The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife

by J. Jade Jordan

  Relief weakened her knees to know the blood was seeping from his shoulder not his chest, though she was appalled at how much blood there was.

  It was the first time she’d shot any one and her nerves were fluttering madly about like a trapped bird’s wings. She put her hand to his heart. The powerful beat had her snatching it back as if scalded. He certainly was not dead or dying! Even so, she needed to get help for him.

  She pulled his coat closed to cover him before she raced from the room and flew down the stairs. It was lucky she was used to moving about in the dark because, apart from the faint glow of moonlight filtering in through the fanlight above the door in the hallway, it was total darkness.

  At the bottom, she was on her way toward the back of the house, when a loud snore, coming from the front hallway, stopped her. Startled, she peeked around the corner.

  Even in her distress, she had to smile. Foster, the old dear, was guarding the door. Sitting soldier-straight in a high-backed chair, he was bundled up with woolen hat and scarf against the night chill, his ancient blunderbuss across his lap. He was sound asleep. Not even the deafening gunshot that was still ringing in her ears had disturbed his deep slumber. In truth, his hearing was really very poor now, but still....

  She hated to wake him, but who else could help her? They were just the two of them in the house. They’d hired only Joseph, a small boy of uncertain age, though definitely no more than nine, to help Foster with the chores and do the running. But he went home at the end of the afternoon to his mother and younger brothers and sisters.

  She tiptoed nearer, carefully, fearful of waking him abruptly with that dangerous-looking contraption in his arms.

  “Foster,” she whispered loudly.

  No reaction.

  “Foster!” She raised her voice even louder. She patted his arm lightly.

  Still nothing.

  Grasping his shoulder, she shook him vigorously. This time, she shouted his name.

  “Heh? What?” He straightened and, before she knew it, had his weapon aimed at her. For an elderly man, he was quick to react!

  “It’s Tally!” She pushed the tip of the gun away. “I need your help.” She saw his rheumy eyes clearing as he wakened. “Quickly! I shot a burglar.”

  “What?” That jolted him awake. He looked around. “Where?”

  “In my room.” Tally headed for the stairs.

  “Eh? How did he get up there?” Foster hobbled stiffly along beside her and they started up the steps. “Ain’t nobody come by me.”

  “He climbed in the window.” Noticing him wince, she slowed down. Her heart ached to see how frail he looked. A puff of wind could knock him over! And how much help would he be if the intruder upstairs recovered enough to stand and fight?

  “He’s no burglar!” He wheezed and stopped to catch his breath. “I told ye. Someone is trying to kill you.”

  “Not that again!” She brushed the idea away with a wave of her hand. “Why would any body want to harm me? Who, in London, even knows I exist?”

  “I don’t know why, Miss Tally, but they’re after you, that’s for demmed sure.”

  Was he right? It had been easier to scoff at his notion that she was a target of foul play, before that man had crawled through her bedroom window.

  “Did ye kill him?” He took another step, a gleam of gleeful expectation in his sharp, aging eyes.

  “I hope not!” She ignored his snort of disapproval. “I hit him in the back of the shoulder, but he’s losing a lot of blood.”

  They reached the top of the stairs and were almost at the door to her room. Foster put his gun to his shoulder and, nudging her aside, shuffled ahead to enter first, determined to protect her.

  “Serve him right.” Foster muttered fiercely, stomping into the room. His head swiveled left and right. “Where is he?”

  “What do you mean?” Tally rushed forward. “He can’t have gone!” She peeked around Foster’s shoulder and gasped. The man was no longer there!

  Chapter Two

  Pure instinct had her spinning around to check behind the door. It’s where she’d have hidden to wait and attack the shooter, when he came through the door. She inhaled sharply. That was exactly where he was. Only he’d passed out and was lying slumped up against the wall. An empty candlestick holder lay beside his lifeless hand.

  Foster’s head would have suffered serious damage had the intruder succeeded in wielding it. She should have tied him up before going to get help.

  “There he is!” She exclaimed. “Behind the door!” She moved cautiously to the stranger’s side. “He must have regained consciousness and dragged himself…” She pointed to the floor. “Look at the trail of blood on the carpet.”

