The Rebel

by C. J. Archer

  She gave him a wry smile. "I'm sure he does. So when will he be available? The sooner I can see him, the better."

  "I understand, Miss Appleby," Worth said with bland politeness. He did not suggest a meeting time. "I'll have your belongings brought to your room immediately. If you require anything, please do not hesitate to ring. Milly will bring you tea shortly."

  "Tea will be lovely. Thank you, Worth."

  He bowed smoothly. "If you will follow me, miss, I will see you to your room personally."

  She followed him up the grand staircase, past a series of portraits hung on the walls, mostly of people long dead judging by their historic clothing. Below her, the glorious crystal chandelier with its hundred or more candles dangled on long chains to illuminate the entrance hall. It must be spectacular when ablaze at night.

  The townhouse was magnificent, its situation on Mount Street highly prized. A most unlikely residence for the second son of an earl and a bachelor at that.

  "Did the house belong to Mr. Redcliff's late father?" she asked Worth.

  "It did not, miss. Mr. Redcliff's mother's father, the last Duke of Moreland, bequeathed it to him." He stopped at the end of a hall lined with more paintings, this time depicting the lush countryside, hounds and stiff-backed gentlemen.

  He opened a door and Georgiana entered a bedroom little bigger than a cupboard. It wouldn't be the house's best guest chamber, or even its second best. Indeed, Worth's own bedroom was likely to be bigger than the space allocated to her. The bed not only dominated the room, it filled it. Between the bed, wardrobe and dressing table there was little space to move about.

  Clearly her host did not want Georgiana to make herself too comfortable.

  "Mr. Redcliff regrets the...meagerness of the accommodation," Worth said with a hint of an apology in his otherwise flat tone. "The main bedchambers are soon to be occupied."

  "They are?" Her irritation at this news forced her words out in a rush. She'd told her employer she didn't want any obstacles during her stay. Guests were obstacles of the most inconvenient kind. She couldn't cure her patients with anyone peering over her shoulder.

  She eyed Worth who in turn watched her with guarded interest. Servants were different to guests. They were a necessity. The household couldn't expect to run without them, and run the household must if appearances were to be maintained. Loyal and discreet servants could prove useful if they were aware of the nature of her employment.

  "Do you know why I'm here, Worth?" she asked, removing her bonnet.

  "Yes, Miss Appleby. Sir Oswyn Crisp, Permanent Under-Secretary to the Foreign Office, has commissioned your services to return Mr. Redcliff to his full health." The way he said it left her in no doubt he knew she was there to do more than mend Mr. Redcliff's external wounds. Wounds which should be almost healed. What he thought of that, however, he kept to himself. The perfect servant.

  As Permanent Under-Secretary to the Foreign Office, Sir Oswyn Crisp reported to the Foreign Secretary, Lord Castlereagh. Although Castlereagh was the body of the Foreign Office, Crisp was its blood. It was he who managed the day-to-day operation of the department and as such it was he who'd posted Redcliff to Switzerland as a diplomat. The role had been a cover for his spying.

  Mr. Redcliff had directed much of the British government's secret operations from his base in Berne, sometimes taking a more active role when required. It was while he was in Switzerland that he incurred his physical injuries after an evening attending a ball. But something else must have happened that night. He claimed he took opium to help him sleep but Georgiana and Sir Oswyn Crisp suspected he took it to suppress the nightmares that were the only link to what had really occurred. Under the influence of opium, dreams could be directed, altered, to become whatever the dreamer wanted. So any event that was only being remembered through dreams could be conveniently stifled and forgotten.

  For some reason, Redcliff did not remember that night nor did he want anyone else to learn what had really transpired.

  "I've been informed that you shall be with us for as long as necessary." Worth looked about the cramped room again and cast her a sympathetic look. He must suspect her visit would not be a short one and he didn't approve the allocation of the small bedroom to her.

  A footman appeared at the door carrying Georgiana's valise and medical bag.

  "If there is nothing else, miss, I'll leave you now," Worth said as the footman deposited her luggage, bowed then left.

