William held up his uninjured hand. “My sincere thanks to you both for your care and discretion.”
“No trouble,” said Connie, squeezing it softly and giving him a warm smile. “My husband is a tailor, and does a far better job of stitchin’ than the army sawbones.”
Dougal shuddered. “Damned butchers. And they never use nearly enough spirits. You’ll be glad to know, laddie, you’ve been cleaned out with a nice single malt straight from the Highlands. I’ve not lost a man to infection yet, although it does make the weak ones scream.”
Christ. No wonder his flesh felt like it had been set on fire. “That is very reassuring.”
“Aye, well, Connie will bring some breakfast at dawn. Good night to you.”
After the couple left the room, William attempted to settle himself on the bed. Hell, it was bad enough for him, and he had one wound site. How Robert had managed to speak, even smile, was a mystery. But at least now he would be home in London and receiving the best care and attention that Langley money could buy.
That was the one bright spot in this damned debacle.
Because the words that the bastard Frenchman had spoken just before he fired would be etched in his brain forever.
Mon dieu! She has succeeded even better than we thought. Did she whisper sweet words of love in your ear? Beg you not to go after she spread her thighs for you again and again? Ha! The women, they lure men to destruction with their bodies because it always works. And Lady Samantha spreads her thighs for everyone.
Every part of him rebelled against the thought that Samantha was a traitor, and had been a willing and central part to a plot to have him murdered. And yet here he lay with two bullet holes in his arm. Which in itself was a miracle.
He’d been lucky. Damned lucky, according to the two men from Robert’s unit who had returned to the beach when they’d heard the gunfire. Apparently the unexpected sight of two English soldiers with pistols had distracted his would-be French assassin, and the bullet meant for William’s heart had passed through just below his collarbone and lodged at the back of his shoulder instead. Another had gouged a deep path through the side of his arm. However, his rescuers had made no mistake with their shots. When the Frenchman lay dead on the beach with two bullets to the head, the soldiers had then half-walked, half-carried William to their horses and brought him here to Dougal and Connie’s. Which he would be forever grateful for.
But that still didn’t explain how the fake ambush had become a real one.
That had been planned. Carefully planned. They’d known when and where the rowboat to take them out to the ship would appear. More chillingly, they’d known exactly who he was. So it was no happy coincidence. Nor was it a ragtag group. They were smart and disciplined and patient. They would have to be, to track a unit like Robert’s. And they clearly had been fed some detailed information before their mission began.
Hell and damnation.
Samantha couldn’t be part of it.
Could she?
The news that the Marquess of Standish had been shot while in France swept across London faster than the Great Fire. While word had eventually arrived stating he lived, the curtness of the letter and the grim-faced men who delivered it spoke volumes on the hope they held for his survival. This attitude could be seen in all corners of the city.
They already considered him buried in a silk-lined casket.
To add to her misery, a steady stream of callers had taken it upon themselves to visit the Claremont townhouse, although Samantha rarely ventured downstairs to talk with them. She didn’t want to see the false sympathy of people like Lady Havenhurst or the Baker-Fields, or Miss Yale, or any other women ruing the loss of such an eligible bachelor. Or men to tell her the mood at Brooks’ was somber, that even those William had crossed swords with in the House or who had envied him his lofty position were speaking in grave admiration of his achievements and dedication to duty.
It hurt far too much.
For the visitors, the sun would rise and set as usual. They would return to their husbands and sweethearts and friends. Laugh and dance and make love. None of them existed in a dark void of despair, where every breath stabbed like a knife.
The only person who didn’t mind was her mother. She was absolutely basking in the attention, and would smile and share tales of all the guests who stopped by.
“I tell them, Samantha,” she said, perched on the edge of Samantha’s bed. “I tell them straight to their faces how you rarely leave your chamber because you are far too distraught, and still they come by in their hundreds.”
“And you let them in,” Samantha whispered, tucked under a thick blanket because it felt as though she would never be warm again.
