by Jaimey Grant
Then they were off, rocketing through the deserted city streets as if being pursued by Satan himself.
Adam paused outside the door to Bri’s room, stopping so suddenly Connor almost bumped into him. The marquess threw his friend a startled look that held a twinge of amusement and waited patiently for Adam to explain whatever freakish start now held him.
Prestwich looked back at Connor assessingly for a moment, a shadow crossing his chiseled features. His friend cocked an eyebrow inquiringly but said nothing.
“Before I let you through this door, I must demand absolute secrecy about the presence of the person in this room,” Adam finally uttered into the lengthening silence.
Connor nodded in agreement, his curiosity and the shiver of unease he suddenly felt hidden underneath a calm façade.
“Especially your wife. Verena can’t know,” Adam added emphatically, finally looking his friend in the eye, his hand poised above the door handle.
His eyebrows threatening to disappear into his hairline, Lord Connor agreed. Other than his initial look of surprise at the odd request, he was careful to conceal his feelings behind a serious tone and a bland expression.
Satisfied with his friend’s answer and demeanor of seriousness—Connor never gave his word lightly—Adam nodded and turned the handle on the door leading to his unwilling guest. “Follow me,” he said unnecessarily. His tone was resigned as if he would have much rather kept the countess’s presence a secret—which, of course, he wished with his whole heart were possible, but he knew, at this point, that it couldn’t be helped.
Adam gave his housekeeper a speaking glance. She bustled from the room, giving Lord Connor a friendly smile as she went.
“Bridgette?” Connor uttered in disbelief, keeping his voice low as he stared at the familiar face in the bed.
“Brianna, actually,” Adam replied helpfully, advancing a little further into the room. He shrugged and met Connor’s eyes, a half-smile twisting his lips at the look of bewilderment on the marquess’s face. “Well, to be completely accurate and strictly proper, my lady the Countess of Rothsmere,” he added dryly.
Shocked blue eyes met wry gray ones for a moment before swiveling back to the emaciated form in the huge four-poster. Connor shouldn’t have been as surprised as he felt at that moment. He distinctly recalled a certain thought he had had about Bri over a year ago. He had suspected even then that she was Quality.
“I assume you will explain,” replied Connor with a frown, his composure restored with the usual rapid recovery for which he was known. His voice held a note of unmistakable command seldom if ever heard in the easy-going young lord.
Adam responded to it the same way that he would have responded to anyone unwise enough to order him to do anything: “No.”
“I’m not giving you a choice, Adam” was the firm reply.
Connor stared at his friend and didn’t move from his place just inside the open door.
Adam remembered that look from when they were children. Connor rarely was serious but Adam Prestwich knew better than to simply ignore him when he was in such a mood. He wanted answers and when Lord Connor Northwicke wanted answers, that was exactly what he got—even if he had to use his fists to get them.
Despite Adam’s being taller and heavier, Connor was virtually unstoppable in a fist fight, as Adam had cause to know having seen any number of bullies bested by the younger—and often smaller—man. Adam could see he wouldn’t fare any better if he persisted in being stubborn.
Not that he was afraid of him.
“Very well,” Prestwich conceded grudgingly. “I will tell you if you help her and promise to keep quiet about everything.”
“Should I be insulted?” Connor asked with the ghost of a smile on his face. “You seem to have little faith in my discretion.”
“Devil take you, it isn’t that,” Adam retorted sharply. He searched for a reason for his unusually unguarded tongue. “If anyone finds out she’s here, she’d be compromised and I’d be forced to play the part of a gentleman and marry the chit,” he said in a low growl, praying his tone was convincing enough to throw Connor off.
“Why?” the marquess asked simply. “You could always let her face the scandal alone, you know.”
Adam stared at his best friend in genuine disbelief. “I think I’ve just been roundly insulted but you have a funny way of telling a man he’s less than a gentleman.”