  She thanked the butler. No sooner had he too left than a maid arrived with tea and a plate of butter biscuits. The sturdy, milky-faced girl set the tray down on the table and curtsied. She looked about her, taking in the small room, the battered leather valise with the scuffed edges and its owner in one heavy-lidded gaze that failed to hide her curiosity. No doubt she was wondering how to treat someone like Georgiana who was neither lady nor mistress, guest nor servant.

  "Shall I unpack for you, miss?" she asked.

  "Thank you, yes." Georgiana sipped her tea as the maid placed her garments in the wardrobe. The girl worked in silence except for the occasional grunt. Of disapproval? She was probably more used to serving ladies with finer and more expensive tastes than Georgiana's.

  "Where would you like this box, miss?" the servant asked, holding up the small oak box Georgiana carried with her everywhere.

  "On the dressing table please."

  When she left, Georgiana carefully removed her loaded muff pistol from her reticule and buried it beneath a chemise in the second drawer of the wardrobe. She took up the oak box and checked that powder flask, balls, flints, bullet mould and turnscrew were all in order inside then hid it with the pistol. A woman could never be too careful, especially when sleeping under the same roof as strangers.

  With pistol and associated paraphernalia safely stowed, she squeezed between the mismatched pieces of furniture to get to the window. Her room looked out upon the roof of the neighboring house. Smoke billowed from a chimney and disappeared into the grey miasma that shrouded the city. She craned her neck to see if she could see anything else but the neighbor's roof was too big and her own window too small. Mr. Redcliff really didn't want her to grow too comfortable. She felt like the crazed relative from a Gothic novel, stashed in the attic and all but forgotten. All that was needed was a virginal girl dressed in a white nightgown to stumble upon her.

  With a sigh, she picked up her copy of Medicine and the Mind but couldn't concentrate so she put it down again. The portraits of her parents, carefully unpacked by the maid and placed on the dressing table, caught her eye. For a fleeting moment Georgiana thought she saw her physician father's image winking at her. But she blinked and there was no smile on his handsome face, just a serious expression he'd adopted for the picture. Strange really, since he had rarely looked so serious in life. The only acknowledgement of his eccentricity was the waistcoat lavishly embroidered with a floral pattern, the bottom of which emerged from beneath his coat like an overgrown garden bed. Even his hair which had always jutted out from his head as if he'd tugged on it had been smoothed down by the artist's brush.

  "Do you think Mr. Redcliff will be as difficult as this unenthusiastic beginning implies?" she asked his image. "I hope not. I can't afford to walk away from this one, Papa."

  He stared back at her, his dark eyes sparkling the way they always did when he was about to offer her advice. At a time like this, he would tell her to take charge of the situation.

  "You wouldn't hide away in this room and wait for your patient to be ready to be cured, would you?" she said to the portrait. "You would go and find him and make him see that we need to start immediately."

  Georgiana tenderly touched the picture, then opened the door and went in search of Mr. Redcliff. She hoped he wouldn't throw her out immediately. Indeed, the future of her career depended upon it. The fact he'd not done so already boded well.

  A maid directed her to his study in a part of the house that was as far away from Georgiana's room as possible. She
lifted a hand to knock when a deep, bland voice spoke from behind her, making her jump.

  "Mr. Redcliff does not wish to be disturbed," Worth said. She hadn't seen the butler's approach and for one irrational moment she wondered if he'd emerged through a wall like a spirit. He certainly looked the part. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth to stifle an unfortunate smile. She doubted Worth would see the humor.

  "I'll only be a moment," she told him.

  He stepped closer, dwarfing her. His hollow face watched her grimly. "I will let Mr. Redcliff know you wish to speak to him."

  She paused. She didn't want to begin on a sour note or place the butler in a difficult situation. "Thank you, Worth. I'll wait here."

  He didn't look altogether pleased that she wasn't going away. Nevertheless he lifted a hand to knock but before he could put fist to wood the door was suddenly wrenched open from the other side.

