by Danice Allen
“There, you see,” said the doctor in a satisfied tone. “All will be well. You are extremely lucky, my lord, that you were traveling with your excellent wife when this accident befell you. She’s been a wonderful nurse. And I shudder to think what would have happened to you had you been off by yourself, so far from home, and with no one and nothing to connect you to your true identity.”
“Yes, that would be a rather desperate situation,” Jack agreed gravely. “In such a case, one would be entirely at the mercy of strangers.”
He slid a pathetic look toward Miss Darlington. He watched as her small aristocratic nostrils flared and her jaw tightened in an effort to keep from making an unwise retort in front of the doctor. She doubtless understood that Jack was implying that it would be a heartless desertion if she left him behind with Mrs. Beane.
But if she thought he was going to try to delay her departure, she was wrong. Despite the doctor’s advice to the contrary, Jack was going to insist that Miss Darlington resume her journey first thing in the morning … taking him with her.
“You are indeed far from home,” said the doctor, moving toward the door. His eyes skimmed Miss Darlington’s black dress, and he made an observation that Jack should have made hours ago. “You’re in mourning, m’dear?”
Miss Darlington looked startled at first, then gave a slight nod, as if she did not wish to speak any further on the subject. But the well-meaning doctor did not take the hint. “Could you be on your way to a funeral, then?”
“Why, yes,” said Miss Darlington. Her cheeks pinkened suspiciously, and Jack was sure she was lying again. “That’s why we’re so far from home, Doctor Bledsoe.”
“No one hereabouts died, did they?” asked the doctor with a look of professional interest. “I doctor them as far west as Shopwyke.”
“No, the funeral’s in quite another county,” Miss Darlington briskly assured him. “Thank you for coming by, doctor. We shan’t trouble you again unless my husband takes a turn for the worse. But as I intend to follow your instructions to the last detail, there’s no fear of that.”
Then, before the doctor could respond, Miss Darlington pulled out her purse, shook out a very fair amount of coin, and handed it to him. The doctor was sufficiently distracted to finally drop the subject of the funeral and forget any further repetitions of the instructions for Jack’s care. She then adroitly maneuvered him out the door.
“A nice fellow,” opined Jack as Miss Darlington shut the door behind the doctor and turned with a frosty look.
“I thought you disliked doctors,” she answered in an equally frosty tone. She was apparently still angry with him for bringing up the war wound. “Not more than an hour ago I distinctly heard you say they were all quacks.”
Jack shrugged. “I must admit that I don’t remember any past experiences with doctors that would lead me to have such a low opinion of their abilities, but I have a feeling that compared to the others I’ve doubtless known, this fellow is superior. Dr. Bledsoe is blunt, practical, and experienced. I like him.”
Miss Darlington’s icy attitude seemed to thaw a little as she answered, “I like him, too.”
Jack raised a brow. “I hope you don’t like him so well that you are determined to—as you said just now—‘follow his instructions to the last detail’?”
Miss Darlington crossed her arms and stood at the end of the bed. “What detail are you concerned about, John?”
“The detail about not allowing me to travel tomorrow.”
Miss Darlington sighed and looked down, her arms falling to her sides.
Jack cocked his head and tried to peer up into her downcast face. “He’s wrong, you know,” he stated firmly. “I know you’re itching to be off, and I wouldn’t dream of delaying you another moment.”
She lifted her head and asked cautiously, “You mean you’re offering to stay here?”
“No,” he answered firmly. “You’ve known my feelings all along about that. I mean to go with you.”
“But you’re not well enough,” she argued, looking distressed.
“The alternative is to leave me in the care of Mrs. Beane till I recover my strength or my memory, whichever comes first. Could you do that in good conscience, Miss Darlington?” he demanded to know. “And how will you explain running off and leaving your husband in such a way?”
“I could tell the truth!” Miss Darlington crossed her arms again and took an agitated turn on the rug. “ ’Tis a unique idea, I grant you, but it could be done! I hate lies. I’ve always hated lies, and most recently have had reason to hate them even more. But here I am spinning one whisker after another! I should be able to tell Mrs. Beane the truth, then go about my business as before without a single regret. You’ve got plenty of money to pay for your keep!”
