Allison Lane

by A Bird in Hand

  And that raised new questions. Why was he so willing to accept an apparent nobody when he had a duke’s heir at his mercy? Was Elizabeth that intransigent – which hinted that her claims were true – or was it a case of caging the bird in hand with the intention of freeing it once he caught the one in the bush?

  He must stay alert. And he must avoid meeting Fosdale again until he had some answers. He had no intention of negotiating a marriage contract under false pretenses, or of tripping himself up in casual conversation. If he was invited to join the family for meals, he must decline.

  But first, he must see Sedge. He fired a barrage of questions at the butler.

  * * * *

  Elizabeth raced toward her room, the fury and fear battling in her head making it difficult to think. Why had she lost control so thoroughly?

  In retrospect, her charges were ridiculous. Unless Mr. Randolph had lurked on the grounds for two chilly hours before approaching the house, he could not have followed her home. And he had not betrayed her. It was her own loose tongue that had created this plight. Such carelessness was wholly unlike her.

  She blushed.

  Cecilia stepped into the hallway. “When did you get back?”

  “This morning.” She continued toward her room, but Cecilia stopped her.

  “Papa was furious to find you gone, and even more furious when you refused to return. How did you dare counter him?”

  “Aunt Constance was ill. Would he rather she died?”

  Her eyes widened. “He said nothing of that. What happened?”

  She shrugged. “A chill made worse by inadequate care, superstition, and dangerous remedies, but she is much better now.”

  “My maid reported that Symington finally arrived last night.” She smoothed her gown. Only then did Elizabeth note that it was her newest. “I presume you are still uninterested. Is he at breakfast, or is he already closeted with Papa?”

  Cecilia’s maid put on airs that the other servants disliked, so it was no surprise that she knew little of what went on in the household. “You will have to postpone your flirtation,” she advised brusquely. “A tree fell on his coach yesterday. He is quite ill, with a broken arm and dangerous fever.”

  “Will he live?” Her voice wavered.

  “It is too early to tell.” The last thing the man needed was Cecilia trying to nurse him. The girl was impossible in a sick room. “I will let you know if he recovers.”

  She continued to her room, leaving a disappointed Cecilia behind.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Drink this, my lord,” said Mrs. Hughes, raising a cup to Sedge’s lips.

  He moaned and tried to turn away. His head hurt, as did his shoulder and hip, but nothing came close to the pain stabbing through his arm.

  He had a hazy memory of hands holding him down, imprisoning him as other hands twisted the arm. Excruciating pain had knifed into his brain. Then nothing.

  “Drink, my lord.”

  He drank.

  At least the taste was different this time. Bitter rather than sweet. Not laudanum. He had hated the opiate for years, in part because an aunt had developed a craving for it that ultimately killed her. But mostly, he hated it because it drew a curtain over his mind, forcing sleep when he needed to think and plan.

  “Randolph,” he murmured. “Get help…”

  “Sleep, my lord. Randolph is downstairs. I will see after him now.” Before he could respond, she left him lying in the dark room. Hurting.

  Sleep was impossible – and unnecessary, he insisted. He looked at the new splints on his left arm. The doctor must have arrived to set it, which explained that fragment of memory. But when had Randolph arrived? And how?

  And where was he? Since Randolph had not checked on him, he must also be hurt. Or worse.

  He had to know, had to find the answers. Fighting through the pain, he struggled to reach the bell pull.

  “You shouldn’t be thrashing about,” scolded a voice from the doorway.

  Sedge collapsed. “You’re alive.”

  Randolph carefully closed the door and pulled a chair close to the bed. “As are you.”

  “What happened?”

  Randolph shrugged, examining his friend with a critical eye. Even in the inadequate light of the single candle he carried, he could see that Sedge was white-faced from pain, and sported fever patches on both cheeks. Bruises blotched every exposed bit of skin. His left arm was encased in splints. “Lie down. You look like hell.”

