Her mind was playing tricks on her, but Maggie could have sworn he wore the livery of the Earl of Cambrey.
Nonsense! Despite everything he’d done to play fast and loose with her affections, she was obsessed with John and saw signs of him everywhere, even when utterly unlikely. She ambled onward down the lane.
Chapter Nine
An hour after returning home, Maggie thought it must be her obsession working again for when she opened a missive rushed down to the cottage from Belton Manor by a stable boy, she immediately saw his name:
Dearest Mags,
John Angsley, Simon’s greatest friend, has been badly injured in a carriage accident. We just received word from Lady Cambrey, who said it’s a wonder he lives at all. But you know how mothers can exaggerate, so we are trying to keep good thoughts. Cam is still at Cavendish Square under the able care of a King’s College physician but will be moved to Bedfordshire as soon as they think it’s prudent. I thought you would want to know.
Love,
Jenny
Maggie put the letter down on the dining room table, then picked it up again with a trembling hand and reread it. Feeling lightheaded, she sat. It was hard to imagine John injured, strapping as he was, powerful and full of vim and vigor.
A wonder he lives at all.
How injured was he? Was he in pain even then? Her heart squeezed tightly, and for a moment, it was hard to breathe.
But the town of Bedford and Turvey House, his family home, were closer than London. Perhaps she could visit him.
In the next moment, she wondered what possible excuse she could use to go to his house. She was nothing to him.
So why was he still everything to her? Resting her head on her arms, she began to cry.
*
Cam didn’t speak the oath that sprung to his lips each time the coach rocked and dipped. If he did, it would be one long string of swearing for many hours to come. Stretched out in the largest carriage he owned, he was about as comfortable as one could expect to be with his broken bones and tender, bandaged head.
Tired of the constant laudanum-infused dreams, he had not taken a dose that morning when they set out, with his mother and his cousin Beryl in a separate carriage. Presently, he was reconsidering his rash decision and glanced over to make sure the bottle of bitter, reddish-brown liquid was close at hand.
Rather than bear the humiliation of being carried into an inn for the night, Cam had decided to make it hard on all of them and travel straight through by changing horses as necessary. Let the expense be damned! The coachman could get him food when he wanted it and empty his bedpan, too, for the next two days. Or his valet could do it, or whoever else was now seated atop the infernally lumbering growler that carted his broken body up to Bedfordshire.
At least he was alive.
Those were his mother’s words, and Cam was trying every bloody day to feel the same way. But he didn’t. Three weeks after the fateful morning, he still ached. Every movement of his limbs was painful, and his ribs were wrapped so tightly it was hard to breathe, let alone move. His vision still seemed strange in his right eye, and he hoped to God his eyeball wasn’t looking off at a strange angle.
No one would let him look in a mirror, too scraped and scarred as he was, both on his right cheek and forehead. In all likelihood, he now resembled Mrs. Shelley’s terrible creature, the very embodiment of Victor Frankenstein’s experiments.
Using his left hand because his right arm was trussed up in a heavy plaster cast, with a similar contrivance on the entirety of his right leg, Cam picked up a newspaper from the stack he’d brought with him. He planned to catch up on what had occurred while he’d been heavily sedated and convalescing under the physician’s care.
Wincing at the pain, squinting because of his damaged eye, he tried to concentrate on the news of the government of which he was an esteemed member of the House of Lords.
However, his mind drifted to the one person who had occupied his many fitful dreams. Margaret. He doubted she knew of his plight. Moreover, he dreaded the notion she would ever see him in such a state. Bad enough she preferred Westing over him, with all the attractiveness of the younger man’s vitality. Now Cam was not only older, he was also disfigured and would most likely limp the rest of his life.
He read the same sentence in The Times over again, realizing he didn’t give a fig about the Hungarian or the Italian revolutionaries, nor Prime Minister Palmerston’s seemingly selfish handling of any of the current uprisings of the day. At that moment, they could all go to the devil.
