by Danice Allen
“I’m not sure,” the doctor answered seriously. “But it certainly doesn’t help matters. Your husband has a concussion, and there may be complications.”
A shiver of fear raced down Amanda’s spine. “What sort of complications?”
“I will speak plainly. There might be pressure on the brain due to internal bleeding, which could cause him to sink into a coma.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Amanda, horrified.
“I only said it might, m’dear. I want you to be prepared for the worst, though I am by no means convinced that such a calamity will befall your husband.” The doctor scanned the man’s reposing figure with a keen eye. “He seems in remarkably fine fettle. How old is he?”
“Er … thirty, sir.” Amanda hoped she was estimating close to the gentleman’s actual age and watched for the doctor’s reaction. He nodded, seeming to accept the calculated guess.
“Young. Still young. Indeed, I suspect he will recover very well, with the possibility of some short-term thought impairment. However, I suspect you are in for a tiring and very worrisome night, m’dear.”
“What can you mean, doctor?” Amanda asked anxiously. “He does nothing but lie there!”
“He might spike a fever—get restless and delirious. If he does, you must sponge him off repeatedly with a cloth dipped in vinegar water. Strip him down to nothing, and don’t encumber the poor fellow with bedclothes, not even a sheet. Fevers are best managed by lowering the temperature of the skin. Feed him barley water when you can get him to take it, and generally do whatever you can to make him comfortable.”
“Yes, doctor.” Amanda blushed as she thought about what she might have to do to save this stranger’s life.
As the doctor bent to pick up his scuffed leather bag, more than embarrassment overcame Amanda. For the first time in her life, sheer terror and panic gripped her. Unable to stop herself, Amanda grabbed the doctor’s coat sleeve and said beseechingly, “Must you go? I don’t know if I can manage him alone. He’s very strong and … and … large. What if I should do something wrong?”
The doctor smiled and patted Amanda’s hand. “There’s probably not another person on earth who can manage him as well as you, m’dear. Speak to him soothingly, affectionately. Your familiar voice and touch will calm him. And I’ve complete confidence in your nursing skills. There’s nothing you can do wrong. Just keep his fever down as best you can, say your prayers, and I’ll see you first thing in the morning.”
It seemed too late to admit that she was not the injured gentleman’s loving wife; explanations would be lengthy, confusing, and suspicious. And Amanda knew that though she wasn’t the ideal nurse the doctor thought she was, there was probably no one in the house who could do a better job. Besides, though it was certainly an accident and the gentleman was partly to blame, Amanda felt responsible for his current state of injury. She truly didn’t want him to die.
And beyond all these perfectly logical reasons to continue to masquerade as the stranger’s wife, Amanda finally had to admit to herself that she … well … enjoyed the masquerade. She liked being thought of as this attractive man’s better half… someone whose voice and presence while he was sick would be his best medicine. She felt special, needed. She felt like a beloved wife, something she might never be….
The doctor left and Amanda ate a dinner of cold meat, hot soup and crusty bread in the room, ordered a cot to sleep on, washed her face, and brushed out her hair, all the while waiting in dread for the man to suddenly start thrashing about and mumbling incoherently. But he did nothing of the sort; just as before, he simply lay there. She tested his temperature every few minutes but discovered no fever.
At nine o’clock there was a knock at the door, and Amanda opened it to Theo. “I thought you’d retired for the night, Theo,” she said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get you a room inside the inn, but—”
“Thank you, miss, but I couldn’t care less where I sleep,” said Theo, glancing past Amanda into the room. His eyes fastened on the stranger in the bed, and he frowned. “But I’m troubled about yer sleepin’ arrangements.”
Amanda sighed and turned to look at the man, too, his dark head and broad, bare shoulders showing above the coverlets like an ancient bust of a Roman warrior. “It can’t be helped, Theo. I feel responsible for him, and now that I’ve fibbed to Mrs. Beane and Dr. Bledsoe, I can’t very well recant my story about being the gentleman’s wife.”
“But what will you do when he wakes up, miss?”
“I’ll tell him the truth, then find out how I can contact some member of his family. I only hope he does wake up. The doctor said ’tis possible that he may fall into a coma … if he hasn’t already done so,” she added glumly.
