The boy’s worried gaze lifted from her to Tristan. “Are you the vicar?”
“No.”
“We were going to the vicar’s.”
Tristan frowned, wondering why they were walking in such poor conditions to the vicar’s whose home was a fair distance from the village.
The coach slid to the side then eased forward, causing the boy to stumble.
“Take a seat before you fall.” Tristan scowled at the gruffness of his tone. The poor boy was worried about his mother. The last thing he needed was to be berated by a stranger. He cleared his throat and tried again. “What’s your name?”
“Matthew.” He kept a wary watch on both Tristan and his mother as he scooted back on the opposite bench.
“It won’t take long now.” He wanted to ask more details of the boy but held his tongue. It would be more appropriate to ask his mother when she recovered. If she recovered. The idea of anything else didn’t bear thinking about.
Yet as the silence drew long, Tristan’s curiosity got the better of him. Perhaps conversation might help allay the boy’s fears. “Do you live nearby?”
“No. We’re going to London and having a grand adventure.”
Tristan couldn’t help but be amused at his word choice. Obviously, his mother was trying to convince him the journey was an exciting one. The events of this evening were surely not what she had in mind.
From the tailored cut of the boy’s clothes and the fine wool fabric of the woman’s cloak, Tristan puzzled over what circumstances had brought them to the side of the deserted country lane on a rainy evening. The road was rarely used as it led to Crawford House and ended there. Chances were unlikely they would’ve met anyone had his coach not come along.
The boy shifted to the edge of the seat and reached forward to take his mother’s hand, the small gesture displaying his love and concern. The image burned into Tristan’s mind. He couldn’t imagine doing such a thing when he was Matthew’s age, or now for that matter. His own childhood had been far from idyllic.
Memories of broken pieces of a hobby horse tossed into the fire, of angry words and hurt-filled faces, and a terrible, heavy silence filled him. They were not welcome in this moment. Or ever.
Matthew and his mother might be in a difficult situation at the moment, but the boy’s life appeared to hold many blessings that Tristan’s had never known, including the woman in Tristan’s arms. She must be an incredible mother to her son.
He couldn’t help but look down to study her more closely, curious as to what sort of person she might be. He only hoped he had the chance to find out.
The minutes ticked by slowly as the coach lumbered along, slipping and sliding as it went until at last drawing to a halt before his home.
Tristan paused as he stepped out of the coach with the woman carefully cradled against him. “Come along, Matthew. Help me see your mother inside.”
The groom held the umbrella with one hand as he helped the boy out of the carriage with the other.
Footmen rushed down the front steps with more umbrellas and lights held high.
“Shall I take her from you, my lord?” one asked.
Tightening his hold, Tristan shook his head. “The less we jostle her, the better. Have a room prepared. Send for the doctor as well.”
The servants scurried around him as he made his way up the steps. “We’ll have you warm and dry in no time,” he whispered to his charge as he entered the foyer of the one house amidst all his holdings he called home.
“Good evening, my lord,” his butler greeted him with a bow. “One of the guest rooms is already prepared if you’ll follow me.” He led the way up two flights of stairs where the housekeeper waited near the bedroom door, wringing her hands.
“This way, my lord. Terrible night out there. So pleased you made it safely.”
Her comment only made Tristan feel guiltier.
A fire already burned brightly in the room, and she’d placed a blanket over the top of the velvet coverlet. “If you’ll put her here, we’ll get her out of those muddy, wet clothes and see her settled.”
He laid her as gently as possible on the blanket, alarmed at how pale her face was in the well-lit room. Dirt smudged one cheek, and he couldn’t resist running the pad of his thumb along the soft expanse to remove it.
Her eyes remained firmly closed despite his close perusal. A welt was now visible near her hairline. He could only imagine what other bruises or broken bones she’d sustained as a result of his carelessness.
Still leaning over her, he realized heat radiated from her. He held his fingers against her cheek, oddly grateful for another excuse to touch her. “She’s rather warm.”
Mrs. Hicks placed the back of her hand on the woman’s forehead, careful to avoid the welt. “The lady has a fever. No doubt of that.” She leaned closer to listen. “Her breathing sounds wheezy as well. Poor dear must be under the weather.”
“Why doesn’t she wake up?” The boy’s voice from the end of the bed had Tristan starting in surprise. He’d nearly forgotten about the lad.
“She’ll do so soon enough,” Mrs. Hicks advised him with a smile. “You mark my words. We’ll have her right as rain in no time.” Her reassurances had Tristan feeling marginally better. He hoped they did the same for Matthew.
The housekeeper assisted the maid with removing the lady’s hat and cloak as she spoke. The black crepe gown underneath spoke of a woman in mourning.
That only added to the many questions Tristan had.
Mrs. Hicks timidly turned to Tristan, her hands twisting before her once again. “May I suggest the two of you change into dry clothes? Cook has some soup prepared. That will warm you from the inside out.”
Before he could protest, he found himself standing outside the guest room door, the little boy walking up the stairs to the nursery with a maid. Unanswered questions still circled in his mind.