Flipping over the page, he saw his friend’s name and felt his spirits lift. There was the announcement of the heir to the earldom of Lindsey. Simon and Jenny had a baby boy who, God willing, would live to be the 8th earl in the Devere family. Margaret was an aunt and most likely would remain in Sheffield with her family.
At least, he was heading north and in the right direction.
“Fool,” he muttered to himself. For what did it matter how close in proximity he was to Miss Blackwood? It would be utter torment ever to meet her again, knowing he had enjoyed their kisses far more than she had. And he couldn’t bear to see a look of pity on her lovely features. No, that would do him in entirely.
Reaching for the bottle, he decided a small snooze was in order. Maybe for the next few days.
*
“Have a care,” Cam yelled as the coachman and footman eased him out of the coach and onto a long stretcher as his doctor had called it, which had been carted up from London and stowed somewhere on the roof of the carriage.
“Let’s not be clumsy, my good men. I haven’t produced an heir yet.”
Both men chuckled, which pleased Cam, for he knew he’d been a horse’s arse to them the entire journey. At some point, unable to stand the unrelenting hours on the road, his mother had decided to stop at an inn. She would be arriving in Bedford the following day, pausing only to drop Beryl off at her parents’ nearby home.
Cam didn’t envy them one bit. Relief at being finally at Turvey washed over him like a welcome rain shower on a scorching day. He couldn’t wait to lie upon his own down-filled mattress. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked forward to going to bed when not anticipating the pleasures of a skilled and luscious female.
Suddenly, he no longer cared about this last humiliating and painful journey of a few yards. Hardly victorious, he was arriving home and being carried by strong men, from the carriage through his own front door and up to his bedroom, which had been his father’s up until four years hence.
In any case, the ride on the canvas and wood stretcher felt smoother than the entire excursion from London. Lifting his head, he saw the familiar shock of black hair of his estate manager, Grayson O’Connor, who even then had hold of the front two poles, keeping him steady and smoothly level.
“Gray, have you got me?” Cam was suddenly feeling almost giddy at being home. That, and the generous amount of laudanum which suddenly seemed his best friend.
“I’ve got you, my lord.”
Cam laughed. “None of that ‘my lord’ stuff for you and me. Remember that or I’ll box your ears like when we were lads.”
“You mean how you tried to box my ears.”
Gray had been on the estate almost as long as Cam could remember, being the son of a servant originally from Cam’s uncle’s house, a few miles away. Cam couldn’t recall why his uncle had sent young Gray to Turvey House when they were both boys just out of leading strings, but he’d always been glad of having a close companion. And though much of their upbringing as well as their futures were vastly different, they’d played and even fought like brothers.
Gray would get him upstairs safely. Cam had no doubt, and thus, he closed his eyes again.
The next time he awakened, he was in his own bed. Glancing around, he made sure his laudanum was right next to him, for when the pain returned, it stole his breath.
The way Margaret’s smile used to. Yes, exactly so.
&
nbsp; He’d learned not to move too much when he awakened. His right leg was propped and elevated in a sling contraption, as it had been on the coach. Dr. Adams thought this was the best angle, but it made it impossible for Cam to turn on his side. The more he knew he couldn’t, the more he wanted to above anything else.
From what he understood, the next inconvenience was going to be the itching. His doctor had warned him his skin would start to tickle inside the bandages under the plaster until it drove him nearly mad.
Glancing again at the laudanum, he hoped he had enough to see him through his recovery. Knowing there were more bottles in his trunk, he focused on his surroundings. His room looked as it always had, dove-gray walls and white wainscoting. Very pleasing.
Shifting his weight and trying to sit up by pushing on the pillows with his good arm, he groaned at the discomfort. Remembering how Jenny Devere mentioned wanting to walk in the fresh air the moment she knew she would spend weeks in confinement, Cam could now fully appreciate that.