“Why don’t you let me stay with the gent tonight, miss?”
“It would look so strange, Theo, I dare not. Besides, I want to stay with him. I’m worried about him. Since I got his clothes off”—Amanda paused as both she and Theo averted their eyes—”he’s been very little trouble. The doctor said I might expect him to spike a fever and become restless, but I’m beginning to doubt that will ever happen. I’d be relieved if he did thrash about a bit. It would be a sign of life and spirit.”
“It’d be a fine kettle of fish if’n he turned up ’is toes, wouldn’t it, miss?” Theo said dourly. “He looks as though he’s laid out fer burial already, bein’ flat on ’is back like that and not movin’ a muscle. What would we do with the body? We couldn’t very well bury him without alertin’ the constable ’bout the accident and seein’ if they could identify the bloke.”
Amanda felt ill at the mention of bodies and burials. “Don’t talk so, Theo. Should the gentleman die, our troubles would be the least to be concerned about. He’s too young to die!”
“Now, don’t go gettin’ sentimental ’bout the gent, miss,” cautioned Theo. “You don’t know ’im from Adam. And he looks like a rogue t’ me!”
“And don’t you go gettin’ mother-hennish,” Amanda returned with a raised brow. “I daresay rogues come in all shapes and sizes. For all we know, this fellow might be a bishop of the church on holiday.”
“And pigs kin fly,” Theo muttered, clearly disbelieving.
Amanda clicked her tongue. “Go to bed and get some sleep. Perhaps we’ll be able to travel on the morrow, and I want you fresh for the trip.”
Theo grudgingly obeyed, and Amanda watched him walk slowly down the hall, looking peevishly over his shoulder at her only three times. Despite her brave, calm front to Theo, Amanda felt more than a twinge of fear as she finally shut the door. She had just sent away her last hope of rescue from what could prove to be a dreadful night.
She walked to the bed and gazed down at the man. In repose, his features had an almost angelic, boyish aspect. She felt his forehead again and took his pulse. He felt cool, and his heartbeat was fast but only moderately so.
She sat down in the rocking chair near the fire, unfolded a warm quilt over her lap, and wrapped it around her feet. A single candle burned on a bedside table, softly illuminating the man’s face in a golden glow as he rested against the pillows, his hair gleaming blue-black against the pale casing.
Amanda began to gently rock, her mind busily speculating about the stranger she’d nearly trampled with her coach-and-four. She wondered what his real name was, if he was indeed titled, where he lived, why he was alone and inebriated on that deserted stretch of highway, and—most of all—whether or not a woman waited and worried at his absence.
She shook her head and smiled wryly. Maybe Theo was right. Maybe he was a rogue, a womanizer, a charming wastrel with a checkered past that included a string of broken hearts he was ruthlessly responsible for.
However, even if he weren’t a rogue or something similarly shocking, it wasn’t difficult to imagine such a gentleman’s disappearance causing a fair share of female histrionics.
“What do you mean he’s disappeared? He can’t have disappeared! What’s a wedding without a groom! Well, I’ll tell you … it’
s a social disaster, that’s what it is!”
Inside the drawing room of the great white mansion on Great Stanhope Street, a plentitude of candles illuminated the pale, pained, pinched faces of two handsomely attired females and two dashing gentlemen.
By the aspect of each player in what was apparently a tragedy of Greek proportions, a plump, middle-aged lady in puce silk, reclining on a chaise longue with a vinaigrette tucked under her nose, held center stage. But one of the players, a very tall gentleman, stood in the shadows near the door. He’d entered after declining to be announced and was secretly observing the play.
“Oh, this is just like Jackson Montgomery,” Lady Batsford wailed, plaintively clutching a handkerchief sprinkled with a medicinal dose of lavender water to her ample bosom. “He’s always been such a scapegrace, I wonder your papa allowed him to court you, Charlotte, dear!”