Eva twirled a lock of sleek blonde hair around a finger and pouted. “These people have never crossed our doorstep before! I cannot throw them out, even if they do try my patience. Besides, they all want to know your love at first sight tale, so of course I have to tell them the true story, how you and Standish were dear childhood friends and it grew from there. Then I say I wouldn’t have been surprised if you and he...well I always stop there, because it is not fact you were about to become the next marchioness, now is it? And I am not a gossip.”
That hurt the most.
Knowing despite the fact she had fallen in love with him, given herself completely to him, would have done anything to spend the rest of her life with him, he hadn’t indicated any firm intention or inclination to make her his wife. And if he succumbed to his wounds in France, she would never have the opportunity to tell him, or learn if he held any kind of feelings for her other than desire.
It was a soul-destroying thought. Not to mention a stomach-churning one.
The following morning, Samantha knelt miserably next to her chamber pot, trying to breathe deeply as she sipped from a glass of water. The terrible retching had finally eased, but the thought of it coming back made her want to curl up in a ball and stay in her chamber forever. She didn’t even hear the door open until it closed with a firm click and slippered feet walked toward her.
When she looked up, Aunt Jane was staring at her with a peculiar expression on her face.
“Hello,” Samantha said, gingerly getting to her feet. “It’s good to see you. I’m sorry I haven’t replied to your notes, I’ve just felt dreadful lately. There must be some sort of illness going around.”
Aunt Jane took her hands and helped her to the bed. “Before we talk about anything else, I need to ask you a question, Samantha, and it is important you answer me honestly no matter how embarrassing. Before William went away, did he...were you...ah, intimate together?”
Answering was hardly necessary—the hot flush staining every inch of her face no doubt spoke louder than words—but she nodded and stared at the floor.
“When did you last have your courses?” Jane continued softly.
Samantha pondered. “Er...not for a while, actually. Why do you ask? Is there something wrong with me? Something bad?” she asked anxiously.
“Oh, darling,” said Aunt Jane, as she closed her eyes for a long moment then opened them again. Emotions crossed her face; somehow her aunt seemed angry, anxious, and happy, all at once. “I suspect you are suffering from something women have had to put up with since the beginning of time. Gregory only had me napping every afternoon at precisely two o’clock, but when I carried Stephen I was forever running for the chamber pot. Your uncle insisted they be set up in every room to avoid an unpleasant accident.”
“What?” Samantha cried. “No! That’s impossible. We…er…we used a, um, sponge. And before you hate him for ruining me, I wasn’t…I wasn’t a virgin. I believed a gentleman’s empty promises and ruined myself like a foolish twit two years ago in Yorkshire. It was cold comfort that I wasn’t the only twit in the area.”
Aunt Jane took several deep breaths. “That is a lot of confessing for one minute.”
“I’m sorry!”
“Hush. Let me think. Hmmm. Firstly, I am sorry
your first time with a man wasn’t special and wonderful. But you didn’t know better, and there are gentlemen who do not deserve the title. Despicable cad, more like. Secondly, I could never hate William, he’s practically my son. But I’m very cross at what he did. A sponge, even used properly, is not the most reliable form of protection. Although to be fair, neither is pulling out. Do not ask me how I know that.”
“Er…all right,” said Samantha, her fingers nearly shredding her sheets. “But you really think…a baby? What am I going to do?”
“You are going to hold on for a little while longer, and when William returns we will march up the gangplank of the ship together and inform him of his impending marriage. Should he have any qualms, I shall beat him with my parasol until he has none.”
Samantha didn’t smile. “But what if...what if he doesn’t come home? You saw the note—they all think William is going to die. Then he’ll never know about his child. I’ll be unwed and expecting a b-bastard! No one will ever speak to me again!” she said, bursting into tears.
Pulling her into a tight hug, Aunt Jane rocked her as though she were a little girl. Eventually, when her tears ran dry and her throat felt raw from crying, she drew back to look her aunt in the eye.
