by Lynn Kerstan
Clare. Light.
He reached for her.
“BRYN!”
She was sure of it. He had squeezed her hand. She kissed his fingers, wet with her tears, and felt them move against her lips. “Bryn,” she said again, her voice raw. “Wake up, my love.”
Letting go his hand, she gripped his shoulders. “Do you hear me? Wake up!” Not caring if it hurt, she shook him hard and thought she heard a groan. “Dammit, Caradoc, open your eyes.”
His lashes fluttered.
“Yes. Oh, God, yes,” she whispered, shaking him again.
This time she could practically feel him struggle to obey. “Do it, Bryn! You can do it. Look at me!” Tears dripped from her chin onto his face, onto his closed eyelids.
And they opened. Only for a moment at first, but longer the next time, and longer still until he gazed at her.
“Do you know me?” she asked breathlessly.
He nodded slightly, and she saw his lips trying to move. Grabbing for the sponge, she moistened them. His tongue licked out and she wet the sponge again, this time squeezing it into his open mouth.
All the while he gazed up at her, choking at first on the liquid but finally able to swallow a bit. Again and again she dripped water into his mouth, lifting his head with one hand to help him drink.
After a while he lay back, shaking his head weakly. But his eyes stayed open, fixed on her face, as she moved away long enough to pull the bell rope. Then she sat on the bed and leaned over him, stroking his damp hair from his forehead, massaging his scalp, as if that would help him stay alert.
“Isabella is bringing some soup,” she said practically. “You must stay awake and drink it, Bryn. I won’t let you go to sleep again, even if I have to send for the duchess to bully you. And she’ll do it, you know.”
His lips curved slightly, and she wanted to jump for joy. He’d come back, however tentatively, and she would not let him get away.
A footman knocked at the door and peered in, the fearful expression on his young face showing that he expected the worst.
Clare smiled at him over her shoulder. “Lord Caradoc has awakened,” she said, pleased to see his immediate delight at the news. “Will you summon Dr. Winslow, and ask Lady Isabella to hurry with that broth?”
“Yes, Miss Easton.” He bowed, and then addressed the earl. “Good to have you back, milord. Damned if it ain’t.” Blushing furiously, he hurried away.
“See?” Clare rubbed Bryn’s temples. “Everybody is happy you have decided to get well.”
He licked cracked lips, trying to form a word. “You?” he finally managed in a whisper.
“Me most of all,” she assured him.
BRYN WAS A terrible patient.
Or so everyone kept telling him, although he considered his demands perfectly reasonable. But it appeared he was no longer master in his own house, so few of his orders were obeyed. He asked for roast beef and received endless mugs of broth. The very servants he dismissed for serving him bowls of tasteless pap served up the same foul concoctions at his next meal.
He was in considerable pain. The doctor recommended he not take laudanum, at least until he’d recovered more strength, and with that Bryn agreed. But he saw no reason he shouldn’t numb himself with cognac. After endless wrangling, he was allowed one glass of port after dinner.
As his frustration mounted, so did his temper. And Clare met him with equal obduracy. She’d become a veritable martinet, directing the household—and him—with an iron will.
And when he called her to account, she immediately agreed to return to Clouds. In fact, she would rather do so now that he was out of danger. It was unseemly for the earl’s mistress to be in residence at his home, and the duchess would be more than pleased to take over.
That threat was more than enough to keep him on good behavior for almost a full day. He wanted Clare with him all the time and even tried to convince her to sleep by his side in the enormous canopied bed. She refused, but she always sat with him late into the night, when the pain was worst.
He was never left alone in the room, not since he seized a rare moment of privacy to try out his legs. They’d given way three paces from the bed, where a footman found him curled on the rug, drenched in blood because the fall had reopened his wound.
In spite of that setback he continued to improve, and after a week Clare allowed him to receive visitors other than Isabella and Ernestine. First to call was the magistrate, anxious to question him about his assailant.
