A Scandalous Proposal

by Julia Justiss

  Evening functions he enlivened with outrageous commentary on the life and loves of the attendant personages. If hostesses presented her with dancing partners, he relinquished her with no trace of possessiveness, then watched from the sidelines, seeming as pleased as Natalie at this evidence of her acceptance. Though he often danced himself, sometimes drifted away with friends, Emily could still sense his guarding presence, always close to assist with introductions, to deflect potential snubs or impertinent advances.

  And on the evenings he escorted her home, he’d grown bolder. After Natalie and Rob discreetly withdrew, he drew her close, kissing her with barely repressed fire, his clenched fingers on her shoulder a testament to his rigid control. She found his advances—pleasant, their gradually increasing passion drawing from her a spark that might someday be response.

  He’d not yet pushed her for an answer to his offer. Reason told her to say no, that to delay was to leave him cruelly suspended in tenuous hope. But the troubled spirit his presence did so much to calm and soothe, the fragile selfish self whose defense against agony was still eggshell thin, prevented her refusing. Was that not a sign she might someday feel more?

  Perhaps, her cynical mind answered. However, was she truly ready to promise her life to a man who made her feel—pleasant?

  The clattering rattle of a carriage outside the window recalled her. Brent pulled up his equipage, tossed the reins to a footman and jumped down from his curricle.

  His face, when he entered half a minute later, was so grim alarm surged in her breast.

  “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “Nothing…truly serious. Sorry I’m so late. Come, we’ll be caught in the crush. I’ll tell you as we drive.”

  Anxious, she hurried into her pelisse, waited impatiently as he handed her into the curricle. Foreboding curled chill and metallic in her mouth.

  The heavy traffic forced her to refrain from demanding an answer as Brent concentrated on the tricky business of keeping two restive, highbred horses moving safely along the crowded streets.

  Finally the Park gates beckoned and she could stand it no longer. “What happened, Brent?”

  “You mustn’t upset yourself, Emily. Everything will be fine, I’m sure. He’s strong and will doubtless recover.”

  Fear froze the breath in her chest. ’Twas scarcely necessary, but she gasped out the question anyway. “W-who?”

  “Evan. He’s been gone over a month on some mission for the ministry. There were rumors circulating White’s and Brook’s even before he left—something about arms smuggling or embezzlement. He went to check on it. I—I didn’t tell you because I feared you’d worry.”

  That curious, inescapable sense of his absence had been correct, apparently. And she was worried, so worried she pulled at Brent’s sleeve, her tone turning sharp. “Recover? From what?”

  “Steady now!” He looked up from the reins. “When Lady Cheverley received the news, she sent for me to accompany her to meet him. We’ve only just made it back to London. Though I expect, as soon as the doctors say he can stand being moved again, we may take him to Highgrove.”

  “How…how badly injured is he?” Emily managed to ask through trembling lips.

  A worried frown deepened the lines at Brent’s forehead. Worry, regret—and fear? “I won’t dissemble—he looks very ill. Took a knife to the right side of his head and arm. He’s…he’s not conscious, and the wound’s inflamed, I’m afraid. Lady Cheverley’s physician is out of town and will not return before morning. For now, he appears to be holding his own, and I’m sure he’ll be fine….” His voice trailed off. “But I wish with all my heart,” he added so softly she could barely hear, “there were some words I could unsay.”

  For the rest of the transit in the Park she felt detached from her body, which continued to repose sedately in Brent’s curricle, nodding to passing acquaintances or chatting with those who stopped their carriage.

  All the while her mind hummed with feverish questions. How severe were his wounds? Were they badly inflamed? What treatment had he been given before or during his transit? If he were “holding his own,” why was he unconscious and why did Brent look so worried?

  Her mind relived the first harrowing days after Andrew’s final injury—the thin trickles of blood that seeped red, turned rust on the bed linens; the ragged gasping breaths. The fever that brightened his sallow cheeks to scarlet as if he’d been riding in the brilliant Peninsular sun. And then the long, slow, agonizing descent into death. Numb terror chased off the dull ache that had inhabited her breast since her break with Evan, and perched there, triumphant.

