Scandal's Reward

by Jean R. Ewing

  “An hour and a half, Miss Hunter. Can you do it?”

  She nodded and, throwing up her chin, climbed aboard without assistance. She had no idea, when she awoke an hour later, how she had come to be asleep at all, let alone with her head on her companion’s lap. He had one arm around her, steadying her shoulders, and a fold of the fur cloak was cushioned under her hair against his thigh. The whip was set into its holder and he drove on with the reins in one hand. The other hand rested gently against her back.

  I must sit up, she told herself firmly. This is outside the bounds of anything that is suitable. Yet it felt so secure and safe to be cradled against that strong body. She was so warm under the leather wrap, arranged so that the wind should not disturb her. Without moving she watched the countryside pass by. Why did it all look so different? Suddenly she realized it was snowing.

  “When did the snow start?” she asked sleepily.

  “Just past Hungerford.”

  At the sound of his voice, she realized quite how compromising her position must appear to him, and she sat up. He did not, however, remove his arm from her shoulders. They were passing through the open hills of the Marlborough downs. The valley of the River Kennet that the road had followed for most of the journey had dropped away to their right. Flurries of snow stung her face as she looked about. Steadily the landscape was disappearing under a white blanket.

  “Go back to sleep, Kate,” Dagonet said. There was something in his voice that was indefinable. “I’ll wake you in time, before we enter the coach yard.”

  “I cannot think it quite the thing that I should be supported by your arm, sir.”

  “Why? Is it uncomfortable?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “Then I should think you have no grounds for objection. Without your presence to keep me awake, perhaps I should also tumble into sleep, even fall from the carriage, leaving the horses to run on unguided through the snow.”

  “I think you jest, sir.”

  “But you cannot be sure, can you?” His fingers had begun to stroke the back of her neck. “Come, you will be no use to Annie if you cannot hold yourself upright when we arrive.”

  With that, she gave in and put her head back on his thigh. She fell asleep once more to the delicious feeling of his long fingers gently brushing through her hair.

  * * * *

  The Rose and Crown commanded the premiere position in the main square in Marlborough. When the phaeton pulled up in its large courtyard, the inn was already bustling with the activities of the new day, although the light of dawn was several hours away. Instead there was a blaze of light from lanterns slung around the stone walls. The ostlers ran back and forth in a soup of slush from the falling snow. Horses nickered in anticipation as their grooms forked hay down into their stalls. No carriages were being prepared for departure. If this weather kept up, they were going to have a multitude of travelers staying on at the inn until it improved.

  Several of the stable lads looked up in astonishment as an extremely fashionable high-perch phaeton drawn by post horses entered through the narrow archway. A gentleman in a many-caped greatcoat instantly threw the reins to the nearest boy, and handed down a lady completely muffled in an expensive fur-lined cloak. Without a word, he ushered her inside and confronted the innkeeper, who hurried up to them.

  “Good morning, sir,” Dagonet said. “You will show us immediately to the room of Miss Annabella Hunter. This is her sister. I shall also require a private parlor, and an extra bedchamber.”

  Catherine caught a glimpse of her own pale face framed by a hall mirror. Black circles shadowed her eyes. She tried to smile at the innkeeper.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re here, ma’am, and that’s a fact,” the man said. “The chambermaid has sat with the little girl all night, but she’s right poorly. You look fair knackered out yourself.”

  “We have come from London,” Catherine said. “Please show us to her right away.”

  The innkeeper began to usher them up the stairs. “I don’t know as I can accommodate you as to the extra rooms, sir. We’re full up already. What with the storm, I figure many of the guests will be staying on an extra night or two. Truly there’s not a room to be had in the house.”

  “Then you will require some of those guests to move.” Dagonet slipped a sum of gold into the man’s hand. “I cannot believe that you cannot find at least one spare bedchamber.”

  “Why, thank you, sir! I’ll see what I can do.” With that he indicated a door at the end of the corridor.