  “I feel like hell.” He wiped his forehead.

  Randolph wrung out the cloth that floated in the basin of water, then laid it on his friend’s head. “I apologize for dragging you into this,” he said, grimacing over the cuts on Sedge’s palm.

  “Why? You didn’t arrange for that tree to topple.”

  “Perhaps not, but sending you for help was foolish. There was nothing you could have done.”

  “Did you succeed?”

  “Yes, though it was a mutual effort. If she hadn’t hauled me out of the river, I would have drowned. We’ll talk of it later,” he added, forestalling questions. “We have more pressing problems.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Ravenswood.” He let out a sigh.

  “Why is that a problem?”

  “They think you are me.”

  Sedge twisted until he could meet Randolph’s eyes. “They think I’m Symington? What gave them that idea?”

  “Have you introduced yourself?”

  “Not that I recall, but the details are a bit fuzzy. And they all seem to know—” He swore. “I’m a simpleton. Everyone addresses me as my lord, not Lord Sedgewick.”

  “Exactly. I questioned the butler on the way up here. They found the coach about ten o’clock last night. You were unconscious, as was John Coachman. By the wee hours this morning, you were fevered, incoherent, and thrashing about. The housekeeper gave you laudanum to protect your arm. When Lady Elizabeth arrived, she discontinued it in favor of willow bark tea, which is why you are reasonably conscious.”

  “Thank God,” he murmured.

  Randolph understood the exclamation. “I must say, you look better than I expected,” he continued lightly. “Rumors in the village have you at death’s door. Some believe you were skewered by that tree.”

  “I nearly was.”

  “Confusing your identity was inevitable under the circumstances. You were alone in Symington’s coach. And they found my card case,” he added, spotting it on the washstand.

  “It was in my pocket.” Sedge’s voice was growing weaker.

  Randolph picked it up and fingered the crest. As a lucky charm, it was potent, protecting Sedge from almost certain death. Leaving it behind had nearly cost him his own life. He slid it into his pocket, willing to risk exposure rather than face the coming confrontations without every possible advantage. Fosdale and his daughter posed multiple dangers. “Thank you for looking after it. But with so much evidence, they had to believe you were Symington.”

  “Naturally. But they know better now.”

  “Not exactly.”

  Sedge’s eyes widened as he snapped to attention. “They still think I’m you?”

  He nodded.

  “Why?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “It starts with the lady in the river. We were at least a mile downstream before we could reach the bank. In the end, she had to drag me out, because a branch knocked me nearly senseless.”

  “You should be in bed,” said Sedge.

  “Later. She managed to drag me to a nearby cottage – we were both soaked through, of course. Unfortunately, Sadie – the widow who lives there – was away. I collapsed. The next thing I remember was waking up this morning.”

  “Good God! You say she was a lady?”

  “Lady Elizabeth, to be precise.”

  “And you spent the night with her?”

  “Not intentionally, but it amounts to the same thing. S
ometime during the night, I must have awakened enough to talk, though I’ve little memory of it. This morning, she was calling me Mr. Randolph.”

  “Not Symington.”

  “No. And I didn’t know her identity at the time. She introduced herself as Anne, gave me directions to the village, and left. By the time I managed to dress, she was out of sight.”

  “So she undressed you.” Sedge’s eyes twinkled with humor. “How fascinating. For someone who never falls into scrapes, you’ve managed a whopping good one. Do you recall anything?”

  “I was unconscious,” he insisted blightingly. But he wished he had not been. Imagining those elegant fingers removing his clothing, drying his skin, and touching his nakedness pooled heat in his groin. And he retained an image of her leaning over him as she caressed his face. When had that happened? Shaking, he pushed the memory aside. “If she had not gotten me out of my dripping clothes and close to a fire, I would be suffering from an inflammation of the lungs by now,” he quipped, praying his face was less flushed than it felt.