“But your conscience won’t let you go without me, Miss Darlington. Anything could happen if you left me here. Anything,” he stressed.
Amanda stopped pacing and took her position at the end of the bed again. “Now you’re being melodramatic,” she accused. “But it would worry me if I left you here, though I wonder if being rattled to pieces in a carriage will do you more harm than a little hard nursing by Mrs. Beane.”
“What if I prove I’m up to snuff, Miss Darlington?” said Jack, pushing up in the bed and shifting one leg to the edge of the mattress as if he were about to stand up.
Miss Darlington blanched and lifted both splayed hands in front of her. “Don’t you dare get out of bed without your clothes, sir, or I shall scream!”
Having sincerely forgotten that he was naked, Jack resettled in bed and pulled the sheet up to his Adam’s apple. “And an odd notion Mrs. Beane and the entire population of this inn should have about our marriage if you screamed, Miss Darlington. But I do beg your pardon! It’s just that I’ve been sitting around like this for so long, and am so comfortable doing so, I forgot I was not”—he paused, fishing for the right words—”properly outfitted for presentation,” he finished wryly.
“Your clothes should be ready by now,” said Miss Darlington, unknowingly showing her maidenly agitation by fussing with the buttons that marched up the entire front of her bodice to her chin. “I’ll speak to the chambermaid.” She turned and moved to the door.
“I won’t put my clothes on, you know, until I—”
Miss Darlington turned swiftly, her slim white hands, which he distinctly remembered being so cool and soft, curled into fists. Or had he just dreamed about her hands? “Until you what?” she said with ominous calm, as though her patience was at the end of its tether.
Jack gave her a look that implied that the answer was self-evident. “Until I get my bath, of course.”
“Oh.” She was clearly disconcerted. “I hadn’t thought of that. I imagine you do rather—” She waved one hand ineffectually.
“Yes, I do rather need one,” he finished for her.
“Yes … er … yes, well, I’ll arrange for the water to be heated at once,” she said, turning to go.
“I’ll need assistance,” he reminded her as she was halfway out the door.
She turned back, and he could see by her angry and implacable expression that he’d irked her into forgetting her embarrassment. “No matter what argument you put forth, sir,” she said with steely calm, “I will not assist you in a bath. I am not your wife, nor am I Gretta, of whose charms and talents I’ve no doubt you will someday again fondly remember. I, however, will never be a fond memory of yours, John, nor will my name ever be murmured by you whilst in the throes of a delirium.”
“Perhaps the chambermaid would be willing to lend me a hand,” he suggested demurely. He was immensely amused by Miss Darlington’s conversation and couldn’t seem to stop himself from egging her on.
“One of my men can assist you,” she said with finality. She stopped, pondered for a minute, then smiled maliciously. “I should think Theo would do nicely, since he’s the largest of the lot and dislikes you the most.”
“But I’ll need a sh
ave, too, Miss Darlington,” Jack objected, laughing. “And by the looks Theo gives me, I must confess I’d fear for my life if he took a razor to my throat!”
“Then behave yourself, sir,” Miss Darlington advised him with a triumphant sniff. “Behave yourself and do not vex me, or I’ll tell Theo I wouldn’t mind it very much if his hand slipped a little while he shaved you.”
And with that last warning, she left.
The smile remained on Jack’s face for several moments after Miss Darlington left the room. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so well entertained … but then he couldn’t remember much of anything, could he?
Jack ran his hand over his raspy jaw, and his smile faded. He certainly hoped Theo had steady hands and no taste for murder. Then it occurred to him that he could shave himself. That the idea hadn’t occurred to him before indicated that he wasn’t accustomed to doing his own toilette and normally enjoyed the services of a valet.
Jack sighed and acknowledged to himself that there might be some advantages to getting back his memory, one of those advantages being the services of a valet, and another advantage being the chance of becoming reacquainted with the commendable Gretta. After all, Jack thought philosophically, there wasn’t a friendlier thing a female could do for a fellow than bathe him.