  Catherine hurried in. Annie lay tossing and turning in a disordered bed at the side of the room. The only other furniture was a small couch, some stools, and a table with a pitcher and washbasin. Obviously the funds that her father had been able to provide for the journey had not stretched to the better rooms in the inn.

  A chambermaid rose at her entrance. “Oh, she’s right poorly, ma’am. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was to slip away at any minute.”

  It was apparent that the child was past recognizing them. Her breath was coming in thin gasps. The little room was insufferably hot, and Annie’s forehead blazed like a brazier to Catherine’s touch.

  Dagonet had come in behind her and was stripping off his coat and gloves. “You will bring me some clean snow in a bucket,” he snapped to the chambermaid. “And a pitcher of fresh drinking water from the well, but first I want it boiled for ten minutes. Also have sent up a small amount of fine sugar and some salt.”

  “Boiled water, sir?”

  “You heard me. Do it now!”

  As the chambermaid scurried to obey the imperious gentleman, he stepped to the window and threw wide the casement. Fresh snow-laden air flurried into the room for a moment, then he closed it again, leaving the merest crack to let in some outside air. The curtains at the bed protected Annie from any direct draught, and the room began instantly to become more comfortable.

  He joined Catherine at the bedside and felt Annie’s forehead and pulse. “The fever will burn out the disease, but it’s far too fierce. She will be consumed unless we can get her temperature down. She also needs liquids. Her lips are parched.”

  There was a rap at the door and the chambermaid entered with a jug of water and a bucket of snow. “I’ve kept her well wrapped up, sir, and starved her as best I might, though she cried pitifully for water.”

  Catherine thought that Dagonet would greet this sally with curses. But instead he said gently, “I’m sure you’re a good girl and did your best. Now bring us plenty of nice clean cloths and some coffee and breakfast for the lady.”

  The chambermaid hurried willingly away. Taking the boiled water, Dagonet mixed into it a small amount of sugar and salt and began to tip a few drops carefully between Annie’s lips. She gulped reflexively and he gave her some more.

  Catherine’s stamina had finally given way. Tears were coursing barely noticed down her cheeks as she held her little sister by the hand and tried to talk to her.

  “What can I do?” she asked Dagonet.

  “Just what you’re doing,” he replied quietly. “Don’t think that she cannot hear you speak to her.”

  “Why boil the water?” Catherine asked.

  “I have no idea. It seems to help. Perhaps the boiling purifies it, like the fever purifies the blood.”

  When Annie could drink no more, Dagonet dipped the cloths that the maid had brought into the now melted snow and began to sponge the child’s limbs. She whimpered and Catherine stroked the damp hair back from her hot forehead. They were interrupted by the chambermaid one more time when she brought in a tray laden with hot fresh rolls, buttered eggs and steaming jugs of chocolate and coffee.

  “I can’t eat!” Catherine protested.

  “Nevertheless, you will,” Dagonet stated. “You will take off your coat, wash your face and hands, and eat your breakfast. We must both keep our strength, and there is nothing more you can do right now for Annie.”

  She hesitated only a moment. Of course he was right.
Once she had eaten, indeed, she felt much better. Taking Dagonet’s place at the bedside, she insisted that he breakfast in turn.

  To her amazement, he first stripped to his shirt and plunged his head and hands into the cold water in the bucket. He straightened and went to the washstand for a towel. Water trickled over his fine linen shirt. Damp fabric cleaved lovingly to the firm muscles of his shoulders and spine. Catherine looked away. Preoccupied with Annie, not once had she given thought to him. He seemed invulnerable, but he had just driven through the night with no sleep at all as the snow coated his head and gloves. Prior to that, because of her impetuousness, he had been forced to crawl over the roofs of Whitechapel and fight off footpads.

  Meanwhile, she had done nothing but sit beside him in the carriage, her hands warmly wrapped in the robe, and then fall asleep on his lap. Nevertheless, when the innkeeper arrived to inform them that he had indeed discovered a vacant bedchamber, it was Catherine who found herself being put to bed there by the chambermaid, while Dagonet kept vigil beside Annie.