“How...how long do I have? Before I start, um, getting bigger? Must I tell Mother and Papa straight away?”
“No!” Jane said quickly, her grip momentarily painful. “There is no need to say anything just yet. I presume you and William were intimate not long before he went away?”
“The night before.”
“Well then, you are about six weeks gone. Most women don’t begin to show until at least their fourth month. You are unlucky to be feeling ill so soon, but it can happen at any time, I’ve heard.”
“I’ll have to tell them eventually, though, won’t I. Do you think Papa will disown me? He has been so very nice recently, but I’m afraid this might make him hate me. I didn’t even think about it at the time, but it is a truly terrible thing I’ve done.”
“Stop right there,” Jane snapped. “There were two people not thinking at the time, and one of them knew a lot more about the risks and consequences than the other. But considering John and Eva are hardly models of propriety, I hope they wouldn’t do anything so drastic as disown you. However, should they need time to cool down, I’m sure Stephen would agree to you and me retiring to the country. Westleigh Park is fully staffed.”
Samantha leaned back on a pile of soft, thickly embroidered cushions and sighed. “I’m so sorry. It seems my family is forever destined to embarrass yours.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, darling, I just wish you’d told me things were rapidly progressing in that direction with William. I would have summoned him at once for a very stern lecture on the correct order of proceedings.”
“Do you think it might have made a difference?” she questioned, the tiniest of smiles tugging at her lips.
“Probably not. But at least I wouldn’t have been a complete failure as a chaperone.”
“You’re not a failure. I took it upon myself to go to Hastings House late one night. No one could have stopped me. Oh God, I miss William so much. Do you miss Uncle Andrew like that?”
Aunt Jane flinched, and Samantha immediately regretted her foolishly impulsive question. Of course it wasn’t the same, she hadn’t lost a husband of nearly three decades as well as a beloved son. But then her aunt tilted her head and smiled fondly.
“Every hour of every day,” she murmured. “But slowly, as time passes, the ache eases to a nearly bearable level. If you have friends and family who care, there is a reason to get up in the morning. And you remember the good times too. We Buchanans were terrible ton, scandal was our middle name, but Andrew loved me anyway.”
Sighing, Samantha closed her eyes. A man willing to do anything, face down anything, for love. “He was special. But anyway, surely soon there will be good news. Until then I guess we must wait. And hope.”
And pray.
Chapter 12
“How is your arm feeling, sir? Do your bandages need changing?”
It hurt like hell, and if one more person poured spirits on his flesh, his arm would melt into a puddle on the wooden floor of the swaying, creaking, barge.
William gritted his teeth and forced a smile at the deferential young aide. “It’s fine, thank you.”
“That is good to hear. Captain says we’ll be docking in about a half hour or so. Crossing the Channel is the easy part. Navigating the Thames and getting to Wapping always takes a lot longer than anyone thinks. So crowded.”
He nodded. “That’s the truth.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then, sir. Just say if you need anything.”
Alone again, William peered out the round window of his tiny cabin. Thankfully it had been a smooth crossing from Calais; seasickness would have been one indignity too far. Especially as his gut was already churning at the thought of his impending role, and seeing the woman he may have misjudged completely. But he was back in England, at least. Even though he wouldn’t be living at Hastings House, White had apparently secured him decent accommodation at a hotel for prosperous merchants in Piccadilly, known for clean lodgings and hearty meals. So that was something.
Or perhaps he just wanted to get off this damned barge. The aide was correct about the speed at which they inched up the Thames. Even before nine o’clock in the morning, the waterway was frantically busy. On the docks groups of sailors laughed and joked as they headed into the first tavern they could find, while merchantmen barked orders and oversaw the unloading of precious cargo.
