“Like I’ve been fucking stabbed.”
The physician’s expression didn’t alter by so much as a twitch. “Of course. Do not be alarmed at your lack of mobility. I had to truss you up tightly with bandages to protect your shoulder, chest, and side wounds. That is why you cannot move your arms. And I’ve been giving you laudanum each day for the pain and to help you sleep. I’ve observed the body heals better and faster when a patient slumbers deeply.”
Ah. That explained his fogged mind.
George frowned. “Each day? How long have I been here? And where am I, for that matter?”
William appeared beside the bed, a half-smile on his pale, weary face. “For the last week you have been an honored guest at the hotel du Hastings. You probably don’t remember much, but you’ve enjoyed only the finest sponge baths, and delectable sips of barley water and chicken broth during your stay.”
George went cold. They had seen his back? “Sponge baths? Good God. Not by you, I hope. I’ll never recover from such a thought.”
“No,” said Dr. Murray brusquely, his gaze far too knowing. “Not Lord Standish. By me with great care, due to the state of the wounds…and the surrounding flesh. You are an admirably brave and stoic man, Mr. Edwards. I suspected it when we last met, and now it is confirmed. My Victoria assisted me. As you are aware, she accompanies me on all my house calls due to her herbal expertise and prepares the poultices. But ignores the requests to hurry up and get back into bed with you where she belongs.”
Embarrassment scorched across George’s cheekbones. He turned his head toward the sweet-faced brunette hovering at his bedside beside her father. The young lady was tall and slightly plump, wearing a ghastly gray gown and white apron, and holding a mortar and pestle. “Humblest apologies, Miss Murray. That, ah, was not directed at you.”
Victoria Murray flashed him a surprisingly sad smile. “It never is. No offence taken, Mr. Edwards.”
As she bobbed a curtsy and hurried away, George looked curiously back at the physician. “Why hasn’t Victoria made her come out? I don’t recall seeing her at Almack’s or any other parties, but as your daughter, and the granddaughter of a viscount, she would be warmly welcomed.”
“She is far too busy for that foolish society carry on. Besides, she enjoys helping me. It is a grave pity Victoria isn’t a lad, but she’ll make a fine doctor’s wife one day. Now, I have several other patients to visit, but will return this evening to examine you. Good day to you, Mr. Edwards, and to you, my lord.”
William smiled and inclined his head, but as soon as the physician had gone, he turned and glared at George. Hell. It seemed his friend’s relief had given way to that uniquely frigid anger he could wear like the darkest of shrouds.
“I know what you must be thinking,” said George. “And—”
“No,” said William. “You have no idea. No idea at all. What the hell happened, George? You were in London. Then gone for a few weeks. And suddenly you are on my doorstep with a false name, wearing belly padding and a damned wig, and on the verge of death after being stabbed by an Irish lord? I thought I’d heard everything working for the British government. But not this. Nothing like this. And if you were going to use my name as a reference, you could have at least bloody told me. If I hadn’t been at home…damn it. You’d better start talking. And I want the truth. No lies, no evasions. Believe me, I’ll know.”
George took a deep breath. “It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got all the time in the world. And by the by, I haven’t told anyone you are here. Not your mother, your sister, Stephen, or the others.”
“Thank you. For everything. And for giving me the chance to explain myself. I was wrong to use you as a reference without your knowledge, but I was desperate…”
William frowned. “This sounds uncomfortably like something I’m going to need a brandy for. One moment.”
As soon as his friend resettled himself with his drink, George began to talk. About Sir Malcolm going missing. The blackmail note. His mother’s unthinkable gambling debt. Overhearing the two men at the tavern, and devising his plan of a false name and disguise, successfully gaining employment as a comportment tutor in the country, only to discover the young lady was Louisa Donovan.
“You must have had severe palpitations.”
George smiled ruefully. “I did. But she didn’t expose me. As it turned out, she had her own reasons for wanting me to be the tutor. And we…muddled along. She was her usual outrageous self, and I managed to cull the worst of her wardrobe, and teach her some dance steps, while not strangling her.”
