffles and bits of lace on her dress and on her bonnet. She doubtless looked very pretty. Merton was happy to see that Mr. Rollins appeared to think so, since he was sitting on the next bench staring at her with an utterly entranced expression.
The lady Merton wished to see was sitting just out of the shade of an elm, the breeze occasionally pushing the branches enough to make the shadows of the leaves dance over her. In her pale green dress and deeper green spencer, she made a charming picture, but he did not think she was aware of it. Hodgson was standing over her and the pair of them were deep in conversation. Merton would have thought it a peaceful scene were it not for the expressions of intense concentration on their faces. Not just concentration. Miss Rokeby was looking distressed, seriously distressed. What on earth was Dick saying to upset her so? He was almost upon them before they noticed his arrival. That might have annoyed him had not the smile of delight on Miss Rokeby’s face when she turned and saw him immediately raised his spirits and called forth an answering smile.
Her smile faded quickly, and the look of concern returned. “It is good to see you up and about, Lord Merton, but should you not be abed? Head injuries should not be treated lightly.”
“The doctor assures me that my head is too thick to be damaged easily. But I understand that I owe my life to the two of you. I cannot begin to express…”
“Not now,” said Hodgson. “Sit down and listen.”
“Yes, my lord, please be seated.” Miss Rokeby slid along the garden bench to make room for him.
“What is this about?” he asked, complying quite willingly. He sat close enough for his hand to brush the soft fabric of her dress. His thigh was only inches from hers so he moved a bit closer until he could feel the warmth of her body. To his slight annoyance, she did not seem to notice his nearness. Something else was bothering her. There was a worried frown on her face, so he smiled at her. “What has you upset?” Whatever it is, he wanted to say, I will take care of it. Do not worry. I will take care of you.
“How much do you remember about the fire yesterday?” Hodgson asked.
“Almost nothing,” Merton admitted. “The first thing I remember is lying on the ground—on your lap, actually, Miss Rokeby.” He smiled at her again. It was a lovely memory. He wanted to repeat it. He wanted to lie in her lap again, only this time without an audience. He caught himself up before his thoughts could travel too far in that direction. “Something must have landed on my head.”
“When we broke in and found you, you were face down on your desk, and there was nothing around that could have landed on you,” Hodgson said. “There was no reason for anything to land on you. There was no fire in your office yet, only smoke coming in the window. And I had to kick the door in because it was locked.”
Hodgson’s flat tones finally came through to Merton. He tore his eyes from Miss Rokeby’s face and looked at his friend. Hodgson was not smiling. “That makes no sense,” Merton said. “You know I never lock my office when I’m there. And something must have fallen because something hit my head. I have a lump to prove it.”
“If nothing fell on you, and there did not seem to be anything of that sort in the room, then it must have been a person who hit you,” said Miss Rokeby, “someone who then locked the door.”
“What’s more, the fire makes no sense,” said Hodgson. “There was no reason for a barrel of oily rags to be there, and no reason for them to burst into flames. They were in the shade and it wasn’t even a hot day.”
Merton stared at his friend. “Are you trying to tell me that someone deliberately started that fire? Why would anyone do such a thing?” He thought for a minute and then shook his head. “Even if someone wanted to stop or slow down work on the ship, a fire there would not have do
ne the job. There is nothing in that building of any great importance.”
“You were in that building.”
“Me? You think it was aimed at me? That’s insane.”
Hodgson looked back in exasperation. “Well, it’s not the first time somebody tried to get rid of you, is it?”
“But the fire was put out easily enough…”
“We were early. I fear I was impatient,” said Miss Rokeby with an embarrassed smile. “Mr. Curry would not have gone to look for you and noticed the fire so quickly if we had arrived later, when we were expected.”
“There was oil spilled on the staircase,” Hodgson added. “A few minutes later and the fire would have taken hold. We could never have gotten you out.”
Merton looked off into the distance and cursed long and fluently until he remembered Miss Rokeby’s presence. He started to stammer an apology, but Hodgson interrupted. “Never mind that now. You can apologize after you’ve heard Miranda’s tale. Go on, Miranda. Start with seeing the fellow on the cliff.”
Miranda complied, telling him about the man who’d passed her on the cliff, though she downplayed the uneasiness she had felt. She felt foolish admitting to a fear that had no cause.
Merton frowned. “I cannot think of any reason one of our men would have been up there. The path goes nowhere off the estate except to the shipyard, and he was coming from there you say?”
She nodded, and added, “I don’t think he was one of the workmen. He was not dressed like one. His clothes may have been plain, but they were well-cut and the cloth was good. And he did not, somehow, walk like a workman. He moved—I do not quite know how to put it—he moved with assurance, as if he thought himself important. When I saw him again at the shipyard I thought perhaps he was an official of some sort.”
“Now describe him for Merton, Miranda,” said Hodgson.
The Earl Returns Page 9