Moving into the room, Connor stood beside the bed and looked down at the young woman who had posed as his wife’s abigail just over a year ago. It was amazing the change time and most likely unspeakable hardship had wrought.
Looking up at Adam who stood at the end of the bed, he inquired mildly, “And you trust your servants to keep such a delicious on dit to themselves? One of the wealthiest heiresses in the land pretending to be what she is not and residing under the roof of a suspected rake. I’m tempted to spread the word myself. Do you realize how popular I’d be with such a scandalous piece of gossip? I’d be feted and petted wherever I go.”
He was obviously teasing, but Adam had to suppress a desire to wipe the smile off his friend’s face with his fist. “Of course I trust my servants,” he replied instead, completely ignoring the rest of his friend’s words. “Every last one of them is loyal to me and knows it would be more than their lives are worth should they dare betray me. Besides, they are unaware of her true identity.”
“Would it be so bad to marry her?” Connor asked then, abruptly changing the subject back to what he felt was the true issue. “You have to get married sometime, you know.”
Connor turned away to prepare to examine the sleeping Bri and so he missed the flurry of emotions that flashed across Adam’s features. When he regained his composure, the older man offered nonchalantly, “I do? Whatever for? I can leave my wealth to whomever I deem worthy and I have no title to pass on.”
“Do you not?”
Chapter Three
Adam stared. Connor ignored his friend and rang for Mrs. Campion. Then he turned and explained, “It might be best to have a woman present.”
“What do you mean by that?” Prestwich finally snapped.
Easily following his friend’s train of thought, Connor retorted with a slight twinge of heat, “Just what I said: Do you or do you not you have a title to pass on? I realize the title of baronet is not much compared to a duke or a marquess or even a baron for that matter, but it is a title nevertheless and should be handed to someone worthy.” He paused, but not long enough for Adam to reply. “As it was to you,” Lord Connor concluded in a gentler tone.
“How the bloody hell did you find out?” Adam exploded right as the housekeeper made her entrance after a minor scratching on the door—a good servant never knocks.
She stopped in her tracks and looked from one gentleman to the other warily. A soft moan issued from the bed and Connor glanced at Bri quickly before returning his attention to Mrs. Campion. He bade her enter and put her at ease with a friendly smile. He explained quickly what he expected from her and she resumed her seat near the bed.
Connor swiftly and efficiently examined the countess in a very impersonal manner while Adam retreated to the peace and sanity of his library. He needed a drink, he thought even as he poured a stiff measure of brandy. He started to set the decanter back in the cupboard, hesitated, and then, after retrieving a bottle of port from the cabinet as well, carried both back with him to a cozy leather armchair by the fire. He placed the liquor on a table beside him within easy reach and quaffed the amber liquid already in his glass.
He refilled it, drank it down, and refilled it again before he finally started to relax. He sat with the glass in one hand and stared beyond the chair’s twin out into the lightening gray sky of early morning. God, how he wished this day was over. Or better yet, had never happened.
What the devil had ever possessed him to take up such a ridiculous hobby?
Even better question: How the devil had Connor discovered that he, Mr. Adam Prestw
ich, was in actuality Sir Adam Prestwich? A reluctant part of him had to admire his best friend. It wasn’t something the man just stumbled over. He must have had some sort of inkling and decided to investigate. With Adam’s own interest in discovering certain facts that were nigh impossible to uncover, he couldn’t help but be impressed by Connor’s triumph.
He just wished the bloody marquess had chosen a different…victim on which to practice his rapidly maturing sleuthing skills.
Adam had gone to a lot of trouble to bury the fact that he was a baronet. He sincerely believed that he didn’t deserve it no matter what Wellington and Prinny said about the issue. It was moot that he had no use for titles anyway. The power behind the aristocracy seemed to be blown all out of proportion with some of the highest titles in the land being held by greedy, vulgar, licentious, and sometimes downright evil men. He had no desire to be numbered among them.