  She scarcely remembered returning home, could not recall what she said to Brent or to Natalie, who awaited them. All she knew was sometime later she was instructing the hackney driver to carry her to Portman Square.

  She shouldn’t be going. What in heaven was she to say to Lady Cheverley, to his betrothed Miss Marlowe?

  Yet she knew no power on earth, not raised eyebrows or shocked faces or the speculation so unprecedented a call would doubtless excite among any who heard of it, could keep her away.

  Then she was in the entry addressing the butler, asking for Lady Cheverley. “I imagine she’s not receiving, as Mr. Blakesly told me her son has just been brought home wounded. I…I have much experience as a battlefield nurse and wished to offer whatever counsel I might to assist her.”

  Would his mama consent to see her? Emily didn’t think she could bear it were the lady to refuse. She had to know more of Evan’s condition, had to know what had been done and what treatment the physician proposed. Evan would never be hers, would recover to marry another, but recover he must. She could not let him die like Andrew.

  To her vast relief, Lady Cheverley, her pale face anxious, her hands clutching a twisted linen handkerchief, joined her soon after.

  “Lady Auriana! Billingsly said you—you knew about my son?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry to burst in upon you unannounced, but when Mr. Blakesly told me of Lord Cheverley’s injuries I knew you must be most distressed. I understand he was brought directly from abroad after his—his injury.”

  Lady Cheverley was staring at her, jaw dropped. Emily knew what a looby she must appear, but could not seem to summon any of the usual pleasantries. Instead, she blurted out, “The care given in the early days is crucial to proper healing. Did a doctor treat him on the packet?”

  “I cannot say.” Recalling her son’s injuries apparently wiped out all other thought, for Lady Cheverley replied as if conversing with a caller about the treatment of wounds was a commonplace occurrence. “He’s swathed in dirty linen—I—I wasn’t sure whether to have it removed or not, he’s th-thrashing about so dreadfully. Of all times, our physician is out of London until morning, and I know no other I really trust. But perhaps I should call someone, anyone….”

  A small gasping sob escaped her. “He’s so ill, and I don’t know what to do! Your message said you had nursing experience. If you have any suggestions, I should be endlessly grateful. He doesn’t even…” She pressed her lips together, her voice dying to a whisper. “He doesn’t even recognize me.”

  Feverish. Unconscious. ’Twas torture to be confined to this room when all she wished was to fly to Evan’s bedside. Emily forced herself to calm. “Several things you should do at once, beginning with—”

  “Visitors?” The angry voice from the entry interrupted her reply. “How dare anyone intrude now? And what possessed you to admit them?”

  The words echoed in the marble hallway as Miss Marlowe, her blue eyes flashing fire, limped into the room. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you must leave—”

  She spied Emily and stopped short. “Lady Auriana?” With an astounded look she turned to Lady Cheverley.

  Once more twisting the tortured handkerchief, Lady Cheverley glanced uneasily from Miss Marlowe to Emily and back. “Lady Auriana learned about Evan from Mr. Blakesly, and having nursed her husband through similar injuries, thought to…t
o offer us the benefit of her experience.”

  Miss Marlowe’s wondering gaze came to settle on Emily. “How…kind of you, Lady Auriana.”

  “I…I was a frequent visitor to her shop, often in Evan’s company, and she knew how…distraught I must be,” Lady Cheverley continued. “Was that not so?” She looked back at Emily, appeal in her eyes.

  Miss Marlowe’s clear gaze fastened on Emily. What the girl must be thinking, Emily couldn’t imagine, but at this moment ’twas unimportant. “Indeed, ma’am. And you as well, Miss Marlowe. I was about to advise Lady Cheverley on a procedure of treatment that worked well for both my husband and my brother-in-law.”

  The blue eyes never flickered. “Please proceed.”

  For the next several moments Emily rattled off recommendations for poultices to draw out fever and recipes for healing infusions and willow-bark tea. Both women listened attentively.

  At last she paused for breath. Lady Cheverley came and took her hand. “Thank you, my dear. I’ll jot down the recipes immediately. You’ll remind me if I forget anything, won’t you, Andrea?”