Tristan felt oddly bereft without the woman in his arms, as though he no longer had a purpose. Scowling, he retired to his room.
Chapter Two
“It is now 333 years ago since the beggar ceased to be dependent on voluntary charity, and the State insisted on his support by the parishes. In the year 1536 was passed an Act of Parliament abolishing the mendicant’s right to solicit public alms.”
~The Seven Curses of London
The next morning, Tristan ran a hand along the knot of tension in the back of his neck as he sat at the table to break his fast, exhaustion pulling at him. He’d slept little since his chaotic arrival the previous night.
How could one beautiful woman and a little boy cause such turmoil in his normally smooth-running household? Or perhaps the turmoil was within him.
She had yet to waken. The doctor had arrived the previous night and advised that while her head and side were significantly bruised, there were no broken bones. He warned that her recovery would be complicated because of her illness.
After providing something to aid her cough when she woke and ordering rest, the doctor had taken his leave. A bed in the old nursery had been readied for the boy who’d barely been able to keep his eyes open after having some soup then visiting his mother one last time.
Tristan’s remorse was what had kept him from sleeping the remainder of the night. Mostly. The other reasons were too unnerving to contemplate, including the woman’s heart-shaped face and the tendre shown to her by her young son.
After a grateful sip of the steaming coffee the footman poured, Tristan unfolded the news sheet beside his plate. With focus, he might be able to forget his guests for a time. He wanted the chance to enjoy the peace and quiet he’d sought here in the country—the reason for the visit to his estate.
He’d left London to put aside his unsettled feeling. Yet after the previous evening, it had grown worse.
He well knew the reason for this unsettled sensation—his upcoming marriage. The nuptials would give him Crawford House, not only the holding he enjoyed the most, but the one that provided a sig
nificant income. It was the only unentailed holding in his inheritance. Keeping it required him marrying prior to his thirty-fifth birthday, thanks to the terms of his father’s will.
Yet now that he’d devised a way to do so and had implemented that plan, he was no longer sure if it was the right course of action.
He attempted to read the headlines as the footman served his eggs, toast, and sausage. Tristan ate since it was before him, but neither the meal nor the news kept his interest.
Who was she?
What color were her eyes?
Why had they been alongside the road on such a rainy, cold evening?
Why had she been dressed in mourning attire?
Questions circled through his mind, blurring the printed words before him. Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his notice. He glanced over to see a pair of blue eyes peering around the doorway, staring at him.
He frowned at the boy, unable to determine how he’d come to be there unattended.
“My apologies, my lord,” a breathless maid said as she appeared behind the child. “I am terribly sorry. I turned my back for a moment and he was gone.”
“How difficult can it be to watch one small boy?” The maid’s eyes widened with fear, making him realize how gruff he sounded. Of late, he’d realized he much preferred to see respect rather than fear in the faces of those around him.
He’d asked the question out of curiosity and not intended to suggest she wasn’t doing her job. With annoyance at the reaction his behavior always seemed to garner, he tossed aside the news sheet.
The footman hurried toward the maid and boy as though to usher them from the room. “My apologies as well, my lord.”
Tristan studied the two servants, wondering at their behavior. He’d never realized how much the staff feared crossing him until one of his long-time servants had requested to leave his household to go to Nathaniel’s, his brother’s home.
That moment had shocked him, and he’d had several other enlightening moments since Nathaniel’s return. What had seemed normal no longer did. He’d begun to wonder if it was truly inevitable that he acted so much like his father.
Since then, he’d made a concerted effort to avoid acting like his sire, but it was an uphill battle. Often he seemed unable to control his behavior. Gruffness seeped out of him in all areas—expressions, tone, mannerisms.
Blast his father for leaving him with this legacy. Tristan remembered all too well being on the receiving end of it.
The boy looked up at the maid, his brows drawn together and a stubborn set to his lips. “I want to see my mother.”
The maid took his hand and cast a worried glance at Tristan. “I am very sorry.” She bobbed a curtsy and backed away, attempting to drag the boy with her. “You will see her quite soon,” she whispered to the lad. The concern on her face had Tristan frowning all the more.
He glanced again at the boy as he was pulled out of sight, thinking of the tenderness and concern he’d shown for his mother. That made him all the more curious about his guests.
“Wait.” After a brief moment, the pair came back into view. He could see the maid’s breath hitching as she watched him. He didn’t recognize her and didn’t remember encountering her before. Obviously, his reputation among the staff had preceded him. “What is your name?”
She swallowed hard, her brown eyes even wider. “Mary, my lord.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that you weren’t doing your job.” His words seemed to do little to reassure her. “I would speak with the lad.”
Mary glanced down at the boy, almost reluctantly releasing his hand. She nodded in encouragement as the child looked at her before meeting Tristan’s gaze.
“Good morning, Matthew. Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you, my lord.” Matthew bowed, his manners bringing a smile to Tristan’s face. For some reason, that seemed to alarm the two servants even more than his scowling.
“Anxious to see your mother?”
The boy nodded.
“I understand from my valet that she is resting comfortably. Would you like to see her now?”