  A tall, broad shouldered and strikingly handsome gentleman filled the doorway. Striking in that his good looks hit her in the chest and stole her breath. Dark hair curling at the ends framed a strong, lean face. A wide mouth was saved from being overly generous by the sculptured, defined lips. The square jaw could have been hewn from marble and wouldn't look out of place on a classical statue. He was perfection, or he would have been if it wasn't for the slightly bent nose. It was as if someone's fist had nudged it. Knowing Redcliff's history the way she did, perhaps it had been damaged in a fight. But instead of marring his looks it made them more interesting and served to balance out the perfection which could be quite dull she'd always thought, particularly in a man.

  He must be Mr. Redcliff, her patient.

  "Worth, what the devil is—?" He never finished his sentence. Eyes the color of a wintry lake turned on Georgiana and a frown clouded his brow. The subtle shift of a few facial muscles stripped away his beauty. If a single look could kill, she'd have icicles as sharp as daggers protruding from her forehead. No, make that her entire body, for he swiftly took in every inch of her person from her brown hair to her best kid leather half-boots.

  It gave her a moment to inspect him in return. And that's when she saw the shadows dwelling beneath his eyes and cheeks, starkly offset against the grayish pallor of his skin. He also seemed to be holding himself still, to contain the nausea perhaps. Even with these tell-tale signs of an opium smoker, he was a breathtaking sight. Quite literally. Georgiana's lungs constricted. She made a conscious effort to breathe, and smile.

  "Miss Georgiana Appleby, sir," Worth said with unflappable civility.

  Mr. Redcliff raised one dark and imperious eyebrow at her. "You're the nursemaid?" A deep rumbling began low in his broad chest and she realized he was laughing. But the twisted grin that accompanied it was more gruesome than joyful. "He sent a little chit like you?" His disbelief was a common reaction, however few of her patients had ever stated it quite so baldly.

  "You were expecting someone else?" she asked.

  He looked her over again but he kept his face shuttered, closed. She had no idea what he saw, but she was quite sure he would not see the real Georgiana. That woman was well hidden beneath the brown cotton dress re-made from one her mother had worn years ago. "I was expecting someone...matronly," he said. His level gaze met hers once more. "You don't quite measure up."

  She touched her waist then promptly dropped her hand. As long as he was referring to her smallish size and nothing else then there was no cause for alarm. There was certainly no hint of desire in his eyes, nothing to indicate he saw beyond the old-fashioned dress and her uncurled hairstyle. Indeed there was no hint of anything at all.

  "I might not live up to your idea of a nursemaid," she said, "but that could be because I am not one. Sir Oswyn Crisp sent me to help in any way I can. I have experience—."

  "I know all about your experience." This last was said with a derisive lift of his top lip.

  Georgiana bit her own lip and fought down panic. He'd investigated her? For a man who had worked as a spy it was to be expected but still it made her blood pound in her ears and her throat tighten. It was bad enough that Sir Oswyn knew her secret and was using it against her but to have her patient know too could prove devastating. He too could use it—to get rid of her—and then where would she be?

  At Sir Oswyn's mercy. And he was a man without that commodity.

  Her reputation would be ruined, her career would perish and so would her livelihood. She could not afford to fail.

  "My reputation has preceded me?" she prompted, attempting as light a tone as she could given she felt so heavy all of a sudden. "Please tell me more, I'm intrigued." Intrigued to know how much he'd learned.

  He studied her in that unnerving, expressionless way. Did the man ever show emotion? "Your father was a physician who specialized in curing opium addicts. You followed in his footsteps and have had many successes in the last few years. You reside in Oxfordshire with a maid and have become known in medical circles as tenacious."

  She waited but he said nothing more. She breathed again. It would seem he didn't know anything further about her. Didn't know about the patient she'd lost thanks to her inability to leave emotions out of her work.

  She'd learned her lesson and hadn't once re-crossed that line. Nor would she again. Not that Sir Oswyn cared about her resolution, nor would anyone else if that devious little weasel leaked the story. They'd not see past her indiscretion—it was a rather large one and did tend to block one's view.

  All she had to do to keep the secret buried was fulfill this one contract. Sir Oswyn had been crystal clear about that.

  "May we speak, Mr. Redcliff?"