He supposed he should be glad a blacksmith or a barber hadn’t been called to set his broken bones. Luckily, he’d had Dr. Philip Adams, the best surgeon his family knew, who brought enough able-bodied assistants to help him set the earl’s thigh bone, his ankle bone, and his arm, as well as tightly wrap a cracked rib.
It had taken two men following the doctor’s instructions to fight the contraction of Cam’s strong thigh muscles in order to set the large bone in place and hold it there while Adams applied thin wooden splints and gypsum plaster spread over the woven bandages.
Luckily, Cam had missed most of the ordeal due to laudanum and alcohol, of which he decided to prescribe his own dosage.
Also, luckily for him, as the surgeon explained when Cam awakened in anguish and wanting to die from the pain in his head and body, was the two breaks in his leg and the break in his arm were all “simple and clean.”
“Simple and clean?” Cam had asked, barely able to mumble the words.
“Yes, nothing appeared to be shattered. I don’t anticipate any gangrene or amputation necessary, but we’ll watch your toes for a few days.”
Amputation! “My toes?”
“Yes, for telltale signs of infection.”
Christ! He’d taken another dose of laudanum right then.
*
Maggie walked slowly along the lane toward the manor, passing Jonling Hall and the new mysterious owner whom Jenny and Simon had met but whom Maggie had yet to be introduced. He was a man. A single man. An attractive man of marriageable age, according to her sister, and vaguely related to Simon. A bastard, Maggie had determined, and a wealthy one, too.
Normally, all of those things would have been enough to make her giddy with excitement and eager to receive an introduction as soon as possible. However, she found she couldn’t muster even a smidge of interest.
John lay hurt somewhere, and she had no way to get to him, nor any reason to do so that would seem plausible to anyone who thought about it.
It had been a week since she’d learned of his accident. Every day afterward, when she walked to the manor to keep Jenny company and help with her wee nephew, Maggie hoped there was more news. Every day, she was disappointed.
“There you are, Mags.” Jenny looked well-rested, still propped up in her bed like Lady Muck-Muck, as Eleanor had teased the day before.
“I’m allowed to be Lady Muck-Muck as long as I want to be. Let me tell you, producing enough milk to feed Lionel is exhausting. I’m always tired, thirsty, or hungry.”
“So is he,” Eleanor had said, as the baby started to cry again. Jenny told her sisters the sound of his crying made her breasts tingle as soon as he began.
“Isn’t it all fascinating?” Eleanor had expressed how much more interesting human breeding was than when she’d seen animals mate, reproduce, and nurse. At that statement, Maggie and Jenny had exchanged a glance and decided to switch topics.
Today, Eleanor was elsewhere.
“Where is Simon?” Maggie asked, since usually his lordship was hovering nearby until one of the Blackwood women arrived to keep the new mother company.
Jenny waved her hand vaguely. “I don’t know. Working somewhere, I suppose. He’s trying to get a lot done before he leaves for Bedford.”
Maggie’s ears perked up.
“Bedford? You didn’t mention yesterday he was going.”
Jenny had been less than her usual focused self since before Lionel was born. However, this seemed like a large thing to have forgotten, especially as her sister knew of her interest in John’s health.
“That’s right,” Jenny said, “because I didn’t know yesterday. Simon hasn’t wanted to leave my side, or Lionel’s, of course. But he’s been rather twitchy with concern for Cam. I told him to go see how he’s doing. Last night, when we got into bed, and Lionel was sleeping peacefully, Simon said he was considering a journey in a few weeks.”
“Weeks?” Maggie repeated, absently. She wanted to leave immediately. On the other hand, she hated to leave Jenny and Lionel.
“Yes. He’s decided to wait until the baby is at least one month old, as if it is some magical number.”
They exchanged an understanding glance. No age in infancy or even childhood was safe, yet one could only live in fear for so long. Maggie knew of many families who’d lost children. Even John had told her how his parents lost two other babies, leaving him their sole heir.
John, the sole heir, who’d almost died in a ridiculous carriage accident.
“Poor Lady Cambrey,” Maggie murmured.