Bryn had already decided to lie about that.
“Common footpads,” he told Mr. Peebles. “They came at me in the dark, and it was raining. Can’t describe them, and doubt I could identify the men if they were standing in front of me now.”
The magistrate scribbled in his notebook, clearly unsatisfied. “Didn’t rob you,” he pointed out. “And you was carrying a lot of blunt.”
Bryn had wondered about that. Landry must have lost his mind altogether, to bolt without taking the money. “I was a trifle bosky at the time,” he confessed, “and remember little of the encounter. Likely I objected with my fists, and one of the robbers pulled the trigger. They must have run off, figuring someone heard the shot.”
“Mebbe.” Mr. Peebles lifted a brow. “But you were seen to leave your club a little after three o’clock, and I’ve walked the distance to where you were found. A journey of ten minutes at most, even in the rain and foxed. You were not discovered until two hours later.”
Bryn shrugged, painfully. “No accounting for it. They had plenty of time to pick my pockets but failed to do so. Chances are they panicked. I hit my head, you know, when I fell. Most everything that happened is a blur.”
“We can only hope you recall more, when your health is restored.” Mr. Peebles regarded him closely. “Apparently you were engaged in a quarrel earlier that evening, with—”
“Giles Landry. What of it?”
“It seems rather coincidental that you were struck down shortly after. We thought it advisable to ask the baron a few questions concerning his whereabouts, but he has disappeared.”
“I’m not surprised,” Bryn said indifferently. “It’s no secret Landry hoped I would marry his daughter and pay off his debts. That failing, he has no doubt fled his creditors, but that is irrelevant to your investigation. I’d have recognized him, were he one of the men who attacked me.”
“Very good, milord.” Mr. Peebles closed his notebook. “You will let us know if something else comes to mind?”
“Certainly.”
When he was gone, Bryn lapsed against the bank of pillows with a sigh. He’d no intention of dragging Elizabeth’s father through the courts. That would shame her, and her new husband, and eventually their children. Besides, Landry was far from the reach of British justice by now, assuming he’d dredged up enough money to buy his way back across the Channel. And if he remained in England or ever came back, Bryn would find him and exact justice of his own.
The next day, he discovered that would not be necessary.
Max Peyton was permitted to call—for ten minutes only, because Clare insisted Bryn was still too weak to take up matters of business. But Peyton had not come about business.
“Landry’s dead,” he said, the moment they were alone. “Thought you’d want to know.”
“How?” Bryn regarded him angrily. “If you’ve taken this out of my hands—”
“Damnedest thing. The man had the audacity to apply again to me for a stake. Enough to leave the country and keep him going for a while. Sent a note and offered to sign his house over to me, rundown hovel that it is. I agreed to meet him at a gin hole in the rookery.”
“You killed him? Bloody hell, Peyton. Too many people involved in this mess as it is.”
“Not I,” Max protested. “All I did was accept the deed in exchange for a sheaf of banknotes. Oh, and I happened to mention that fact to five or six rather large brutes on my way out. From the racket, I expect they went after him like a pack of wo
lves. His body will turn up one of these days.”
Bryn stared at him in amazement.
“Past time you were free of the ungodly baron,” Peyton observed tranquilly. “He nearly managed to dispatch you, and where would I be if he came back to finish the job? I need your backing for my schools, Caradoc. You needn’t feel responsible for the man’s fortunate demise. Besides, I knew you wouldn’t turn him over to the courts. This matter could only be handled by unorthodox means, and with you laid up—”
“How do you know he’s dead?” Bryn interrupted.
“I know.” Peyton came to his feet. “Mind you, the most difficult task is yours. His daughter must be informed, and I leave it to you to invent a story suitable for her ears. Naturally the house will be transferred to her. The deed will have mysteriously disappeared, so she will inherit as a matter of course.”