  “So how did you discover her identity if she left you to your own devices?”

  “When I reached the village, I heard that Symington had suffered a dreadful accident and was at death’s door. To save time, I kept the name Mr. Randolph,” he said, reminding Sedge that he had no proof of his identity. “Anne ran into me downstairs. She is Fosdale’s oldest daughter.” He sighed.

  “You’d have to wed the chit anyway after last night, so why the long face? Whitfield can hardly object since he already proposed such a match.”

  “Certainly, and finding her here saves me the effort of hunting her down. But there are too many questions. She refused – again – to consider marriage, despite Fosdale’s heavy-handed threats to destroy her if she failed to comply. Unfortunately, he overheard us talking about last night. He is a manipulator who had already schemed to force her onto Symington, but he is willing to settle for a less exalted match if it will get her off his hands.”

  “If she turned you down, Fosdale’s character hardly matters.”

  “You know I cannot honorably duck marriage.” He shrugged. “And she will be far better off with me than under the thumb of a father who clearly despises her – if her protests were genuine.”

  “You think they were not.” Sedge was frowning.

  “I don’t know what to think. Does she also entertain fantasies about trapping a duke’s heir? Now that Symington is helpless, she may have plans for bettering her position.”

  Sedge frowned. “You said she ordered the change to bark tea. So who set my arm?”

  “Lady Elizabeth.”

  “All that thunder must have affected my hearing.” He sounded nervous. “You didn’t just say Lady Elizabeth, did you? Tell me I am delirious.”

  “She set your arm.”

  He shuddered. “So she may have other motives, though I know we were not alone.”

  “I can’t identify her motives, but don’t fret about the arm. Wendell claims that she is a skilled healer.”

  “God help me.”

  “Setting your arm was a routine job, I gather, for she is the only healer in the valley. I am more concerned about what she plans next. I must wed her, but I want to know what to expect from the chit. Does she share her father’s avarice, for example? But that is a question best answered by remaining plain Edward Randolph.”

  “So you want me to play the role of Symington while you woo the chit as a mere mister?” Sedge laughed. “And they call me a prankster! I would never attempt something that mad. Consider the consequences, my friend. Deceit is no foundation for marriage.”

  “Since she has refused me more than once, I am under no obligation to take her into my confidence,” he declared. “Discovering her motives is more important than any pique over a temporary deceit. Then there is the problem of Fosdale. He agreed to refrain from coercing her, but I suspect that he has plans to trap Symington before releasing the insignificant bystander. Besides, I rather enjoy exploring life without the pomp of an eventual duchy coloring every contact.”

  “You aren’t attached to the girl, are you?”

  “I don’t know. If she is truthful, she is a most intriguing miss. I’ve never met anyone like her. She is well-bred and has no known stain on her reputation, yet she claims to eschew Society – which is why I have to suspect an ulterior motive. I must understand her before we wed, and I have little time in which to learn anything. This seems the easiest method. It is not as though I set out to become someone else. Fate has set the stage. I am merely postponing the denouement for a few days.”

  “How can you assign her a stain-free reputation?” asked Sedge. “Many would look askance at a lady who treats gentleman’s wounds.”

  “Lady Horseley would,” he agreed. “But I find nothing wrong with it. I would rather see a lady dabble in medicine than allow her tenants and neighbors to die from lack of care.” He sighed. “Will you back me on this?”

  “Very well. It is your neck on the line. And watching you make an ass of yourself should provide amusement while this arm heals. So what does Mr. Randolph do, and why did he accompany Symington to Cumberland?”

  Randolph pursed his lips, steepling his fingers around his nose. “I am Whitfield’s distant cousin, a documents expert who was sent to verify the Chaucer.”

  Sedge laughed. “Do you really believe that you can pass yourself off as a modest scholar of little means rather than a powerful lord, no matter how you eschew Society? You may consider yourself a quiet recluse, but you have been groomed to run the duchy since birth. The confidence and authority of that position are so much a part of your character that you do not even sense them.”