William made his way to the front of the barge, exchanging greetings with the sailors as they expertly uncoiled ropes and prepared for docking. When the gangplank was lowered, he paused to pull his borrowed cap lower and tattered greatcoat closer around him, to protect his wound sites. It was indeed fortunate he’d been hit in the left shoulder, so his usual dexterity with his right arm wasn’t affected. Then he took a few deep breaths of the rather rancid air. Who would have thought the sights, sounds, and smells of London awake and ready for action would be so damned welcome?
Hoisting his leather satchel over his good shoulder, he weaved his way through barrels of wine and large crates of food and clothing and swarms of men going about their daily tasks, until he reached the main thoroughfare. He needed to get to Whitehall. Immediately.
Putting two fingers in his mouth, he made to whistle for a hackney until a loud cough made him turn.
“Excuse me, Mr. Underwood, sir?”
William shook his head and almost pushed past the neatly dressed footman, then he froze.
“Who wants to know?” he asked quietly.
The footman gestured toward a lavish carriage where a rich merchant with thick whiskers, a quizzing glass, and thinning ginger hair leaned out the window and waggled his fingers.
His eyes narrowing, William stalked over to the carriage and climbed in. “Firstly, you look bloody ridiculous. Secondly, the only thing which has kept me going for the past six weeks has been the thought of beating you senseless. That quickly progressed to breaking all your toes. But when I started getting shot with real bullets on the beach at Calais, I decided nothing less than castration would do, you unspeakable bastard.”
White gave him an injured look as the carriage pulled away from the docks. “I thought I scrubbed up rather well as a wealthy merchant. But I do apologize for the inconvenience you suffered in France. That was unfortunate. Most unfortunate.”
“Inconvenience? I have two bullet holes in my shoulder! A certain Scottish tailor who dabbles in delicate matters informed me if I didn’t change the bandage regularly and douse it in the Highland’s finest, my arm would have to be CUT OFF.”
“Well, yes, Dougal is correct. Cleanliness is next to godliness...ooof!”
Leaning back against the soft velvet carriage squabs, William examined the stinging knuckles of his right hand. Even Gentleman Jackson might have been impressed with the speed
and stealth of that particular blow. “I’ve also heard they, whoever they are, said something about violence not making anything better. But they are quite wrong. I feel remarkably cheerier now.”
“Devil take it, Standish,” White snapped, scowling as he dabbed at the blood oozing from his nose with a crumpled linen handkerchief. “I’ll allow you that just this once, but if you ever even think about it again, I’ll saw your arm off myself. Now, perhaps we could get down to business?”
“By all means.”
“Excellent. In regards to your lodgings, they are prepared and ready for you to move in. Close enough to Sackville Street where the Claremonts are without being too obvious.”
“How is Lady Samantha?” William asked, unable to stop himself.
“In good health, as far as I know. It seems she took your, ah, accident rather badly.”
He smiled grimly. “Oh yes?”
“Indeed. She has remained mostly in seclusion, refusing to see all visitors apart from the Westleighs, although she has ventured out on several occasions to visit Southby. Not necessarily within the usual calling hours.”
“I introduced them, they are acquainted,” William snapped, his fists clenching as the Frenchman’s taunts sprung to mind. She is a fast learner who grows more skilled at her work by the day…Lady Samantha spreads her thighs for everyone.
“Of course. Next on my list of instructions, your new role. You’ll have a man by the name of Barclay to help you dress each day, he’ll also attend to your wig and makeup.”
“Makeup?”
“Oh yes,” White replied, his gaze turning sly. “Nasty stuff, unfortunately, just like what Kean and Siddons must wear on stage. Once they’ve added a few layers of paint, given you some wrinkles, shadowed your eyes and fastened a wig over your hair, you’ll be unrecognizable.”
William raised an eyebrow. “One would hope so. I can’t imagine all this going very well if the first person to bump into me says ‘Standish! Thought you were languishing in France. Why’d you have all that goo on your face?’”
Tempting the Marquess (The London Lords Book 3) Page 16