  He crossed his arms and somehow filled the space within the door frame even more. "Not now. I'm leaving."

  "Then perhaps we can discuss our...business on your way out. I'll be brief and I'm sure the servants will enjoy the entertainment."

  Redcliff's eyes narrowed and his shoulders squared but otherwise there was no sign that her words had disturbed him. She was beginning to think he would be perfectly content to have the entire household hear what she had to say.

  But then he nodded, so slightly she almost missed it. "Thank you, Worth, that will be all." The butler bowed and Redcliff moved aside.

  Georgiana stepped into his study. A mahogany desk stood near one of the large arched windows, its polished surface reigned over by a bronze bust of a Roman emperor wearing a crown of leaves. A gilt and bronze candlestick and writing implements surrounded sheets of paper that seemed to be organized into a disorderly mess from what she could see.

  The dark grain of the desk was in stark contrast to the white marble of the fireplace and the gilded circle of interlocked leaves painted on the ceiling. It was these feminine touches and the fact that the room was located on the second floor that led her to believe it had once been the bedchamber of the lady of the house. It overlooked Mount Street and the grand colonnaded residences opposite. The sunny spring afternoon had drawn elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen out of their houses and they strolled arm in arm or rode high on springy phaetons. How soothing it must be to see such splendid sights every day.

  "Don't concern yourself," he said, following her gaze. "No one out there will be able to see your face clearly enough to identify you."

  She frowned at him. "I'm not concerned for my reputation, Mr. Redcliff." Which of course was a lie. Her reputation was everything. Once that was lost, no one would trust her and without that trust, she had no career. It would not do to let Mr. Redcliff sense her fear, however. If he saw a single chink in her armor he would take the upper hand and render her impotent. To cure him she needed to be the stronger of the two, virtually indestructible.

  Ordinarily she would have brought her maid to London with her but Esme had come down with a rattling cough and was in no fit state to travel. Her illness had been a blow and Georgiana had tried to cancel her contract. That's when Sir Oswyn Crisp had informed her he would savage her reputation by leaking her secret—her terrible, fatal secret—
to those who might wish to employ her in the future.

  She couldn't refuse.

  But now that she stood in the presence of her disarmingly handsome patient, she wished she could walk away. The last time Esme stayed home, Georgiana had made the mistake that had resulted in her current precarious situation.

  "You may not be concerned for your reputation but I am concerned for mine," he said without a hint of humor. "Please sit, Miss Appleby, and let me explain the situation to you."

  The situation was as clear as crystal to Georgiana but she obliged him anyway and sat in one of the deep leather armchairs bracketing the fireplace. She had the disturbing feeling of being swallowed by the large piece of furniture. Redcliff sat on the stiff-backed chair at his desk, stretched out his long, elegant legs and crossed his ankles, looking every bit as if he was in charge of the situation.

  So she prodded the conversation into a different direction from the one he no doubt intended. "Your arm appears to move easily enough," she said, focusing on her work rather than the narrowed eyes that watched her every move. "Does it still hurt?"

  He rolled his right shoulder. "Not much."

  "And the gash at the back of your head?"

  "Is healing."

  "Good. So your memory has improved?"

  "No."

  A conversation with a stone would have been less one-sided. She preferred to ease them both into the new situation and get to know her patient a little first but Redcliff left her with no option but to confront him in the most direct way. "Since you are no longer in any great pain, there is no reason to continue to smoke opium is there?"

  He went very still again, as if bracing himself. Only a small muscle pulsed high in his cheek. The room suddenly felt cooler beneath that glacial stare. "I need it to help me sleep. I suffer from headaches and insomnia." His tone was as hard and flat as flint.

  "The headaches could be from the opium." Sir Oswyn had already informed her that Redcliff smoked the powder to help him sleep. A deep slumber meant no nightmares. Unlike most of her patients, Redcliff wasn't taking the opium to ease the pain of his injuries. Sir Oswyn had made that point clear. However, Redcliff was smoking it to ease another sort of pain. A pain that was far deeper, and far more difficult to heal than a physical one. Discovering and treating the source of it would hopefully cure his need for opium.