  “Of course. But how rag-mannered we are in our distress. Will you not sit and take some refreshment, Lady Auriana?” Miss Marlowe asked.

  Emily could not help pacing, her hands plucking at her skirts, her eyes continually darting to the door. She could almost crawl out of her skin, so anxious was she to go to him, see for herself the extent of his injuries and begin to administer the medicines that had healed Rob and Andrew and several others.

  Not Andrew that last time.

  She shut her mind to the thought, trying instead to come up with some acceptable excuse for demanding to be shown to the sickroom of a man to whom she had not a single link of blood or connection that would render such a request reasonable. And dredging up none.

  She realized Miss Marlowe still awaited an answer. “Excuse me! No—no, I mustn’t stay. You’ll be wishing to get back to Ev—Lord Cheverley.”

  Lady Cheverley smiled wanly. “As soon as I have some willow-bark tea to spoon into him. I shall go to the kitchen straightaway. Thank you again, Lady Auriana. I shall never forget your kindness.”

  It was a clear dismissal. Emily could manufacture neither a reason to prolong her visit nor a plausible pretext to get near Evan. “You’re welcome,” she said, tears suddenly threatening. She turned to leave.

  His mother followed her out. “Lady Auriana?”

  Emily turned to look over her shoulder. “Ma’am?”

  In the pallor of her face, fine lines webbed the corners of Lady Cheverley’s eyes. For the first time since Emily had known her, Evan’s mama looked her age. “I’m sorry,” the woman whispered.

  If she replied at all she would weep. Emily nodded and walked reluctantly to the entry.

  To her surprise, Miss Marlowe ushered her out, apparently intending to walk her to her carriage. She halted upon seeing the empty street.

  “Did you not bring a conveyance?”

  “No. I took a hackney.”

  Instead of summoning a footman to find a vehicle, Miss Marlowe turned back to Emily.

  “Please, Lady Auriana, I know ’tis most irregular of me to ask, but—would you go to him? Please! I watched Richard die, and I can’t—I don’t want—” Her voice broke.

  For an instant Emily wasn’t sure she had heard aright. “I’ll come,” she answered.

  Choking back a sob, Miss Marlowe caught her hand and kissed it. “Thank you. Wait here—I’ll return in a moment.”

  Her mind fraught with fear, Emily waited with barely suppressed impatience for the girl’s return. Later, when she was calmer—when she had tended Evan and assured herself he would recover—she would come up with some explanation to plaster over this naked need to see him. Fortunately, Miss Marlowe seemed too upset herself to notice.

  Ten minutes later, finger pressed to her lips to warn Emily to silence, Lord Cheverley’s intended guided his former mistress through a maze of service rooms up narrow stairs and into a broad, finely appointed hallway.

  The stench of fouled bandages assaulted her before they reached the chamber door. Her face paling, Miss Marlowe put a handkerchief to her nose. Her blue eyes over the linen welled with tears.

  “God’s blessing upon you if you can help him,” she whispered as she knocked on the portal.

  His valet, Baines, answered. “You mustn’t see him now, miss. He’s—he’s right feverish.”

  “I’ve brought an experienced battlefield nurse, Baines. You will let her in and follow her directions.”

  Emily braced herself for his reaction, prepared to brazen her way through whatever he might reveal. No one and nothing would keep her from Evan now.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Baines turned toward her and stiffened. Then, before either she or Miss Marlowe could speak, he moved aside.

  “Whatever you can do, ma’am, I’d be powerful grateful.”

  With a nod she swept past him. The sight that greeted her made her want to wail in anguished fury.

  Evan lay in his tattered shirt, soiled bandages wound about his right arm and hand, his hair matted with dirt and blood. Even in the dim light she could see the fevered sheen on his face, the dry, parched lips, the twitch as his body fought the contagion raging in it.

  “These filthy things must come off—Baines, summon a footman to help you. His head must be bathed, and his arm. Bring me hot water and soap, clean linen for bandages. And send someone to Lord Maxwell for my maid, Francesca. Tell her to bring my medicines. At once!”

