Smith followed close behind, looking apologetic. "Sir, your brother would not—"
"Why are you hiding up here?" Damon halted, stared. "Good God!"
Ransom felt his wounds burning again as he saw his brother's appalled expression. Yes, he must be a sight. He'd resisted looking in any mirrors. Didn't need to.
"What the hell happened to you?"
"Somebody seems to have taken a severe dislike to me," he replied. "But that's no reason for you to race up my stairs and into my room as if the place is on fire."
Damon looked at Mary, who still stood by his bed. Ransom reached for her hand again and held it.
"This is my fiancée, Miss Mary Ashford." A strange whisper of something new swept through him when he said it. He wrapped his fingers tighter around hers.
"Who? What?" his brother scoffed. "Since when?"
"Since now."
Damon's eyes flared with anger. "Well, how nice for you. I'm glad that your affairs are all in order. What about mine? I should never have entrusted them to you, should I?"
"You refer to Elizabeth?" Flames shot through his lung and he strained to get the words out.
"She's gone. Left London. I've been searching for days. Finally I received her short letter telling me that if I wanted to know why she left, I should ask you. So what the deuce did you tell her? I suppose you paid her off, is that it?"
Behind Damon their father had just entered the room, but he moved so stealthily that the younger brother didn't know it. Ransom did his best to cut the conversation short. "Let's talk of this matter another time. I think we—"
"No! I want to know what you said or did to send her away on that Friday evening when she came to see you. Elizabeth is carrying my child, and I intend to make a life for us together, whatever you think and whatever father has to say about it!"
Chapter Nineteen
"Good morning, Damon. I thought I heard your voice in the hall."
The young man froze, wide eyed.
For a moment nobody spoke. Ransom sagged against his pillows, still holding Mary's hand. The wind picked up, blowing snow at the window and dancing with the flames in the fireplace. Mary, he noted, seemed to be holding her breath again. He stole a quick glance at her face and saw she was paler than usual, very somber.
Finally Damon turned to greet their father, his face red. "I...did not know you were here in London."
"No. Clearly."
Another silence.
Their father walked up to the fire and stood with his back to it, warming his seat. "I believe Miss Ashford said she has another appointment today, so perhaps it is time we let her go. We shouldn't keep her longer than necessary." He gave Mary a stiff smile. She quickly released Ransom's hand, muttered a promise to return later, and hurried out.
As soon as the door was closed and they heard her quick step descending the stairs, their father sighed deeply and said, "So who wants to tell me about this woman who is carrying Damon's child and why I have not been consulted in the matter?"
* * * *
Her heart was thumping like a rabbit's foot when alerted to danger. Elizabeth— she had no doubt they talked of Lady Elizabeth Stanbury— was pregnant with Damon Deverell's child? That must be the Elizabeth about whom Damon accused his brother of interfering. Unless Ransom made a habit of meeting women called Elizabeth on Friday evenings. Besides, he had told her that the woman she saw at his house was one of "his brother's problems" and not one of his own. He spoke truthfully then, she thought with relief.
Oh, but she should not know about this. It was a wretched business and a very private matter.
Did George know?
Proud, haughty, conceited Elizabeth! It seemed unbelievable. The Stanburys were such a rigid, conventional family. Bloodline was everything to them. Pedigree and money, of course. And Damon was ten years her junior at least.
Surely it couldn't be true.
The butler met her in the hall with her coat and the bonnet she'd left behind on Friday.
"Mr. Deverell the elder insists that you take his carriage, Miss."
"Oh, I couldn't!" Her sister would certainly have questions if she returned in that luxurious splendor.
"He insists, Miss. And he says you are to keep it all day for your errands. He has no need to go out in it anymore today and will stay inside to watch over his son." He paused, looked at her gravely and repeated, "He insists, Miss."
She could hear raised voices coming from the room above now, although the words were muffled.
The butler leaned toward her and added, "It is not wise to get Mr. Deverell the elder in a temper, Miss."
"No. I suppose not."
A comfortable carriage ride did sound very nice, especially with the streets in such a mess, and she was tired, wilting, her nerves stretched to their limit by the events of the morning.
"If you don't mind me saying, Miss, you may as well get used to it. If you plan to become a Deverell."
Yes, he was right. People would know sooner or later. Mary would have to get accustomed to questions and curious looks again, to people making assumptions about her. They would all think she'd married for the money, of course. The servants in his house must already be discussing it.
She would no longer be a peripheral player on the stage; she was about to take on a more prominent role.
Was she prepared for it?
Oops. Something hard had just hit the wall upstairs. Sounded like a body. She hoped her portrait would survive.
Time, perhaps, to be as brave as Ransom thought she was.
* * * *
When Damon was gone again— in just as high dudgeon as he first arrived— their father stayed in the bedchamber, sweating and furious.
"A few years ago a doctor told me my heart was giving out," he sputtered, tugging on his cravat until it was loosened. "Told me I only had six months or a year to live. I didn't care to believe it then and I don't now. But the lot of you will surely put me in my grave before too long."