  Foster moved to stand beside her and was gawking at the intruder lying lifeless half on the floor, half propped up against the wall. “But Miss Tally, that there’s no thief.” He pointed an arthritic finger at the man. “He’s a gentleman. Look at his clothes!”

  Then he shook his head and, lifting the blunderbuss, growled, “Nah, he may be dressed fancy but a real gentleman don’t go climbing in a young lady’s window.”

  “I agree.” She quickly searched for a reasonable explanation, before Foster took it into his head to use his ancient but deadly weapon on the stranger.

  “He might have been looking for the previous tenant.” Seeing his doubtful look, she tried another idea. “Or he might have planned a secret tryst with some woman and mistook the house.”

  Foster snorted his incredulity.

  She explained further, “you know there are several of our neighbors who seem a little questionable.” To herself she added, and that’s probably what they’re saying about you too, staying here in this house with no companion.

  The area they were living in was less fashionable than Mayfair, it was true, but until now it had seemed respectable, though still almost deserted leading up to the Season.

  “Take the widow from Number 18, on the corner. There are a lot of comings and goings at all hours there.”

  “Miss Tally!” Foster looked discomfited to discover she was no longer an oblivious, green girl.

  “He might have been trying to surprise his mistress or was spying on her because he …” she tailed off. With Foster itching to shoot the man, it was best not to mention where her imagination was taking her. She kept her hand firmly anchored on Foster’s gun to prevent him from pointing it at the intruder.

  Her feisty factotum appeared to be relenting, and she was about to remove her hand from the gun, when he said, “Hmmm... mebbe so, but a refined man knocks at the door. He doesn’t climb in the window.”

  “Perhaps he does if he wants to avoid an angry husband.”

  “Missy!” His outrage came more from her stating the obvious, than from anything else. Nevertheless, she stepped in front of the blunderbuss to block his aim.

  She leaned down to bring the lamp closer and pulled back the unconscious man’s coat for Foster to see the wound.

  “Blast his eyes!” the old man exclaimed. “The man was set to ravish you! Look at him, bare chest and all.”

  “No, no. I did that.”

  At his shocked look, she quickly explained, “I was searching for the wound. The blood was all over his chest and I wanted to stop it.” She twisted her hands in anguish. “I was afraid I had killed him!” Glancing down, she shuddered. Her hands were covered in blood. She gulped back her dismay. “When I saw it was coming from the back of his shoulder, I came to get you to help me. We’ll need to cut his coat off so we can stanch the blood. But first, let us move him out of my room, then, we can call a doctor.”

  “Never!” Foster blustered. “I say we toss him out onto the street. Gentleman or not, any man who tries to force himself on a lady deserves nothing better.”

  “Perhaps, but we have no way of knowing if that’s what he intended and I won’t put an unconscious, and possibly innocent...” His ferocious look made her hesitate, “... maybe not so innocent… man on the
street to be preyed upon by vermin of any kind.”

  “You’re too kind-hearted, Missy.” He paused. Something had occurred to him. “‘Sides, if ye summon help, that’ll cause talk.”

  “I never thought of that.” It was also a good reason for stopping Foster from using his weapon. “Which is why you can’t shoot him. A second gunshot would bring the authorities to our door for sure. We’re lucky no one has come to inquire already.”

  “This is London, Missy,” Foster sniffed disdainfully, “the big city. No one cares what happens to his neighbors.” In a doleful voice, he added, “a man could die and no one would help.”

  He leaned the gun against the wall and began to remove the intruder’s great coat.

  Tally breathed more freely and bent to help him. Once they had it off, Foster leaned down to pull an evil-looking knife from his boot to cut away the man’s sleeve.

  Shaking her head at how prepared her retainer was, she said, “First we need to bandage the wound to stop the blood from dripping all over the carpet. We can’t afford to replace this beautiful Axminster carpet.”