His glass was filled a fourth time but this time he only sipped at it. He was tempted to empty the bottle and perhaps two or three more after that. Thinking about his title only made him think about his past and…her.
He shook his head as if to clear the thought from his mind. He would not think of the lying, greedy little witch. He would not!
He decided his military career, which had started out so promising, was the start of his real bitterness, and yes, even hatred in regard to the fair sex. Had he not begged Connor’s father, the Duke of Denbigh, to help him get into a good regiment, he would never have had to endure the pain of the past two years.
The war with Napoleon had escalated and Adam had a desire to see if he could help rid the peninsula of the Corsican monster. The duke was more than willing to assist him and confided to Adam that he wanted Connor to go as well. Connor had refused pointblank when asked, much to everyone’s astonishment. It was indeed odd that the bookish Adam was determined to go and the sport-loving Connor absolutely refused.
He had arrived in time to participate in the battle of Vitoria in 1813. That battle had more or less decided the fate of Napoleon. Wellington’s victory at Vitoria had rallied the Prussians and even contributed toward the reentry of Austria into the war against France.
Adam’s performance at Vitoria resulted in his promotion from lieutenant to major. By the time the battle of Toulouse ended and Napoleon was abdicated to the island of Elba, Adam had risen to the rank of colonel. That was a title of which he could be proud.
Being by now drunk enough to conveniently forget the difficult time between the time of Napoleon’s abdication in April 1814 and his subsequent escape in March of the following year, Adam thought about his injury at Quatre Bras. He wasn’t actually supposed to have been where he was at the time. His inner demons had driven him to stand anywhere on the field where he might die—which actually could have been anywhere.
As it turned out, Adam Prestwich was blessed—or cursed, from his viewpoint—with the luck of the devil. He was struck down, shrapnel lodging deep in his thigh. It ended up being a very minor wound. He had contracted the inevitable fever, however, and found himself on the next ship to England right after the battle of Waterloo and the end of Napoleon’s illustrious career. Even the fever neglected to kill him and spare him from the pain of living.
He was awarded the baronetcy for showing bravery on the field of battle. Bravery, hah! He was the veriest coward. He was only on the field praying for death and his plans had gone awry. Hence, his reason for refusing to acknowledge his title.
“Drowning your sorrows?” asked an amused voice from the now open door.
Adam shrugged. Well, he tried to. He was far more intoxicated than he had at first supposed. When he moved his shoulder in a gesture that was as natural to him as breathing, his head swam alarmingly and the whole room tilted.
He clapped a hand to his head to steady it. Unfortunately, it was the hand that held his half-empty glass. Brandy sloshed over the edge and down his black hair, down his unshaven cheek, and onto his white waistcoat. A few drops even managed to land on his buckskins.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered—slurred, rather. He glanced at the decanter beside him and realized it was empty. As was the bottle of port. Damn. When had that happened?
“Let me help, old man,” his friend said good-naturedly as he removed the glass from Adam’s hand and mopped up most of the mess with a large handkerchief. “I wager you haven’t slept in days.” He rang for Adam’s batman, Morris. The valet entered, took one look at his master, and groaned—loudly.
“The devil!” Prestwich ground out, much to the amusement of his friend and servant. He glared at both of them. “Get out!”
The valet was known for never speaking. The occasional sound would slip from between the man’s thin lips, but not very often. It seemed to suit Adam and Morris nicely to converse without actual words. Now the valet took Adam by the arm, heaved the much larger man out of the chair, and simply led him away.
Connor watched them leave with the same amused smile in his eyes. As soon as the door closed, however, the smile disappeared and what Connor Northwicke felt then was far from amusement. He hated the situation that Adam had embroiled him in and he hated even more lying to Verena. He was definitely not looking forward to the scene that would ensue when she found out. And find out, she would. It was inevitable.