Ransom said nothing. His father's temper would rage until it burned itself out, and there was nothing anybody else could do about it in the meantime. Not if they valued their own skin.
"I thought Damon was the clever one. I thought he would make the most of his talents and not become distracted." These, at least, were two sentences one could understand, for they were not peppered with various, wildly colorful curses that succeeded in obstructing the English language until it became something else entirely.
"Well, she's gone now, sir, so he can get on with his life, can't he?"
"You know he won't! He didn't believe you when you told him she left London of her own accord. He'll go after her."
Ransom groaned softly. "Yes, but he won't find her."
"Why not? You told him where she'd gone."
"Yes, but I told him she'd gone to Yorkshire."
"And?"
"She's gone to Kent. Other end of the country." He grimaced. "Damon isn't the only one with a brain, sir, even if he is the only one you expect to use his for good." Closing his eyes, he added, "Fret not, the golden boy will recover from this setback. We Deverells are resilient. Like weeds that cannot be eradicated. Isn't that what you like to say?"
He heard his father moving around the room, but nothing was said for a while. There was the clank of an iron poker, the shuffle of coals being stirred up, the squeak of a chair being moved. Finally his father exhaled a gusty sigh.
Ransom opened his eyes. "Still here?" He half expected his father to run out after Damon, but instead he was sitting beside the fire, staring at the flames.
True cleared his throat. "I hope you have not leapt into this marriage idea as recklessly as you leap into most schemes. Miss Ashford appears to be a kind, well-meaning young woman, and she does not deserve her heart broken."
"How can her heart be broken? She's not in love with me. I don't expect her to be. Good lord, there is nothing lovable about me. But I need her. She sees me exactly as I am and yet she is neither afraid no
r completely repulsed. It makes me feel as if I could take on the world and possibly win."
"It's purely selfish then, as I thought."
"Not entirely. I can give her some help. I'd like to provide her some business guidance, for instance."
"She's a businesswoman?"
"She has a bookshop, sir."
His father looked askance. "How the devil did you meet her then? She said she is a friend of Raven's, but I assume your sister kept her well away from you. She's not one to share."
"Quite. In typical Raven fashion she wanted to keep Mary all to herself. But I happened upon her by chance and she has not been out of my mind since. So now she'll belong to me and Raven can bloody well put up with it."
His father looked at him sternly. "She's not a toy or a pony."
He would have laughed if it didn't hurt so much. "I know that."
"Are you in love with her?"
"Love? Damn and blast I hope not. That would be dashed inconvenient all around."
His father nodded thoughtfully, then got up and strode to the window, where he stood with both hands behind his back.
"Is that why you began your memoirs, sir?"
"Hmm?"
"Because a doctor told you that your heart is giving out? That you are dying?"
"That was one reason." He gave a loose shrug. "Let's see...it must be eight years ago now when I was given that prognosis. That was when Olivia came to Roscarrock to work as my secretary and help with the memoirs. I hired her for six months. I didn't think it would take that long. But she never left, of course." He smirked, placing a hand to the front of his waistcoat. "My heart started beating with renewed vigor, thanks to Olivia."
"And your memoirs are still not complete."
"How can they be? I'm still living them."
Ransom watched his father's profile in the cool light from outside. "You never told me about that— your heart and what the doctors said."
"I never told anybody. Not even Olivia."
"Why tell me then, sir?"
True turned to look at him. "I wanted you to see how wrong those so-called 'men of medicine' can be." He stretched out his arms. "I'm still here, aren't I?"
His father was actually trying to give him hope. For the first time in his life he felt as if his father was on his side. Perhaps even that he cared. A little.
* * * *
Mary scoured the piles of paper on the dresser shelves, searching urgently.
"What is it that you seek, Mary my dear?" Mr. Speedwell shuffled over to help.
She explained about Ransom Deverell's injured lung and how she wondered if the application of pure air might help.
"You mean oxygen, my dear." He looked at her over his spectacles. "That is what they call it now." Proudly he added, "I have some experience of it myself. As a boy I was taken to the Pneumatic Institute in Bristol for treatments to fight the asthma I suffered."
"And was it effective?"
"Indeed. It was rather grim for a little boy who would rather go to the seaside to get his air, but it was effective in improving my condition. I daresay it was that experience which first began my interest in medical science. I might have become a physician myself, if my papa had not seen any future in it and viewed the profession as little more than witchcraft." He chuckled.
Mary prodded his attention back to the matter at hand. "But does this Pneumatic Institute still stand?"
"I think not, my dear. Not as it was then. As far as I recall, it was made over into a hospital at the turn of the century to help accommodate the sufferers of a typhus outbreak. I never went there again once my school days were over." He shook his head. "Fifty years ago. How time dashes by."
Again her heart sank. "There must be somebody here in London who can help. We have a great many doctors and scientists who are customers, do we not?"
"Dr. Woodley was not helpful?"
"I think he was not much in the mood to assist, although he met with considerable resistance from the patient in this case, so I cannot blame him completely."
Thaddeus bent his head to look at her over his spectacles again. "The good doctor is, it must be said, somewhat stuck in his ways."