“Now see here, Theodora,” blustered Sir Thomas Batsford, abandoning his usual spot near the fireplace where he could lean against the mantel and smoke to his heart’s content. “Everyone in this room can testify to the fact the you’ve been pushing for this match since our little gel peeked her pert nose out of the schoolroom. She wasn’t but thirteen when you ordered come-out gowns from Madame Simone and dancing lessons from that chitty-faced caper merchant André … somebody-or-other! And it was all done with designs on Jackson Montgomery!”
Lady Batsford’s eyes bulged and her chest heaved as she absorbed the blow of her husband’s betrayal. “Thomas, how can you talk so to me? Have you no consideration for my shattered nerves?” she demanded in a voice quivering with indignation. “How dare you imply that this dreadful fiasco is my fault!”
“If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine,” said a contrite Robert Hamilton from his seat beside Charlotte on the striped damask sofa. He held her hand and chafed it gently between his two. “I should have kept my eyes clapped on ’im the whole night! But I only stepped into the kitchen for a bite, you see, and next thing I knew, he’d vanished! We scoured the area for miles but came up with nothing!”
“You mustn’t blame yourself, Robbie,” said Charlotte, looking pale and worried but showing more composure than the lot of them together. “You couldn’t have expected him to wander away.”
“If that’s what he did,” mumbled Lady Batsford under her breath.
Charlotte straightened her spine, and her eyes sparked as she faced her mother. “Mama, I certainly hope you are not implying that Jack is deliberately avoiding the wedding with some sort of … cruel trick,” she said quietly but with a thread of steel in her voice. “He’s full of fun and mischief, I will allow, but he’d never do such a thing.”
“Right you are, Char,” Rob joined in bracingly. “No need to besmirch Jack’s character. I know better than anyone what he’s capable of. He’s known for his rigs and rows, but he’d never jilt Charlotte … even if he were—”
Everyone turned and stared expectantly at Rob. Seeming to realize that he’d said too much, he looked sheepish and clamped his lips tightly together.
“Even if he were what, Robbie?” asked Charlotte.
Julian decided it was time to make his presence known. Moving soundlessly, he positioned himself behind the sofa and spoke before anyone even knew he was there.
“I’m sure Robert is too embarrassed to finish the sentence,” he began, enjoying the jerks of surprise occasioned by his phantomlike appearance. “No doubt his sentence would go thusly … ‘Jack would never jilt Charlotte even if he were as soused as a pickle.’ I had understood that Jack was staying at the Royal Pavilion. After spending the day with Prinny and our regent’s profligate court, I’ve no doubt my little brother was inebriated. Am I correct, Rob?”
“Dash it, Lord Serling, why are you always creeping up on a person?” Robert complained as he stood up and turned to face Julian.
“You sent for me, did you not?” Julian inquired with an assumption of mild surprise. “You left word at White’s that I was to join you as soon as possible at the Batsford’s.”
“I’m astonished that you came, my lord,” Rob admitted with a touch of surliness.
Julian raised a haughty brow. “I wouldn’t have … except that you mentioned my brother’s name in connection with some sort of calamity, and since I have a familial partiality for the harem-scarem fellow, I couldn’t very well ignore the summons, now could I?”
Julian lifted his quizzing glass and stared down from his great height till Rob was obliged to fidget and look away. Satisfied, Julian extracted a delicately worked snuff box from a coat pocket and took a sniff. He knew Jack owed his life to Robert Hamilton, and for that reason alone did Julian tolerate the encroaching mushroom.
Rob was a social climber, a rattle, and was addicted to every sort of intemperate wagering … with disastrous results. He owed a small fortune to the duns, which his modest allowance from an obscure and mysterious “uncle” in Yorkshire couldn’t even begin to touch. Naturally, none of these attributes recommended him to Julian’s fastidious tastes. And he suspected that those weren’t the worst of Rob’s defects. He had an idea the man was basically corrupt. He just needed proof. The little sod had been imposing on his brother’s good nature too long.
“I have ascertained a great deal already, but why don’t you tell me what happened, Rob?” said Julian, folding his arms across his chest, standing with his feet slightly spread. “Bore me with every detail, if you please.”