“Muddled along, eh?” said William, one eyebrow arching. “Is that what they are calling out-and-out lust these days? Hmmm. You being you, and she being she, I’d say you fought it for a while, then gave in and set the world alight.”
Did he have the story engraved on his forehead? William’s skill was uncanny. George wanted to confess as much as possible, but on the other hand, not ever reveal his night with Louisa. That was far too personal. So he talked about the curricle accident. Then Kildaire coming to stay. The fistfight. And finally, the vicious dawn attack in his bedchamber.
“Christ. If he wasn’t so well-guarded in the Tower, I’d arrange for Kildaire to disappear permanently,” said William coldly. “But he does know who your real father is, and did reveal that he is a third son. That will narrow my investigation significantly. I’ll find out who Kildaire’s cronies are, especially with a first or last name of Percival, cross reference with important families, and go back one generation for births and deaths. You’ll stay here until you are better, of course.”
George nodded, as a sudden wave of pain-tinged weariness overtook him. “I appreciate it. I appreciate everything. One other thing…if Louisa writes or visits…you will let me know?”
William’s lips twitched. “Well, well, well. More than just chemistry with Miss Gunpowder, it seems. Actually, you sound remarkably like the Stephen and Caroline level of smitten.”
“Fuck off,” he mumbled.
But the last sound he heard as he succumbed to sleep was William’s snort of laughter.
Damn the canny bastard for being right. Again.
Chapter Twelve
“Damnation. Who are you, silent, twitching mouse, wearing a gown that actually suits your hair, and what have you done with my best friend Lulu Donovan?”
Louisa glanced up from where she was studiously crumbling a lemon curd tart and smiled wanly at Caroline across the Piccadilly teashop’s wooden table. It was almost too difficult facing her right now, when the entire afternoon out together had been one conversation diversion and evasion after the other. “I’m sorry I’m such awful company. I have a lot on my mind right now.”
“Such as?” said Caroline, pinning her with a jade-green gaze. “I will keep asking, you know. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your avoidance tricks.”
Bloody hell, those eyes. As if she needed yet another reminder of George. She’d gone to Hastings House this morning, ready to climb trees and scale walls and fight footmen to the death to get inside and see him; Lord Standish’s butler had merely welcomed her with a low bow and asked if she would care for refreshments. George had been very groggy with a recent dose of laudanum, his chest and arms swathed in poultice-stained bandages, so she’d carefully perched on the edge of the bed and chirped away like a manic nightingale with snippets of inconsequential news while smoothing his hair: A shocking shade of purple she’d seen a dandy wearing. London ladies all aflutter because the long-lost Duke of Mannering had returned. How difficult it was to get perfectly whipped cream in the city. And that the cold and ice and frozen mud of London together with the odor would surely turn her Bedlamite.
George had smiled faintly throughout her foolish chatter, even turning his cheek into her palm so she could cup his face, and that almost broke her. But what had brought her to tears was when he rasped sleepily, “Don’t tell Caro about this. Or Mama. Swear it.” And she’d had to say yes, to nod
frantically in agreement to a promise she hated to keep, even if she understood it completely.
“Ahem,” said Caroline, rapping her knuckles on the table. “Confess and the truth shall set you free.”
“Quoting the scriptures now? Stop it, or we’ll both be hit by lightning bolts,” Louisa said quickly, trying to think of something plausible that didn’t include any recent events.
“Oh my God. You are hiding something from me. Your face looks like it’s been doused in tomato soup.”
“No I’m not,” she snapped, as tomato no doubt leaped to some putrid shade of puce or aubergine. “And we can’t all blush gorgeously like an Edwards twin.”
Caroline tilted her head. “Aha. George. I knew it. What has he done this time? And where did you see him? I thought he and some unnamed widow had gone to the country for, er, their health. That is what Mama implied, anyway. He’s such a shameless rakehell.”
A headache began to throb. “Mmmm.”
“Excuse me? That sounded like you just said ‘mmmm’ to the lure of giving George a thorough verbal thrashing. Now I know for certain you are hiding something. Or you are desperately unwell.”