"I have noticed," she replied grimly.
"And you are very concerned about this young man with the injured lung."
She swallowed. "I am. Perhaps you will understand, if I tell you that he is the gentleman who arranged for all our debtors to come forward and clear their accounts. He is also the benefactor who provided that splendid hamper of Yuletide cheer."
"Ah." His misty eyes grew large and round. "Then we must do what we can for him in return."
Violet came down the staircase, carrying her precious new material— well wrapped against the elements in paper and canvas. "Do let's hurry, or we'll be late for the dressmaker."
There was no more time to discuss Ransom's predicament with Mr. Speedwell at present, but he put a kindly hand on her arm and gave her such a reassuring look that she felt quite tearful again. Without a word more being said, she trusted in his help.
Meanwhile, Violet had stopped sharply in the door of the shop when she saw the carriage waiting.
Mary thought quickly. "Lady Charlotte sent the barouche box for us."
"Gracious! How kind of her. It is very grand, is it not?" Violet bounced gleefully as snowflakes gathered on the brim of her bonnet. "People are sure to stare as we pass."
"Undoubtedly," she replied glumly. Why did she lie? Because having to explain everything to Violet at that moment was beyond her. Almost anything was beyond her, when she could think only of Ransom and his condition. It was as she felt every breath he struggled over. Her own lungs were constricted in empathy and she was in no frame of mind for frivolous shopping. But, having promised her sister a new gown, she could not let her down.
Violet was jolly, of course, knowing nothing of Mary's inner distress. "I shall pretend to be royalty and wave."
"Just step up into the carriage, Violette. I thought you were concerned about being late?"
Her sister climbed up and arranged herself on the luxurious padded-leather seat. "You never said Lady Charlotte is so kind a friend. I must say, Mary, I was very surprised. From everything you and Raven ever said I thought she would be older and sharp-tempered. I was quite afraid of her at first. But she is positively delightful."
"You're fortunate, Violet. She took a liking to you— as she does to shiny, decorative things."
And what would Lady Charlotte have to say when she learned that Mary had accepted her son's proposal of marriage? It may never come to pass, of course. This might all be a moment of madness in his mind. But she had accepted him.
Perhaps she was the mad one.
Lady Charlotte had once talked of her hopes that Ransom would, eventually, make a "good" marriage.
"After all," she'd remarked while flicking through the pages of a magazine, "my son is, financially, most eligible. And has the looks to completely disarm most women."
"You must worry that he could become prey for fortune-hunters," Mary had replied.
"Fortune-hunters?" the lady had laughed, tossing her magazine aside. "My poor, naive Mary, everybody hunts fortune. Both women and men. It is the way of the world."
So now she would, inevitably, think Mary a fortune-hunter. As would the rest of society. Lady Charlotte might consider it commonplace, accepted behavior to hunt a man purely for his money, but that was not normal or acceptable to Mary.
She did not care what most of the world thought of her. Just as she'd said to Ransom, she knew herself— felt confident in her choices— and whatever opinion anybody else formed about her was their problem, not hers. But she knew now that she did care what Ransom and his family thought of her, most especially what they would think about her reasons for marrying him.
The horses were soon pulling them swiftly across town through the snow and she stared out at the jumble of passing houses, amazed that everything looked much the same as usual. The world ought to loo
k vastly different, surely, after all that had happened that day.
"Where were you all morning, anyway?" Violet asked suddenly. "You still haven't told me."
"There is no time for that now. It is a story of some length, and I'm not much inclined to tell it." Although Mary knew she would have to tell her sister about Ransom soon, she didn't think it wise to let Violet know before Lady Charlotte did.
How to even begin the subject was causing Mary increasing levels of consternation, particularly as Violet did not even know she had ever encountered Ransom Deverell and thought her destined to end her days an old maid, sitting on the dusty shelf with Mr. Speedwell's medical journals.
When they arrived at the dressmaker, they were both startled to find Lady Charlotte waiting for them already. Violet was openly delighted, while Mary's surprise took on a quieter, more anxious tenor. On such a cold, snowy day, the lady seldom slithered out of her suite or far from her fire. Either she had heard some gossip she wanted to investigate, or she was bored.
Fortunately, it turned out to be the latter case.
"I must share my expertise in the design of this dress for you, Violette. Did you think I could leave it all in the hands of a dressmaker with nobody but Mary here to offer her opinion?"
It was apparent that Lady Charlotte still had not heard about the attack on her son. This vexed Mary greatly. Surely the lady had a right to know that he was ill— perhaps would not recover. Yet Ransom had said he didn't want her at the house and his father must have made no effort to get word to her.
Mary felt torn. Having never known anybody else who was divorced, and after hearing many times from Raven about her parents' animosity, she was exceedingly cautious. But there remained the matter of a mother and her son. Mary knew what it was to lose loved ones, of course, and to wish she could have done more, said more, while she still had them. She wanted, desperately, to take the right course, for the good of everybody.
For so long she had been on the perimeter of this family— through her relationship with Raven Deverell— and she felt herself invested in them. Was it because she had so little of her own family left now?
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