  Much to her butler’s dismay, she helped him strip the man’s torso down to the skin. While Foster went to get some cloths to use as bandages, Tally remained on her knees beside the unconscious intruder. Her hand hovered over his smooth, tanned skin, itching to sculpt it, to touch it. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed when Foster returned before she could give in to that impulse.

  “I’ve been thinking.” She stood and began walking purposefully toward the door. “Why not just tie his shirt around the wound, for now, and you can bandage it once we move him into the room across the hall, so we don’t open it while carrying him there.”

  “You want to put him in a room!” Foster shouted, as she left to go light a lamp in the other room. “If ye won’t throw him out,” he continued loudly, “we can just lock him up in the coal cellar ‘til morning.”

  “I’ll not be responsible,” she called back, “for any man perishing of gangrene because I shot him.” No matter who he was, she didn’t believe he deserved such a fate.

  Besides, she needed to know why he’d broken in.

  He didn’t look like any thief she’d ever imagined and she was having a hard time wrenching her eyes away from his striking features. Using her usual frame of reference, she searched for some painting he made her think of, but he resembled none other. Every time she glanced at him, her artist’s eye was picturing him on canvas.

  No, no ordinary crook looked like this. Those black eyebrows and high cheek bones. Her gaze slid down to view his muscled arms and thighs. His body reminded her of one of Michelangelo’s “Unfinished Captives”. How she longed to capture–

  Heat flooded her face, her whole body. Here she was wasting time admiring this … this prowler!

  “He’s too heavy for us to carry.” She yanked a folded blanket from the foot of the bed. “We’ll use this to pull him across the floor like I do with my heavier canvases.” She placed the cover alongside him and they rolled him onto it. “We’ll both stand here and, together, we should be able to drag him across the hallway.” She indicated the end of the blanket nearest to the door.

  Before lifting the blanket, she bent to straighten his head. “Goodness, there’s a lump on his head the size of an egg! No wonder he hasn’t awakened. He must have hit his head on something when he dived to avoid the shot.” She glanced around and pointed at a huge, wooden tallboy. “On the foot of the dresser, most likely.”

  “Good! He got his just desserts.” Foster was clearly not in a forgiving mood. “If he dies, Missy, I’ll dig a hole in the backyard and bury him like the scum he is.” Her loyal butler stood at the end of the blanket, a fierce frown on his face. “But if he dares wake up, I have some questions I want answered.”

  Standing, she leaned down to grasp the cover with both hands and they began tugging, half-carrying, half-dragging the man’s motionless body toward the door. They made it across the hall and managed to lift him onto the bed in the guest room. By then, they were both gasping for air.

  “Now, I’m almost hoping he doesn’t die, Miss Tally, or we’ll have to carry his body down to the back yard to bury.” Still breathing heavily, Foster went to get a fire started in the fireplace. “Or p’raps we’ll just heave him out the window.”

  Tally pushed the stranger’s hair back, away from his eyes. He had a nice face. He must smile a lot. She stepped back. What was she thinking! His unconsciousness had made her drop her guard. She knew she should back further away, but was too intrigued to do so.

  She noted laugh crinkles at the corner of his eyes and thought he might have a dimple in his left cheek. Despite his rough appearance, his face had a certain refinement to it, with his aquiline nose and high forehead. Her gaze moved down lightly over his bristly chin. Hmm, not good. He had a stubborn-looking chin. He wouldn’t be pleased to learn he’d been shot by a woman.

  “There,” Foster grumbled, “now are ye satisfied you’ve made this here criminal nice and comfie?” He slowly rose from his knees. The fire crackled cheerfully, making the room seem warmer. “He won’t never be comfortable again if I find out he was climbing in to harm you, Missy. He’ll be in a cold cell or, better still, in a colder grave.”

  “Don’t say that! It gives me the shivers.” She hated thinking of this fine-looking man behind bars… or worse, dead. She still hoped this was all a harmless mistake.

  She cleaned his wound and the man didn’t flinch. She’d done this often for her brothers when they injured themselves while sculpting, and was fairly proficient at it. Still, she’d never had to clean a gunshot wound before, and certainly not one she herself had inflicted!