When Rob was finished, Charlotte said, “Oh, Lord Serling, isn’t it a dreadful business?” She looked up at Julian with a sincerely despairing expression in her soft green eyes, which were a lovely complement to her auburn hair. “What can have happened to him? I’m so afraid he’s met with … foul play!” Her voice trembled on those last words, and her eyes grew misty.
Julian was touched. Though he disapproved of many of Jack’s actions, his younger brother’s engagement to Charlotte Batsford was a delightful surprise. Despite the appalling example her mother set her and the ineffective blusters of her father in trying to control his domineering wife, Charlotte Batsford was a female in possession of some fine qualities.
Before Charlotte, Julian had watched with tried patience as Jack lost his impetuous heart and squandered his money on a dozen ladybirds in half as many years. He refused to take a lesson from his older brother and conduct his affaires d’amour with dignity and discretion. Jack used to laugh and accuse Julian of being a block of English ice. Then he’d clap his brother on the back and offer to buy him a brew.
In the war, Jack had been a courageous officer, never asking the enlisted men he commanded to do anything he wouldn’t do himself. He was sent home from the peninsula when he received a serious injury to his right knee. It took him several months to walk without a cane, and even now, he sometimes limped when he was tired or overtaxed.
Jack was generous to a fault, fond of practical jokes, and addicted to flirting. But above all, he was just and honorable.
In looks, as well as in many facets of their personalities, Julian and Jack were as proverbially different as night and day. Julian was as fair-haired as a Viking, and Jack was as swarthy and dark-haired as a gypsy. But they were as loyal to each other as two brothers could possibly be. Affection for Jack ran deep and powerful beneath the placid surface of Julian’s elegant facade, and he resented Lady Batsford’s insinuation that Jack was ducking his duty and putting them all in a fret just to avoid the nuptial knot.
Julian knew Rob had been about to imply—with that adroitly delivered unfinished sentence—that Jack was regretting his betrothal. Self-interest was involved here … he was sure of it. Rob wanted Charlotte for himself, though why he supposed she’d ever have him or her parents would ever allow her to marry such a worthless fellow was beyond Julian’s comprehension,
Maybe Jack did regret his betrothal. Maybe he had admitted as much to Rob. But as Julian said himself, Jack wouldn’t jilt Charlotte even if he were as soused as a pickle. Like Charlotte, Julian very much feared that J
ack had met with foul play … or some sort of unforeseen misfortune. It was the only explanation for his strange disappearance.
“I won’t trifle with your feelings and offend your intelligence, Miss Batsford, by telling you not to worry,” said Julian. “We have every reason to worry.”
Charlotte grew more pale, and a single tear escaped the comer of her eye. Embarrassed, she turned away and surreptitiously used her handkerchief to wipe away the evidence of her distress. Julian liked her better for trying to control her emotions. He detested female watering pots. It was plain that Charlotte’s grief, though restrained, was absolutely genuine.
“Why frighten the girl, Serling?” said Rob through gritted teeth, throwing Julian an accusing glare as he sat down beside Charlotte and reclaimed her hand. “I’m sure Jack will turn up,” he told her soothingly. “He’s like a bad penny, you know,” he added, in an attempt to lighten the mood.
Charlotte tried to smile at Rob’s witticism, but her gaze lifted to Julian’s face. “You say we have reason to worry, my lord … but might I at least hope that all will be well in the end?”
Julian smiled, the warmth of his approval meant for Charlotte alone. “I’m counting on your hope and your prayers, Miss Batsford. I’m worried, but I’m by no means hopeless. In fact, I’m quite determined to find Jack no matter where the ramshackle fellow has disappeared to.”
Her relief was visible. It was obvious Jack’s little bride-to-be had confidence in Julian’s determination. She slipped her hand out of Rob’s grasp and offered it to Julian. Rob scowled as he watched Julian lift her hand to his lips and lightly kiss it.
“I’ll leave first thing tomorrow morning, at cock’s crow,” said Julian, businesslike and brisk after he’d released Charlotte’s hand. “Every nook and cranny of this great island shall be scoured, if need be, starting in West Sussex.” He bowed. “I’ll keep you informed, Miss Batsford,” he promised her.
“Is there anything I can do, my lord?” asked Sir Thomas, stepping forward with an anxious expression.