“Definitely desperately unwell. Talking of medical matters, how are you? Only a few weeks to go, now, before you yourself are a mama.”
“You really don’t wish to discuss whatever it is, do you?” said Caroline softly, hurt evident on her face. “Have I done something to offend? That is never out of the realms of possibility, although I didn’t ever think it would be with you.”
“No! You haven’t. It is me being a frightful bore and suffering the aftereffects of a, um, very unpleasant suitor. Lord Kildaire.”
Caroline gasped. “The marquess in the Tower who stands accused of attempted murder? Do tell!”
“All right, then. I hope he is sent across the Irish Sea in a leaky boat. He was an awful, horrible man who…came to visit at one of Mother’s house parties. One of those men who is fine to look at, but rotten underneath. It was his eyes, Caro. So very empty.”
“Ugh. Poor poppet, I had no idea. One of the downsides of being hugely pregnant, nobody wants to tell you anything of note in case it distresses you. Ha. As if I am some delicate little daisy…ooooh, ow.”
“What?” shrieked Louisa. Good grief, her nerves definitely could not tolerate an impromptu teashop birth today.
“Nothing. Just a rather fierce kick to the ribs. And I can’t even eat half a slice of cake without feeling full. I never thought my offspring would attempt to break my spirit before being born.”
“Nonsense. My godchild is perfect. If I was a baby stuck in a tiny dark cave with only ribs and stomach and bladder to kick for amusement, I would be irritable too. Especially when I could be assisting my beloved Aunt Lulu with fun gunpowder or Sicilian sulphur experiments.”
“Speaking of which, how have they been progressing lately? Any new and wondrous discoveries to report?”
Louisa slumped in her chair. “Unfortunately they are, er, on hold right now. Mother burned all my supplies in a giant bonfire. All I have left is one perfect book by Sir Humphry Davy, that G…er Juliet—my Aunt Juliet, that is—gave me.”
“Your mother did what? How dare she! That woman better not cross my path anytime soon. By the by, I didn’t know you had an Aunt Juliet. Only donkey-kicking Aunt Edith.”
“Juliet isn’t a real aunt, more like a friend of the family,” said Louisa quickly. “Wonderfully progressive in her thinking. As for Aunt Edith, I’ll take you for a visit if the baby is tardy in arriving. One glass of her special lemonade, your innards will recoil into a catapult, and voila, the quickest birth in history.”
Caroline snorted with laughter. “I shall keep that in mind…what on earth is that commotion happening in the street?”
Turning in her chair, Louisa peered out the shop window. How odd. It wasn’t a mob or a protest, because people were cheering and applauding. And in the midst of it was a grand carriage, attempting to navigate the sea of warmly dressed bodies without crushing any of them. “Is it the Prince Regent, perhaps? Although I’ve never seen his carriage invite such a happy crowd. Or move so carefully.”
“I don’t know. But I think we should investigate. I’ll lead the way, my belly will part the crowd in a stylishly Moses fashion.”
Louisa giggled. “Blasphemy! I wish you’d gone to church with me. It would have been marvelous to not be the focus of Reverend Perkins’ gimlet stare for once.”
Wrapping themselves up in their fur-lined coats and gloves, the two women left the teashop and stepped out into the chilly footpath arm in arm for added protection against rogue patches of ice. As predicted, the crowd parted for Caroline, although Louisa suspected it had more to do with her uncommon height and obvious wealth than her pregnancy, and they got to within twenty feet of the street.
“It’s a crested carriage,” said Caroline, from her far superior vantage point. “Now, where have I seen that coat of arms before? I think it might be ducal. Damnation. If George were here he’d know immediately who the family is…oh. Oh God. Oh God. Oh my God.”
Shocked, Louisa barely kept from falling flat on her face as her friend suddenly surged forward toward the carriage. “Caro! What the bloody hell are you doing? Ow…excuse me, terribly sorry, heavily pregnant countess, what can you do,” she continued awkwardly, as Caroline barreled through the crowd, seemingly uncaring of the carnage she was causing as she waved frantically at the carriage.