Matthew nodded.
Tristan was relieved by his answer. He hadn’t yet allowed himself the indulgence of looking in on her. Matthew provided the perfect excuse. “Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat first?”
He bit his lip as though undecided.
“Why don’t we look briefly in on your mother and then you and I will eat together.” Tristan rose as he spoke.
“Very well, my lord.” Matthew stepped forward and took Tristan’s hand.
Nonplussed, Tristan could only stare at the boy, the warmth of his hand causing an odd, unfamiliar answering warmth within Tristan. Matthew showed no fear as he stared up at him. It was a breath of fresh air after the behavior of the servants. Tristan appreciated it more than he could say.
“I’ll send for you when we need you again,” he told the maid as he and Matthew walked out of the dining room, his heart lighter than when he’d entered.
Though he told himself it was unfair to ask Matthew questions when he should wait to ask his injured guest, curiosity prodded him. “Do you live in the area?”
“No, my lord.”
“Where are you from?”
Matthew looked up at him as though weighing his merit. “I am not supposed to say.” His response only made Tristan more curious.
“Oh?” Tristan hoped the boy would explain, but he said nothing. Instead, Matthew focused on the stairs, lining one foot precisely on the step then the next, as he climbed the stairs.
“Will you tell me your full name?” Tristan asked, already guessing what the answer might be.
“No, my lord. I am not supposed to.” He lifted one shoulder as though to apologize.
Tristan frowned, wondering how he should proceed. If the woman didn’t wake this morning, he’d send a servant to make inquiries around the area. Surely someone knew who they were.
“What were you eating for breakfast?” The lad glanced up at him, his dark hair falling across his forehead.
Once again, Tristan felt the foreign sensation of a smile crossing his lips. Trust the boy to be thinking about food more than anything else.
“I was having eggs and sausage. Do you like them?”
“Sometimes. I don’t like them when they are runny. Do you?”
“Sometimes.”
“This is a very big house.” Matthew looked about as they started down the hall. “But I like it. I couldn’t remember where my mama was.”
“You can always ask one of the servants to show you where she is.”
The boy nodded, his expression somber. Obviously, his concern had shifted from his stomach to his mother.
Tristan paused before the guest room door and knocked. A maid opened the door, her mouth rounding to a surprised, “Oh” at the sight of him, followed by a quick curtsy.
“Matthew has come to visit his mother.”
The boy eagerly leaned around the maid, his anticipation obvious.
“Of course.” She opened the door wider. “She’s been resting comfortably.”
“Has she awakened?” Tristan’s attention fell to the woman lying on the bed, curious to see her in the light of day, hoping she was truly going to be all right.
“Not yet.”
Matthew rushed forward to stand beside the bed, taking in her appearance.
As though pulled forward on a string, Tristan did the same.
Her face remained pale, much like the previous evening. She looked quite young in the light of day, and even lovelier than he’d remembered. Dark brows arched elegantly above her eyes. Her lashes were long, making him wonder once again what color her eyes were.
His chest tightened as he continued to study her. It seemed unfair of him to look at her so closely when she couldn’t do the same.
“Mama?” Matthew whispered as if torn between wanting to wake her and allowing her to rest.
The maid glanced warily
at Tristan before kneeling beside the boy. “She has a fever so she’s sleeping. Perhaps you’d like to hold her hand so she knows you’re here?”
Matthew moved closer and took one of her hands that lay along her side. “When will she wake up? I want to speak with her.”
“The more she rests, the sooner she’ll wake,” Tristan found himself answering in an attempt to comfort the boy, much to his surprise.
Matthew looked up at Tristan. “Is she truly going to be all right? Even after the wheel struck her?”
Tristan could only grimace at the innocent question as it reminded him all too well of whose fault it was that this little boy’s mother was lying motionless in his house.
“If I have anything to say about it, she’ll soon be up and about. I’ll do all I can to quicken her recovery.” The urge to trail his hand along her face was nearly overwhelming. Tristan stepped back, denying himself the impulse.
Already this woman had disrupted his life. Imagine what might happen when she regained consciousness.
Despite that, he’d give all he had to see her open those eyes and speak with him.
Grace woke with a gasp, her heart pounding. She glanced about the strange but well-appointed room, confused as to how she’d come to be there.
“Matthew?” she whispered, nearly frantic at the thought of her son.
“We’re so pleased to see you awake, my lady.” A maid rose from the corner where she’d been sitting. “Your son is in the nursery and being well taken care of. How are you feeling?”
“Where am I?” She tried to sit up, only to find her side ached like the devil. Even breathing hurt. A wave of dizziness passed over her followed closely by a coughing fit.
The maid quickly moved to pour a glass of water.
Grace took the glass and sipped after the coughing subsided. Her head spun terribly, her entire body felt as weak as a kitten. Her hip and ankle ached to the bone each time she moved. With no other choice, she laid back against the pillows, focusing on drawing a breath—a task that seemed impossibly difficult.
Rescuing the Earl (The Seven Curses of London Book 3) Page 2