  A bowl of clear, tepid water stood at the bedside, as if Baines were about to sponge down his master. Emily pulled a chair close, wet a cloth and began gently cleaning blood from the crusted wound over his eye.

  She could not tell in the dim light whether the eye was damaged, or just the skin beyond, so swollen and distorted was it. Loosening the matted cloth with water as she worked, she freed the sticky mass of old bandages there and at his puffy, distended arm.

  By the time she finished inspecting his wounds and removing all the soiled linen, tears filled her eyes and dripped silently down her cheeks.

  Despite the ravages of the knife and lack of care, she was somewhat heartened. His heartbeat was strong, his breathing steady, and her experienced eye said if she could get the wounds cleansed and bring the fever down, his chances for recovery were good.

  As she looked up to rinse out the cloth, she saw Miss Marlowe, whose presence she had totally forgotten, still standing by the door, watching.

  What her face revealed she could not imagine, being in that moment unable to think of anything beyond the need to reduce his fever.

  “A carriage awaits whenever you are ready,” Miss Marlowe said softly. “How can I ever thank you?”

  Engaged in wringing out the cloth, Emily did not immediately reply. When she glanced up, Miss Marlowe was gone.

  Francesca entered soon after with a satchel. “Tea I’ve brought, and a poultice. Come, he must drink.”

  Baines helped them raise Evan and dribble liquid into his mouth. Mumbling incoherently, Evan swallowed.

  Emily lost track of time as they fell back into a routine they had followed on more than one hellish occasion—Andrew with his side gashed by a saber at Corunna, slashed on the arm by a sword at Talavera; his batman Harrison’s leg mangled at Busaco, Rob with his shoulder sliced open almost to the bone after Barrosa.

  Soak, wring out, sponge. Put a drawing compress on the puffy hand and arm, a cold one on the injured eye. Soak, wring out, sponge. Lift him to force down more tea or broth. Soak, wring out, sponge. Change the compresses, gently clean out wounds, purify with brandy that, even unconscious, made Evan hiss through his teeth and cry out. Shake in basilicum powder and bandage again. Soak, wring out, sponge.

  Once, as she held the cup to his lips, his eyelid flickered open. No spark of recognition dawned in that fever-bright eye, and after a moment he closed it. But when she set down the cup, the fingers of his good hand groped toward h
ers, seizing them in a surprisingly strong grip. She squeezed back, rubbing his thumb. After a moment, with a little sigh, his hand relaxed and he dozed again.

  Finally his skin seemed cooler, his sleep less restless. “You see what to do?” she asked Baines. “Sponge him to bring the fever down and keep offering liquid. When the physician comes, should he call for leeches or gunpowder or such, fetch me at once.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

  Suddenly bone weary, she turned to Francesca. Without a word the maid helped her up. “God’s eye, mistress. He’s strong. God’s eye is upon him now.”

  Emily was startled to see pearly pink lighting the eastern sky as a flambeau-carrying footman escorted them to their carriage. Before the footman helped her in, she looked back one last time at the town house.

  Whatever speculation her nocturnal visit might arouse, she was fiercely glad she had come. Evan’s recovery was by no means assured, but the terrible fear that had haunted her since she learned of his injury had eased. As Francesca said, ’twas in God’s hands now. Though, she thought with a gallows grin, when had God ever refused a demand by Evan Mansfield?

  Evan opened his unbandaged eye. Thin gray light filtered through the shuttered window and a candle burned low on a table beside the bed.

  He was in his chamber in the town house at Portman Square, he realized. He had a hazy idea he’d been here for some time, but most of what had occurred since he left his lodgings to follow the cloak-draped whisperer was an indistinct blur.

  Only patches of memory were clear. Watching a knife descend out of the night sky and wondering in that instant if, as his superior had warned, he was about to get his throat cut. A blow to head and shoulder that knocked him to his knees, and then wrestling with the attacker, something warm and sticky blurring his vision and making his hands slick. A grunt when his own blade struck bone. Running feet, numb coldness in his face and shoulder suddenly firing to agony, like a scream in one’s ear after silence.