“Wait!” screamed Caroline, struggling to break through the line closest to the street. “Stop the carriage! Please!”
“Shut it, rich lady,” snapped a young man. “Go have your hysterics in Mayfair where you belong.”
“You shut it,” snarled Louisa, directing her booted heel firmly into his instep.
“Here, now, lad” said an older woman. “All the ladies are excited that Mannering has arrived. Let them have their fun.”
Mannering?
Why would Caroline act so oddly at seeing the lost duke’s carriage? This was far, far more than curiosity. This was raw desperation.
“Please! Please stop!” screamed Caroline again, but she couldn’t get quite close enough to bang on the carriage, and it was now moving away, its pace increasing as the crowd on the street ahead thinned out.
“Caro!” said Louisa anxiously, horrified as her friend’s face paled to parchment, and she sank against a lantern post, tears running down her face. “What on earth was all that about? Why were you yelling at the Duke of Mannering’s carriage?”
“B-because,” said her friend in a tear-clogged voice that was somehow not sad, “He’s alive! I think I always knew. That is why I never g-gave up hope, even at the very worst of times. And n-now he’s here! I saw his face and it’s him! He looks just like George, but older, of course. It’s uncanny. And magnificent!”
Utterly confused, Louisa stared hard at Caroline. “Who? Who is here…wait, your father? Was your father the duke’s coachman? But I thought he was a sea captain!”
Caroline laughed and hugged her arms around her enormous belly, her eyes shining. “No, silly. My father…George’s father…Mama’s beloved Howard…is the duke.”
~ * ~
“George! What are you doing out of bed?”
He turned at William’s stern tone, hoping he wouldn’t pass out at the man’s feet. It had seemed like a good idea to take a short turn about the lavish guest chamber to exercise his limbs, but he’d only made it as far as the foot of the bed before his entire body was coated in sweat. “Nothing, headmaster.”
William grimaced. “Damned fool. Rest is what helps you get better. You aren’t recovering from a broken toenail, you know.”
“I know,” said George softly, strangely compelled to say something to a man who had seen and heard enough to never be shocked. “I also know exactly how long it takes to recover from serious flesh wounds. You see—”
“No need to explain.” His friend closed his eyes briefly, then met George’s gaze.
“I caught a glimpse of your back the other day. Christ, George. I don’t even have the words. To know what you’ve suffered in silence…hell. Yes, that would have been it. Hell.”
George’s eyes burned, but he’d run out of tears to shed over his scars long ago. “That’s about the sum of it. My only wish is for Sir Malcolm’s body to be found in pieces so I don’t have to think about him ever again.”
“Your only wish?” replied William, his lips quirking. “I think you can do better than that. But first, let’s get you tidied up. Don’t want to look a fright for your visitors.”
“Louisa’s here? Well, for God’s sake, man, call in the valet.”
“I’ll call him when you sit down. I’m not dragging your unconscious frame around the room.”
Relieved, George half-sat, half-collapsed onto the side of the four-poster bed. A quarter hour later he’d been shaved, had his hair trimmed at the nape, and been assisted into a dark brown and thickly quilted satin robe. But he refused to get back under the blankets just yet. “All right. Show in my subjects.”
William sketched a bow. “At once, your highness. Enjoy your evening, I’m off to Whitehall. Meeting I cannot refuse, unfortunately. Something simmering on the continent.”
Wincing in sympathy, George inclined his head. Reading between Standish lines, that meant a catastrophic situation. Perhaps the fall of a throne or an uprising. Even war. “At least there’ll be one cool head in the building.”
“No, two at least. Southby will be there as well,” said William over his shoulder, then “Ah, your grace. Miss Donovan. Welcome.”
George stilled. Your grace? A duke was here? It obviously wasn’t Southby; William was never that formal with his closest friend. But which duke? And why the hell would a duke visit with Louisa?
Rake to Riches (The London Lords Book 2) Page 17