Bryn was grateful and furious. He resented Peyton’s interference, which implied he was incapable of handling his own affairs. But he could almost hear Clare’s voice, reminding him that all his efforts to keep Landry under control had failed. “You are a ruthless man,” he said with mingled respect and irritation.
“More so than you, Caradoc,” Peyton replied urbanely. “And to think you once accused me of aspiring to canonization.” He crossed to the door and glanced back over his shoulder. “Had Landry killed you, I’d have torn him apart with my own two hands.”
Bryn thought about those words, and the indecipherable look in those tawny eyes, for a long time. Probably Max referred to his investment in their trading venture, which would have come to nothing if he’d died.
Or perhaps Bryn had somehow made another friend.
27
“About time you showed up.”
Bryn gave Florette a sour look as she entered the bedchamber. After returning to London with Clare, she had moved into Clouds while his recovery was in doubt but adamantly refused to visit until he sent a message demanding her appearance.
“It is not the thing,” she said in a calm voice, “for me to be here at all. Where are your wits, Caradoc?”
He regarded her with interest as she settled on a chair beside the bed. She had let her hair go gray and left off using kohl at her eyes and paint on her lips and cheeks. In a simple high-necked walking dress and unadorned bonnet, she might have been a tradesman’s wife or a country widow. There was no trace of the flamboyant faux-Frenchwoman he’d known for twenty years.
“You courtesans are damned high sticklers,” he said irritably. “You’ll take an earl to your bed but won’t set foot in his house. It’s been all I could do to keep Clare here at St. James’s.”
Florette set a corked bottle on the night table. “Maude Beales sent this over. It’s a restorative potion, and you are to take a spoonful three times a day.”
“The devil I will.” He grimaced. “Women hovering over me every time I look up, telling me to eat this or drink that. Witches, the lot of you.”
“I see you are back to your old self again. A shame, that, but even a grumpy Caradoc is better than no Caradoc at all. Now that you are recovered, I can return to Hastings and tend my cabbages.”
“East Sussex,” he observed dryly, “is rather a long way from the Loire Valley. Are you at last to be honest with me, Flo? Perhaps even tell me your real name?”
“Edna Halperth,” she said with a grin. “Too pedestrian for a high-flyer, don’t you think? Florette LaFleur had a much better ring to it. In Hastings I am plain Mrs. Edna Halperth, but I’d rather you address me as you always have, for old time’s sake.”
He pulled himself straighter against the bank of pillows, muttering an oath when the nightshirt and robe tangled under his buttocks. Among the many things he despised about being confined to bed was having to wear a nightshirt, even the one Clare had embroidered at the neck with tiny bears while she sat with him.
“Florette it is,” he agreed, looking her in the eye. “And if you are about to take yourself off again, let us speak plainly to one another, for old time’s sake. Why did Clare go into hiding because she thought I was to be married? She knows I intend to, one of these days. And she ought to have known I would tell her myself, not leave her to read about it in the newspaper.”
“She realizes that now. And is sorry she mistrusted you.”
“Yes.” He waved a hand. “She has told me so a hundred times. But the point is, she hared off to Sussex for no good reason. I’d have expected her to ring a peal over me after seeing that notice, and not blamed her for doing so. But even if it were true, if I had betrothed myself to Elizabeth Landry, what difference would it make?”
“Apparently a great deal, to Clare.” After a long moment, Florette released a sigh. “I’ll not tell you anything you ought to discover for yourself, except this one thing, because you are clearly too dull-witted even to conceive of the idea. She will not stay with you once you are married.”
“Why the hell not?” He glowered at her. “These arrangements are common. Almost necessary, with alliances made to join titles and secure fortunes even if the husband and wife can scarcely abide each other. Most every man I know keeps a mistress—or chases widows and opera dancers. And nearly every woman takes a lover, once she has given her husband an heir.”
Florette gave him a scathing look. “Common? Perhaps, in your circle of friends. But Clare is anything but common, and by now you ought to have realized it. You disappoint me, Caradoc. I’d not have entrusted her to you had I known you would persist in your stubborn assurance that you can have everything you want, regardless of the cost to others.”