  She awoke in a daze. A bleak light streamed in at the window. Snow still fell steadily. It must be mid-morning or later. Hurriedly she climbed out of bed and dressed. Her room was only a few doors down the corridor from Annie’s. Catherine quietly opened the door and went in.

  Dagonet sat where she had left him. Annie’s little hand was grasped firmly in his long fingers. There didn’t seem to be much change. The child’s breathing still came in shallow gasps. Her face was flushed and beaded with sweat.

  “Is there any improvement?” Catherine asked quietly.

  Dagonet looked up at her. His face was shadowed. “No, not much. But no change for the worse. I think the crisis will be tonight. Are you rested?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Their conversation was as stiff and awkward as if they were total strangers. He had told her that he had learned to be a nurse on the battlefield. What terrible scenes had he witnessed there? She realized that all she had ever read of war in the newspapers were dashing tales of victory and glory. No doubt there was great courage and bravery, but at what price in suffering? She sat at the bedside. “Will you go and rest now?”

  He stood up. “Unfortunately, there is not another chamber for hire for any amount of gold. I can hardly use your room, dear Kate. That would offend the delicate sensibilities of our kind innkeeper and set tongues to wagging as surely as if you were there to share the bed with me.”

  She would not let him discompose her. “There is the couch, Mr. de Dagonet.” She indicated the small sofa that sat near the fire. “I shall take no offense, sir. You might be in need of your faculties later. Even you cannot go without sleep forever.”

  Without a word, he took a blanket from the dresser and lay back on the couch. In an instant, he was asleep. The dull light softened the chiseled features and wiped away the tension around the fine lips. Catherine watched his steady breathing. Countless women must have done so, she thought with a blush, in happier circumstances.

  One of his hands lay relaxed on the blanket. He has the most beautiful fingers, fine and strong: equally at home with a sword or a violin, on the reins of a horse or the body of a woman? Her color deepened at the thought, and she forced herself to look away. So he had enjoyed the favors of many lovers. Can I blame them? It’s no use at all, is it, Catherine Hunter? Whatever he has done and whoever he really is, I’m very much afraid that you’re in love, like some silly moonstruck milkmaid. Nothing would cause him more amusement. Even the vicar’s daughter is a conquest. He might even condescend to be kind, and I certainly couldn’t bear that.

  No, whatever else might happen between them, she would salvage her pride. He must never discover that a strange new emotion was tearing at her heart. As soon as Annie was out of danger, she would do her best to make sure that the fascinating Charles de Dagonet disappeared entirely from her life.

  Chapter 14

  Sir George Montagu was feeling particularly pleased with himself. Dashed if it wasn’t tough on a fellow to have his female relatives about! Now at last he had London to himself as far as family was concerned.

  Sister Charlotte had decided to travel down to Bath again with her ugly friend, Lady Pander. Why a respectable widow should want to gallivant around the country in the middle of winter, he had no idea. She was probably planning to curry up to old Lord Percy again. Well, good luck to her! Grandfather couldn’t stand her and never would.

  Charlotte’s absence also relieved George’s ears of any more tales about the late Mr. Clay, whose mediocre qualities had been so unexpectedly improved by his death.

  Meanwhile, poor old Mama would not stay on in London when she heard that Charlotte was planning to leave, nor would she go home to Exmoor without Miss Hunter. In fact, Lady Montagu had declared that she would never live in Lion Court again if she had to be alone there, and so had gone to visit an old friend in Essex.

  Thus George no longer had to make his daily duty visits to his mother and listen to her bemoaning the loss of her tiresome companion. He had always had the feeling that Miss Hunter had no respect for him, none at all, and that could be laid fair and square at the feet of cousin Dagonet. Damn the fellow! It was bad enough that Dagonet should laugh at him to his face, but to know that the vicar’s mousy daughter had witnessed his humiliation was beyond anything. It had even appeared that Dagonet was courting her. They had been dancing together that night at Lion Court; George was convinced of it. He couldn’t imagine why. She was certainly not pretty. George preferred his women with a little more meat and not half so clever.