  Damn! He reviewed that scene downstairs and had to concede that Sedge was right. He had issued orders to everyone, from Wendell to Fosdale, expecting his will to prevail. Even when he had not tried to intimidate, he had imposed his will – except on Elizabeth. But he must be careful from now on. He could not afford to reveal the truth until he discerned everyone’s motives. “I will take Jakes as a model,” he decided, naming the clerk who had charge of his library. “Any mistakes before now arose from my fear for your life.”

  “Good luck.”

  “I need a more definitive background,” he continued, fingering the card case as he prayed for the best luck of his life. “What if Fosdale knows that Symington is an authority on Chaucer?”

  Sedge snorted. “Why would he? I doubt he knows much on the subject himself. Even gentlemen who know you discount your expertise. It is not usual for a nobleman of your expectations.”

  “True.” He sighed, for he had never wanted the position birth demanded he occupy. Once Whitfield died, he would have little time to pursue his own interests, because no matter how onerous the duties became, he would never be able to eschew his responsibilities.

  “The duke is a well-known collector. Surely he keeps a man in his employ who is acquainted with rare texts.”

  “Mr. Selkin died several years ago. The closest Whitfield has come to replacing him is to call on my opinion when his own is in doubt.”

  “So claiming to be the duke’s expert is no lie,” decided Sedge. “The fact that you are related accounts for your youth. You must express gratitude for such a prestigious position. You can be as arrogant as you like when discussing texts, but your demeanor must be subservient about everything else if you hope to succeed in this masquerade.”

  “Subservient?”

  “Think. Would Jakes ever venture an opinion on any subject other than your library?”

  Randolph frowned, but he had to admit that Sedge was right. Merely being quiet wouldn’t do. Everything must change – posture, expression, even the way he entered a room. And he must not manipulate Fosdale again. “Deferring to that arrogant windbag is galling,” he admitted.

  Sedge laughed. “Unless you want this imposture to end right now, you will have little choice. You chose the role of an unprepossessing employee. Unless you play it right, you
might as well confess immediately and trust that time will answer your questions.”

  “I suppose you are right.”

  “I know I am right.”

  “Very well. But I will undoubtedly slip, so I need a reason for doing so.” He frowned. “Perhaps I grew up at Whitfield Castle after my parents’ deaths left me an orphan.”

  “Don’t be trite. Every estate in the country has an orphan or two, but most of them are packed off to the military as soon as possible. Or the clergy. Don’t raise questions about why you weren’t. And don’t claim the duke took you under his wing. Everyone knows he did that to Symington. It would be better to claim that Whitfield took in your entire family. It is less suspicious. Maybe your father served as one of his secretaries. Besides, you will be better off sticking to the truth whenever possible to minimize slips. Your parents are not dead.”

  “All right. But growing up with Symington will explain my concern for your health. You are a friend as well as my employer’s heir.”

  “You left out distant cousin.”

  “I wonder what is in my trunk,” he said, changing the subject when he spotted the two trunks in the corner. “A poor relation will hardly own an array of evening clothes.”

  “Let me know when you find out.” Sedge’s voice was growing weary. “We will concoct a tale if necessary.”

  “Sleep,” commanded Randolph. “I must check on John Coachman.”

  “Don’t give orders,” Sedge said, closing his eyes. “Ask if something is possible. Be uncertain. Accept less than perfect service. Wait on yourself. Keep your expectations very low.” In moments he was asleep.

  Randolph dragged his trunk from the corner. It was too small to hold much variety. He was about to ring for a footman when Sedge’s reminder stopped him. Don’t give orders. Wait on yourself. Sighing, he carried the trunk from the room. How long until his baggage coach arrived? A man in Mr. Randolph’s position would hardly have his own valet. He had to conclude this farce quickly, before it exploded in his face.