  “Aw, it’s nothing but a flesh wound. The ball only grazed him, Missy.” Foster seemed disappointed it wasn’t worse. “Sure bled enough for such a piddling injury.”

  Now he was laying it on a mite too thick. The ball had gone deep enough that the wound would smart for quite awhile. Foster was just trying to make her feel better.

  She was thankful it wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. She closed the bottle of iodine. “There. That should do it.” She moved away to let Foster take her place beside the intruder. “Now, you can bandage it.”

  Watching Foster expertly bandage the wound, she said, “I think we should give him some laudanum.” For two purposes, she figured, though she only mentioned one. “He’s going to have a very sore head … and shoulder when he wakes.”

  “Yeh. I ‘spose we might tie him down, but a strong dose of opium should do the trick. When my arthritis is acting up, it puts me right to sleep. If we give him enough, it’ll be sure to knock him out for the night, in case he wakes up and gets it in mind to kill us in our sleep.”

  Ah… her second reason. She might have known Foster would think of it too. It did seem safer. Valiant though her dear protector was, he was no longer young. He had a tendency to nod off and it took nothing short of a cannon shot to rouse him.

  “Look Missy, see what I found in his pocket.”

  “A watch?” She took it from Foster. “Gold. An old family heirloom, do you think?” She turned it over. “Maybe there’s a name on it.” She moved it into the light and scanned the timepiece for identifying marks.

  “Here.” She rubbed the spot to see it better. “It’s almost worn off... I think I see an ‘R’... then an ‘e’... not sure about this next one... and the last one looks like a ‘d’. I suppose it must be ‘Reed’. I can’t think of any other man’s name with those letters, can you?” She looked up for his response, but he simply shrugged. “I’m not sure if the family name starts with a ‘G’ or not. Next, may be an ‘o’ or an ‘a’, then a space where the letter is gone, followed by a ‘d’ and… is that an ‘n’? It could be ‘Gordon’, I suppose. Common enough name.” She looked over at Foster. “Do you recognize the name Reed Gordon?”

  “No, but if he’s a burglar, then it need not be his real name. He might have stolen the watch from som
ebody else.”

  He had a point, but somehow, she was not so sure the intruder was a thief. But better that than the other. She fervently hoped he hadn’t been coming in to harm her. She didn’t want to think such bad thoughts about him.

  “Gordon?” She wished she’d paid more attention to Great Aunt Ida, who had tried to instill in her the importance of learning ton names. It sounded like a name she should know something about.

  Gazing down into the intruder’s attractive, yet eerily still face, she said, “If Mr. Gordon…” she ignored Foster’s grunt at her use of the name, but she was determined to hold onto the possibility of the intruder being innocent of thieving—or worse! “hasn’t recovered his senses by tomorrow midday, we will have to find a physician.” She heard her own reluctance in every word.

  “And what d’ye think he’ll do to bring this piece of slime back? No doubt, he’ll insist on bleeding the blighter, and any one can see he’s already lost enough blood.”

  She bit back a laugh. Foster was having trouble making up his mind whether to kill the man or pity him. She sympathized with his dilemma. Still, they couldn’t keep an unconscious man here indefinitely.

  “The physician is going to wonder who the man is and why he’s been shot, Missy. What are you going to tell him?”

  A good question. She hadn’t considered how it would appear to others. “The main problem is the bump on his head. The gunshot wound bled a lot, but really only grazed his skin.” She repeated his comforting words. “We’ve done all any body can do for it, haven’t we?”

  He nodded.

  “So then, we don’t have to mention it, do we?” It was just starting to occur to her the muddle she was involved in now. She was unmarried and alone. Keeping this man here overnight was highly improper.

  “We’ll both be in trouble if the doc discovers it. He might tell the authorities. And if it ever gets out that there’s a man, a stranger, staying here, suffering from a gunshot wound, it’ll be the ruin of ye, Miss Tally.” He glared down at the unconscious man. “When he comes to, if he comes to, I’m going to have a talk with this so-called gentleman. I want to know if he intended to ravish you, kill you, or if he simply amuses himself by climbing into young ladies’ rooms and ruining their good names!”