Swallowing hard, he sank a few inches down the pillows. Apparently he was at fault, but he didn’t understand why. Clare had sold herself to him, proving she was not constrained by moral rectitude. And he was certain, or nearly so, that she wanted to stay with him. Why should a marriage of convenience, with perfect understanding on everyone’s part, change that?
The wound in his chest seemed to be on fire again. Probably because it was near his heart, which had begun to pound furiously. “Tell me what it will cost her, if I marry,” he said between his teeth. “I intend to give Clare everything she could possibly want. Make a home for us, and be with her except when I have obligations elsewhere. Those will be few. What has she to lose?”
“That, you must ask her. It is past time the two of you became acquainted outside the bedchamber.”
“She won’t talk to me.” He twisted a fold of blanket between his fingers. “Whenever I try, she closes up like an oyster.”
Flo came to her feet. “Try harder. And while you’re at it, think about what you want the most, because more than a little compromise will be necessary. On both parts,” she added, leaning over to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Clare is a match for you in every way, including bullheaded obstinacy, and I only wish I could stay to watch the fireworks. But my garden needs tending, so I must go home. Besides, I am under strict orders not to tire you. You have my direction now and are welcome to visit any time you like.”
“I will, and soon,” he promised. “With Clare.”
“Nothing would please me more.” Flo gave him a sardonic glance from the door. “By the way, I stopped off at the Hothouse yesterday to see how things are going on. Rose told me you came by and that you were an arrogant, overbearing son of a bitch.”
“But you knew that already,” he said as she blew him a kiss and swept into the hall.
What a woman, he thought when the door closed behind her. If not for Florette, he’d never have met Clare. She knew exactly what she was about, bringing them together. Unfortunately, she’d left the rest up to him, and he had piled one mistake on top of another. Nearly died before having a chance to set things right.
The time for secrets was past, he resolved. Tonight, he would force Clare to tell him the truth about herself, and what she wanted, and why she left him.
With a groan, he reached for the bottle Mrs. Beales had sent, pulled out the cork, and managed to swallow a mouthful of the foul-t
asting brew. He was going to need a restorative and a great deal of luck when he next confronted his mistress.
His beloved, he corrected mentally. Damn it all, Rose had the right of things. He was arrogant and overbearing. He should be concerned with Clare’s needs, not his own.
As punishment, he swigged another draught from the bottle and lay back to plan a conciliatory, humble approach. Think of what you most want, Flo had told him. Hell, that was easy.
He wanted Clare.
CLARE SAW IMMEDIATELY that Bryn was stronger after his visit with Florette. Certainly in better humor. Even Dr. Winslow’s poking and prodding an hour later failed to nettle him, and for the first time he was permitted a dinner he could actually chew.
“A bit more wine will be acceptable,” the doctor had told her, and with some pleasure she carried a decanter of port to Bryn’s room that evening. He insisted she drink with him, and because she was overjoyed to see him doing so well, she agreed.
He sat up against the mahogany headboard, pillows stuffed behind his back, cradling his third glass of port.
“Who is Jeremy?” he asked suddenly.
Her gaze flew from the handkerchief she was embroidering to his face.
“I’ve begun remembering a few things,” he explained. “Not a great deal, but when I was unconscious I kept hearing your voice. Mostly I could not make out the words, although I’m certain you said that name many times. And another, which I cannot recall.”
“Joseph,” she said softly. “Jeremy and Joseph.”
“Ah.”
When he failed to speak again, she returned her attention to her embroidery, but the bear’s ear wound up rather a long way from its head. Flo had lectured her, harshly, about the need to tell Bryn the truth about herself. And she knew she must, but she didn’t know how to begin. Most of all, she worried that he would pity her because she had traded her body for the twins’ schooling. Or feel guilty because he took advantage of her desperation, even though he had no way of knowing what she was about.