He sank into his pillows, imagining mounds of frothy soap floating in a tub of steaming water. And there, so clear to his mind’s eye as she bent near him, was Miss Darlington … lovingly wielding a sponge.
Amanda was amazed at the progress John made in the next few hours. The fellow seemed absolutely dead set on proving he was travel-worthy. With Theo’s help he took his first unsteady steps to the tub placed in front of the fireplace and had a bath. Amanda was not present, of course, but later as she and Theo met in the hall, he reported that the stranger refused to be helped with the bathing and once or twice made an obscure and bitter remark about some woman named Gretta.
“I only bring up the female’s name, miss,” Theo said with a shamefaced look, “in the hopes that it’d help ye find the bloke’s kin. Do ye reckon she’s ‘is sister?”
“I have already discussed the woman known as Gretta with the gentleman,” Amanda replied calmly, but with secret amusement. “Indeed, Theo, she is not his sister, nor anyone even remotely related to him.”
Theo accepted this explanation with a sober nod and a faint blush. “Well, least ways he’s clean now and tucked into bed again. He wouldn’t let me touch ’im, so he shaved hisself whilst sittin’ in the tub.”
This revelation brought such a vivid picture to Amanda’s mind—John’s chest dotted with lather, his strong brown knees jutting out of the water like volcanic islands in a frothy sea, his lean fingers deftly carving away the stubble of a black pirate’s beard—that she had to shake her head to clear it.
“What about his clothes, Theo?” she prompted, anxious to be assured that she wouldn’t have to spend another night in a room with a naked man. Last night he was unconscious and sick; tonight he was conscious and gaining strength by the minute.
“Mrs. Beane found ’im a shirt to sleep in, seein’ as how he wanted to keep ’is fancy togs neat fer tomorrow.” Theo bent a wary gaze on Amanda. “We’re not takin’ ‘im with us, are we, miss?”
“I can’t leave him with Mrs. Beane, Theo,” said Amanda with a sigh. “The doctor said he could have bouts of confusion before his memory returns, so he definitely needs to be watched over carefully until he can be reunited with friends or family.”
“He might never regain his memory, miss,” Theo argued. “I don’t reckon ye mean to take ’im clear back to Darlington Hall!”
“Of course not. But during this initial stage of his recovery from the accident, I’m certainly not going to abandon him. Perhaps by the time we get to Chichester, he’ll be well enough to leave with the authorities. I won’t take him to Thorney Island with us.”
“It’d be best fer everyone if’n we skipped Thorney Island altogether, if’n ye ask me,” Theo grumbled.
“But no one asked you, Theo,” Amanda said curtly, edging toward the door to her room.
“Truth to tell, I think ye’re makin’ a mistake, miss, bringing that little merry-begotten of yer pa’s back to Darlington Hall,” Theo stated with the boldness of a longtime, trusted servant. “It’s causin’ nothin’ but problems. Ye ought not t’ be sleepin’ in the same room with that man, neither. But none of this’d happened if’n ye hadn’t lied to Mrs. Beane in the first place, ner left yer home without a chaperon. The master and the missus taught ye better’n that, Miss Darlington—”
“That’s enough, Theo,” Amanda said sternly, her usual soft voice slightly raised. Theo looked at her in surprise and chagrin, but Amanda had patiently allowed him to fuss over her and nag at her during the trip because she knew he held her in genuine affection and was truly concerned for her welfare. But she couldn’t allow him to bring up her parents as an example or unfavorably compare her behavior with theirs, particularly since he knew how despicably her father had behaved.
“I don’t like being short with you, Theo,” said Amanda in a softened tone, “but you sometimes forget that I’m not a little girl any longer. I know perfectly well what I’m doing, and even if I didn’t, it’s not your place to lecture me.”
“Yes, miss,” said Theo, mortified.
“Now, go and have your supper and go to bed,” she ordered. “We all need our rest for the trip tomorrow.”