“Yes, indeed. She must have been nearly out of her mind with worry.”
“I wonder how he is doing now,” Maggie ventured, in case Jenny had learned anything more.
Her sister shrugged. “If we get another letter, I will surely let you know. I thought early on you had developed a tendre for him.” Jenny watched her carefully. “However, before I left London, I thought I’d been entirely mistaken. Was I?”
Maggie didn’t know what to say. If she started to go into detail about what had happened, they would spend hours dissecting it from every angle, trying to decide how Maggie had got it dreadfully wrong. Though, what if Jenny also had witnessed what Maggie had thought—that John had an interest in her?
Deciding to divulge some of her story, Maggie sat on the bed.
“You are correct. I did for a short time believe he and I might be suited. I simply hadn’t had enough experience with men to know my feelings. Or his. Then he became attached to Lady Chatley.”
Jenny raised her eyebrows. “Jane Chatley seems a lovely person, but she is nothing like you.”
“Well, thank you very much!”
“No, no, Mags.” Jenny reached for her hand. “I meant if Cam liked you, it seems strange he would as easily fall for Jane, who is bland in comparison. Plus, she is …”
When Jenny hesitated, Maggie supplied a few careful adjectives. “She is intelligent, placid, well-spoken. Most likely organized, capable, dutiful, and loyal, too. And dull as dishwater.”
“Mags!” Jenny protested. Then after a pause, she added, “We don’t know for sure she is placid.”
They both dissolved in laughter.
“Fair enough,” Maggie agreed, “but she does seem to be the epitome of womanhood, someone any man would want to have running his household and bearing his children.”
“No more than any man would want you to do the same. And you have a sparkle, those eyes, your mouth. Come along, dear sister, you know you have that special something. You’ve always turned heads.”
“Effortlessly,” Maggie agreed without hubris. “In face, so easily I don’t believe I know how to win someone over by trying. Speaking plainly to him certainly wasn’t the answer, nor letting a man kiss me.”
“Hold on,” Jenny said, before practically squealing. “You didn’t mention a kiss. With Cam?”
Maggie felt her cheeks heat up but said nothing.
“That changes everything, don’t you think?”
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“Why?” Maggie asked. “Changes everything how?”
“Cam is Simon’s best friend. He wouldn’t play fast and loose with you, not with his best friend’s sister-in-law. He must really like you.”
“No, I am quite positive he really likes Lady Chatley. I saw them together, and I heard things they said.”
Jenny frowned. “Oh.”
“But I confess, I do still like him, even though I kept company with other gentlemen.”
“And did others kiss you, too?” Jenny asked it jokingly, but when Maggie remained silent, her sister’s smile died.
“Oh.”
“Stop saying that.”
“In any case, I think you should go see Cam for yourself,” Jenny decided. “We were all friends before the Season started, before Simon even returned from abroad. Moreover, as a friend, you could go to Turvey House to pay your regards.”
Maggie wasn’t convinced it was a good idea, but her sister was clearly warming to her own plan.
“No, don’t you see. It’s perfect. You can go as my proxy. When Simon goes in a few weeks, you shall accompany him since I cannot.”
“First of all, no one has a proxy for their wife. That’s ridiculous. I cannot show up as the Countess Lindsey substitute.”
“True, but you can say I was concerned enough to send you in my stead.”
The idea of seeing him again caused Maggie’s heartbeat to speed up, though her doubts lingered.
“What if John is not happy to see me, especially if he is gravely injured?”
Jenny grunted in an unladylike fashion. “What man doesn’t want the attention of a beautiful woman?”
“One who might rather have Jane Chatley at his bedside.”
Lionel, nestled in his crib at the foot of the bed, began to cry.
“Hand him to me, will you?”
As Maggie placed the baby in her sister’s arms, Jenny observed, “He kissed you more than once. You don’t know he has kissed her at all.”
Maggie shook her head. “I cannot leave you and Lionel.”
Beastly Lords Collection Page 46