  There was one place, though, that he had one over on his infamous cousin. George’s reputation for respectability was impeccable. Thus he had entrée to all the most exclusive rings of the marriage mart, including Almack’s: that ultimate arbiter of acceptability. And just last week by the lemonade table he had met Miss Ponsonby, slightly plump and very blond, adorably simple-minded and the possessor of a fortune worth ten thousand a year. He believed the impressionable Miss Ponsonby had smiled rather kindly upon him, and her mama obviously felt him to be a most eligible suitor. A respectable match like that would be a triumph over Dagonet. Miss Ponsonby would make a very good mistress for Lion Court.

  Not that George really cared that much about the place: ramshackle old building like that, needed knocking down and replacing with a nice modern structure. Nevertheless, the income from the estates was more than welcome, and it was very satisfying to know that it was going to be his and not Dagonet’s. Besides, there was a seat in Parliament that would fall to the owner of Lion Court soon enough, once old Cartwright were out of the way. And that would be a feather in his cap.

  Now, however, he had heard from a reliable source that Devil Dagonet had fled London to escape gaming debts, and that was the final cause of George’s smug expression. For as long as his dashing cousin remained in town, there was no telling when or how the black sheep of the family might suddenly choose to torment or humiliate George. It was a relief to have him gone.

  George thus felt perfectly safe as he returned from St. James’s Street. He was so amazed that he almost stumbled when he was accosted from the depths of a shadowed doorway.

  “Remember me, guv?”

  George peered at the fellow for a moment. An unpleasantly large and overbearing person with heavy features, certainly not a gentleman and a little the worse for drink, stood threateningly in the shadows.

  “I don’t believe I ever saw you in my life, my man. You will kindly allow me to pass.”

  The man stepped further into the light. “George Montagu, ain’t it? Sir George now, I should say.”

  He leered into George’s face, which burned as if he’d caught fire.

  “By God! John Catchpole! Dash me if I could recognize you for a moment there. It’s been — what? — seven years or more. Down on your luck, are you? Well, you’ll get no help from me.”

  “No help, eh? After what I done for you back then? No help?”

  “I don’t know what you
are talking about, my good man.”

  “I’m talking about Milly Trumble, that’s what I’m talking about. Pretty handy for you, poor Milly going down in the lake like that, wasn’t it?”

  George felt his color fluctuating from red to white. “You are rambling, sir. I know nothing of the matter. I wasn’t even at the lake. I know absolutely nothing.”

  “Know nothing! Know nothing! That’s what she said.”

  “She? Whatever do you mean?”

  “Why little Miss Hunter, that’s who I mean. And was it you who sent her?”

  The look that crossed George’s features gave John Catchpole an instant answer. The man laughed aloud and doffed his cap, before saying over his shoulder as he went striding off up the street. “Look to your back, Sir George! Better look to your back! You might be hearing again from a certain John Catchpole.”

  And the proud suitor of Miss Ponsonby was left standing, mouth agape, on the pavement. He was thunderstruck. Miss Hunter! What on earth had she got to do with the drowning of Millicent Trumble, with Dagonet, or with the stableman dismissed so long ago by his father, John Catchpole? And more to the point: how much did Mr. Catchpole know?

  * * * *

  George might have been equally amazed had he known how his name was to be shouted at the Rose and Crown in Marlborough. After a day with very little change, when Dagonet and Catherine had steadily nursed her through the fluctuating fever, Annie had woken enough to recognize them. Her eyes blazed like diamonds in her flushed face, and she sat up in bed and struggled against Catherine’s restraining hand. She was on the edge of delirium, and she demanded that only Dagonet should nurse her, she wanted Dagonet to give her a drink. When Catherine stepped back, however, with a silent appeal to that gentleman, Annie instantly demanded that Catherine mustn’t leave her, and she clung pitifully to her sister’s hand.