Theo bowed stiffly and departed, leaving Amanda feeling like a brute. She hated wounding his pride and hurting his feelings, but the last thing she wanted to hear was how well her parents had taught her. Their lessons were sheer hypocrisy, and Amanda knew that even if she made mistakes along the way, from then on she would base her decisions on her own determination of right and wrong.
Because of her contretemps with Theo, when Amanda reentered the room she shared with “John” she was in a rather tetchy mood. And it did not help matters to find her supposed husband expertly entertaining the chambermaid, who was sitting on the side of the bed and laughing till it looked like her seams would split and her womanly charms would jiggle out of her low-cut bodice.
After his bath and shave, and despite the nick on his chin from an out-of-practice handling of the razor, John looked wonderful. His hair shone ebony black above his fresh bandage, the thick waves tamed into a semblance of neatness but still looking tousled and touchable.
His skin glowed from the bath, and his eyes gleamed with renewed vitality after having polished off a hearty dinner approved by the doctor.
He was wearing the nightshirt Mrs. Beane must have pulled out of a bottom drawer of her dead husband’s old wardrobe chest, but even the plain dun-colored garment did not detract from the vital beauty of the man wearing it.
As the chambermaid’s laughter subsided at last into giggles, she turned and noticed Amanda standing just inside the door. Leaping to her feet, she made a hasty curtsy and sidled away from the bed. “Oh, milady, it’s you!” she said nervously, as if Amanda had caught them playing slap and tickle under the covers. John simply sat there, looking relaxed and happy and not a bit like a man who’d recently suffered an accident and lost his memory.
“Well, of course it’s me,” Amanda said with forced lightness, wondering how she’d feel about stumbling onto such a scene—however innocent it might truly be—if she were actually married to this handsome stranger. Even now, with no claim whatsoever to his love or loyalty, she felt an irritating twinge of jealousy. “What has my husband said to amuse you so well?” She shifted her speculative gaze to John and raised a brow. He gave an infinitesimal shrug and smiled even broader.
“His lordship was just tellin’ me a comical story, milady,” said the chambermaid, still hiding smiles and giggles behind her hand. “He’s ever so full of jest, he is.”
“That’s my husband,” Amanda said dryly, “always the life and soul of every party.” She moved into the room, leaving the door open behind
her as a hint to the chambermaid. The hint did not fall short of its mark, and after tittering through two more curtsies, the chambermaid left them alone.
“If you can remember comical stories to tell the servants, does that mean you’ve got your memory back?” Amanda asked John, taking her usual position at the end of the bed.
“Why do you always stand at such a distance when you talk to me?” John countered her question with another. “Sally’s not afraid of me.”
Amanda raised her brows at the familiar use of the chambermaid’s name. “I’m not afraid of you, either,” she lied, “but I don’t need to be sitting in your lap in order to hold a conversation with you, do I?”
John appeared to be considering this arrangement. “You don’t have to, but it would be rather cozy.”
“Things are quite cozy enough as it is,” Amanda retorted. “Now, do answer my question, John. Are you beginning to remember things?”
John made a slight grimace and shook his head. “No, not important things. I remembered a few bawdy jokes I must have heard in a men’s club, but I don’t have the vaguest recollection of who might have repeated them to me. Odd, isn’t it?”
“Very odd,” Amanda agreed, tapping her toe on the carpet.
“You do believe I can’t remember, don’t you?” John asked her with a sharp look.
“I can’t think of any reason why you’d lie about it,” Amanda answered honestly. “But your memory loss seems so … selective.”
“Yes, it does. Which makes me wonder if there’s something I really don’t want to remember,” Jack admitted with a thoughtful frown.
Amanda looked down and absently gave the front of her skirt an arranging stroke. “I’ve wondered—” She stopped, not sure whether she should proceed with a theory she’d been mulling over.
“What, Miss Darlington?” John prompted her.
“I’ve been wondering if perhaps you’re in some kind of trouble … or danger.” She looked up to gauge the stranger’s reaction to her suggestion. He looked serious and interested, but he didn’t look frightened.