The Countess of Rothsmere. Hers was an old and powerful family full of dukes, earls, and viscounts. Connor thought there was even a baron in there somewhere. He wondered what had caused her to run away from a revered title and riches beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. It had to have been quite bad. Connor wondered if Adam had considered this. He wondered if Adam would go through with returning her to her family. With Adam, one never really knew what he would decide.
Lord Connor walked over and reached into the cupboard by the desk, removed another bottle of brandy and poured himself a glass. He quaffed it, set the glass on the desk, and left the room.
He popped his head into the sickroom and murmured a few short orders to Mrs. Campion. Then, after a moment of indecision as to whether or not he should leave something for the massive hangover Adam was sure to have later in the day, Connor shook his head and left the third floor.
As he donned his despised hat—he hated hats, always had—his gloves, cloak, and took up his riding crop, Connor thanked God fervently that Verena had not accompanied him to Town this time. At least he had some time to prepare for the coming battle.
Chapter Four
Prestwich came awake with a pounding headache. His mouth felt like carpet and his stomach protested vociferously every time he moved so much as a hair. He wondered with a detached feeling if he was dying. It was quite the worst hangover he’d ever experienced.
He wondered why. Drink had never affected him so violently before. Then he remembered. When one neglected to eat and then filled that empty belly with spirits, it was like drinking twice the amount actually consumed. His brow furrowed. How could he have forgotten to eat?
And he had forgotten…all day, all night, and the entire day before. Blast! He forced his eyes open and blinked in the glare from the light streaming in the window facing his bed. Where was Morris? The man knew how Adam hated light when he felt so damned sick.
“Morris!” he bellowed.
That was stupid.
The shout reverberated through his head, threatening to crack his skull. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for death. Unfortunately, all he got in answer for his heartfelt prayer was wretchedly sick in the chamberpot next to his bed.
A few minutes later, he smelled the distinct aroma of coffee. He also smelled something sickeningly sweet and yet as putrid as the streets of London on a sultry summer day. It was familiar and he realized with a twinge of dread that it was Morris’s infallible cure for a hangover. It tasted as disgusting as it smelled and Adam did not look forward to taking it. He wished Connor had had the decency to leave something for him. But he knew his friend well enough to know that the marquess would think it would serve Adam right for ge
tting so tap-hackled. Morris’s cure was more punishment than relief.
The smell of the blasted stuff was making him want to cast up his non-existent accounts again. He wondered a trifle illogically if he would end his days by literally puking his guts out. Was it possible?
He found a glass shoved in his hand and had to swallow convulsively to avoid being sick again. Adam glared at his silent valet, who had the nerve to look back with a cheeky smile as if amused by his master’s imminent passing. As soon as the coffee cup was drained, Adam blessedly passed out again.
Two and a half hours later, Adam was feeling much better, once again sure that he would live. He was on his way to see his guest and find out how she was doing. He doubted very much that the fever had broken, but he wanted to see for himself that she was resting peacefully.
She was. In fact, she was sleeping so peacefully, a shiver of alarm snaked up his spine. Maybe she was dead. He approached silently and was relieved to see the subtle rising and falling of her chest beneath the blankets. A fire crackled merrily in the grate casting a warm glow over the room. The drapes were drawn to keep out the late afternoon sunlight. Mrs. Campion was dozing next to the bed.
The housekeeper came awake when Adam released the deep breath he’d had no idea he was holding. Stammering out apologies for having fallen asleep, she rose to her feet, bobbing a curtsy as she did so. Adam assured her that she needn’t worry about it.
“You are doing more than could be reasonably expected of you,” he said mildly. “Why don’t you appoint a maid to sit with her while she sleeps?”
The woman’s eyes grew worried for a moment. “I would, sir, but they are such flighty creatures. I feel more comfortable watching over her myself.”
“So be it,” her master replied with a shrug. He couldn’t recall having ever hired a flighty maid and he was sure his redoubtable housekeeper would not but he really couldn’t be worried about servant matters at the moment. “Has there been any change?”
